Page 54 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars
“If you wish to see my pain, I will allow you to browse my canvases.”
Theresa’s smile lit up her entire face, crinkling the skin around her eyes. Aaron had thought she was beautiful when he found her in her chambers, but the smile only made her that much more stunning. He was glad to be both the cause and the witness of that smile.
He held the door open for her to walk through. As she passed by him, he could not help himself. He grabbed her by the arm and held her in place, pressing a kiss to her lips.
“Dear wife, I believe I owe you some gratitude for your gift.”
“You have already thanked me, but I will accept the tokens of your affection,” she said. “If you wish to kiss me, dear husband, I will never stop you.”
Then, she marched forward from her chambers to the opposite side of the manor where his lonesome tower awaited. Aaron walked behind her, guiding her in the right direction with a hand on the small of her back to tether himself to her.
“You did not tell me how you enjoyed the gallery,” he said to make pleasant conversation on the way to an unpleasant task.
“It was simply grand! Never have I seen so much art in one place. And the sheer breadth of subjects and styles…It was almost more than I could take in. I did not expect to feel so overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.”
Aaron surveyed her face and found only honesty. If she could find the art gallery so thoroughly enjoyable, perhaps shewouldenjoy browsing his own collection of canvases. Surely, it would feel good to share his art with someone else for a change.
When he opened the door to his tower, Theresa waltzed in and made herself at home. She quickly surveyed the room, her eyes darting from right to left to take in her surroundings before they settled on the stack of canvas on the wall by the hearth.
She turned to look at Aaron, her head cocked to one side and her eyebrows arched. “May I see them?”
He nodded and sat down at the small table on the opposite side of the room. If he was going to share this intimate encounter with her, he was going to do so with a tumbler of whiskey in hand. He poured himself a drink and tried not to think about what Theresa might find in his paintings.
She moved slowly from one canvas to another, taking them in as if the art was the most important thing in the world. Each time she flipped to a new canvas, she paused to look at it from edge to edge. Never had Aaron dreamed that someone would pay such rapt attention to his work.
He sipped his whiskey, hoping she would say something soon. Hoping she would not comment on the violence of his paintings. He did not want to have to explain to sweet, innocent Theresa why his paintings were filled with blood and pain.
As she approached the last three canvases, she finally spoke to him. “Your paintings are so provoking. The swirl of the colors—how do you do it?”
“My painting style is unconventional,” he answered her. “I do not use a brush but rather my hands. It is a relief for me to convey my feelings onto the canvas, to feel the paint on my skin.”
“And what is the subject of your paintings? These colors are so vivid, and the way they are splashed across the fabric makes me feel your anger. Your pain.”
“That is because these are the paintings that I used to clear my head. It has not escaped your notice that I am a man of war, has it?”
“Your mask makes it difficult to forget,” she answered with a glance in his direction. “But you do not talk about how it came to be.”
Aaron took a deep breath and poured another tumbler of whiskey. If he was not planning on removing the mask as she demanded, he could at least tell her how he came about having the scars that disfigured him. He took a long sip of the amber liquid, relishing the way it burned his throat.
“Would you care to know how I came to be so grotesque?”
Theresa left her post by the paintings and seated herself primly on the chair across from him. She eyed the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, already half empty.
“My best friend and I were camped out at night. We had just gone to sleep when I woke to the smell of smoke. The enemy had set our camp on fire, but my friend was slow to awaken. He was much closer to the location where the fire had started.”
Aaron paused. He shook his head, trying to knock loose the memory of that night so that he did not have to see the vivid recollection in his mind. Part of him wanted to stop telling the story, while the other part demanded that he share this with someone else for a change.
“I could have gotten out. I could have run for it, but I went back to try to save him. The only thing I got for my trouble was this scar.”
“Your friend?” Theresa prompted him.
“Did not survive.” He drained the rest of his glass of whiskey but dared not pour a third in the presence of a lady.
“Your loss is the reason you paint so much violence and rage,” she said as she nodded her head. “You did a noble thing. Your scar is a badge of your courage.”
“My scar is a reminder of the war,” he scoffed. “It is not romantic to be disfigured.”
“Nor would I think so,” Theresa said softly. “But it is a reminder that you are not the beast you wish me to think you are. A beast would not return to save his friend.”
