Page 65 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars
He had one person to thank for this monumental shift in his perspective. It was the one image that he felt inclined to paint that day.
He pulled new colors out of his bag—colors he had packed on the off chance that he wanted to paint something other than violenceand anger. He let his hand move of its own accord, putting paints on his palette and moving his hands across the canvas as if in a trance.
More than an hour passed, and the object of his painting started to take shape. The face was blurred, but he knew it was that of his wife. She sat on his bed, her dress a heap on the floor. The duvet covered her lower half, but her breasts told him that she was naked.
Thiswas how he wished to see her, beckoning him.
He wanted to have her, to take her in the way every married man took his wife. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind and pulled him away from the image in front of him.
Suddenly, it was not Theresa in the bed in his tower, but another woman.
Lady Isabella.
The memory flashed through his mind like lightning. He could not look away from the wreckage of his broken betrothal. The last time they had been with one another so intimately was shortly after the war.
She had been in his bed, dressed in a revealing gown. It was the kind of gown that Theresa favored as well. But she had modesty to spare, whereas Isabella had none.
He had planned a romantic evening for the two of them, but he was so tired of donning his mask. It had not yet become second nature to him to put it on and shield the rest of Society from his beastly visage. His skin had grown hot and itchy beneath the mask, so he took it off and set it on the bedside table.
He leaned in to kiss Isabella, only for her to throw the covers off her and run into the hall. He had run after her and found her retching.
He did not know what had made her ill so suddenly. It was not the first kiss they had shared. It was not the first time they had been intimate with one another, either, as he had been intimate with Theresa. He had hopes that one day, they would sleep with one another. Until the moment realization dawned on him.
He had taken off the mask that prevented her from seeing the monstrosity on his face.
“Stay away from me,” she hissed, shivering from head to toe.
He took a step back from her, back into the tower, where he affixed his mask back on his face, discomfort be damned.
He had thought that they would be able to work out a way for them to be married if he were mindful to leave his mask on at all times. He may not have been in love with her, but she was the most convenient option at that time.
Isabella had made it clear shortly after that marriage was out of the question. The only way he would wind up married was if the Queen’s edict mandated that someone join him in matrimony.
Anger surged through him at the memory.
The painting in front of him took on a sinister look, the taunting gaze of his former betrothed rather than the inviting gaze of his wife. He wished he could just see Theresa’s face on the canvas.
She had no problem kissing him and letting him be intimate with her. But there was one major difference between Theresa and Isabella—Isabella had seen him without his mask on.
He would not risk his wife’s rejection if he were to reveal his true self. He did not think he could handle the disgusted look on her face if he took off his mask, the revulsion he would have to live with in the precious sanctuary of his home.
No, he could not risk it.
He yelled at the top of his lungs, disturbing the birds that had been resting in the trees surrounding the lake. They took off in flight just as he slashed white paint across the freshly painted canvas.
The painting was ruined, marred irreparably by his pain.
He thought of staying at the lake all day, soaking in the solitude and sunshine. Now, he could not wait to get away from thispainting. Even his refuge was now tainted with what women had done to him.
He threw his paints and easel back into the saddlebag and left the canvas by the side of the lake. No nun who happened across it would recognize the half-naked woman painted there. The white paint had made sure that the painting was well and truly ruined.
Just like him.
He could not wait another moment to be back in his tower. It would be impossible for him to wait for Midnight to plod along, so he kicked his heels into his stallion’s flanks, urging him to go faster.
Midnight took off at a gallop, surefooted from much practice traversing the land.
Aaron was not satisfied until he felt the wind whip at his face and heard his mount’s labored breathing. He allowed Midnight to slow down as they reached the city, but kept up a fast pace to discourage anyone from stopping him for conversation.
