Page 82 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars
For a moment, Aaron stared at her retreating figure before springing into action. He caught the door behind her, making sure to give her room to move around him if she desired. But despite the opportunity, she never turned around to say a word to him.
Instead, she scooped up the kitten from the small bench it had been lounging on, cradled it against her chest, and made for the stairs to her chambers.
Aaron hoped that they would be able to speak there.
He followed her up the stairs and to her chambers, but as soon as she let herself inside, she shut the door in his face. He heard the key turn in the lock and realized she would say no more to him.
Not sure what else to do, he stood outside her door for a while. He placed his hand on the wood, hoping that she would sense his presence, that she would unlock the door for him.
“Theresa,” he called through the door. He could not bear for them to part on these terms. Aaron wanted to show her that he was here for her, to set the record straight on what they had shared.
They had finally shared the intimacy he had been craving, but he could not imagine leaving things like this. Theresa could not possibly be left to think that he would rather have had Lady Isabella in his arms tonight. What they shared in that library was entirely their own.
She simply had to know that he was hers and hers alone.
“Theresa, please open the door,” he begged, knocking on the wooden frame.
He could hear her slamming things down inside her rooms. She must be trying to make her way out of her gown, undoing the braids in her hair, and getting ready to retire for the evening. Aaron would have done anything to be in there with her, to share a bed with her for the first time.
This was not how their lovemaking was supposed to end.
He lost track of how long he stood there, but he eventually realized that he would not resolve this tonight.
Aaron returned to the stables to send the carriage back to Juliette and his grandmother. He paused in the gardens, sucking in a lungful of the cold night air in a bid to ease the dread coiling in his gut, but the only thing he wanted to do was head to his tower.
Once there, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and started to undress for bed. He wanted to fall into unconsciousness, todream of Theresa and forget the rift that had grown between them.
Surely, things would look different in the morning.
CHAPTER 26
Nothing looked better in the morning than it did the night before when Aaron had retreated to his tower. He decided to skip breakfast to give Theresa her space. Not to mention, he wanted to avoid the scene he felt they would cause in front of Juliette and his grandmother.
There was no need to air their grievances in front of their family. He did not relish telling his grandmother and sister that he and Theresa had finally consummated their marriage, much less that they had done so at Lady Sophia’s party.
Instead, he sat at the small table in his chambers and drained a glass of whiskey to take the edge off when he got out of bed.
With a sigh, he did the one thing he knew how to do when he was upset, frustrated, or heartbroken—he dragged the easel to the center of the room and grabbed his palette.
But this morning, he did not think of Theresa in his bed. He did not think of the violence of war. He thought only of his hand creating a piece of art that he could give to his wife, to show her that he cared.
A deep sigh escaped his lips. If only he could see his wife today. If only he could speak to her and tell her that things were not what she thought they were.
Today, the only thing of hers he had was the kitten playing in front of the fireplace in his chambers.
He thought of how she ran from him that night when she heard the kitten crying out for its mother. She was so tender, so gentle with it. She knew what it was like to grow up without a family, just like the kitten she had brought home with them.
That was when it hit him—he would paint himself. The man behind the mask. It might be the closest thing he could do to taking the mask off in her presence. She could see what he looked like and decide for herself whether she could love him or not.
He started to paint the shape of his face, his eyes, and his nose. The paint flowed from his hands as the image began to form in front of him. To ensure that she got the picture, he painted the scars with bright red paint, as they had looked when he had first returned from the war.
It was the first time in quite a while that he thought about his mask and what his face looked like beneath it.
As he finished his painting, he found that the act of spreading paint on canvas had not alleviated his discomfort. Instead of relaxing, he felt even more on edge.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat down before the hearth with the kitten, which was stretched out, enjoying a nap. He sat for quite some time, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his skin.
But eventually, he could take it no longer. He had to know what his wife was thinking, what she was doing with her day.
