A Beauty for the Scarred Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  “Would it be too much to ask to have it set in the breakfast room instead?” Isabella said suddenly. “I ask only because the dining room is so very large, and I should feel rather lonely in it.”

  “I’m sure that it would be perfectly alright.” Kitty made her farewells so that she might put Isabella’s plans for dinner into motion.

  When the light began to fade and early evening was upon them, Isabella made her way down to the breakfast room. As promised, it was set nicely for her, a place just for one.

  Already, a young footman was waiting patiently in the room, ready to pull the bell at the side of the fireplace to let the servants below know that their mistress was ready to eat.

  “Thank you kindly,” Isabella said to the young man she was not sure she had seen before.

  “You’re welcome, Your Grace,” he said politely.

  “Tell me, what is your name?” she said, feeling suddenly lonely.

  Even though the breakfast room was welcoming and a place she had sat for the last three mornings to take her early morning meal, it seemed somehow vast by candle and lamplight. She felt isolated; alone.

  “Thomas, Your Grace,” he said and bowed.

  “And have you worked here at the hall for a long time, Thomas?”

  “I have worked here for two years, Your Grace.” He was a young man of about her age with pale hair and eyes.

  “And how do you find it?”

  “I am very pleased to be here, Your Grace.”

  “I am pleased to hear that.”

  Isabella was faltering, not knowing what else to say to him. She could tell that the young man did not want to be engaged in conversation, and that he felt dreadfully self-conscious to be spoken to in such friendly tones by his new mistress. Perhaps he would have preferred the customary distance that ordinarily existed between family and servants.

  In the end, Isabella fell silent and studied the table top and its solitary place setting. The sense of isolation was greater than any she had felt since she had arrived at Coldwell Hall, and she fully determined to take her dinner in her own rooms from that point onward. She did not want to be reminded of her solitary life.

  And yet, only days before, she had been relieved to discover that her new husband would require no more than two hours of her company every day. She had felt grateful not to have to be in his presence any longer than that.

  But as her meal was served to her, and she ate in silence, Isabella would have been pleased by the prospect of spending two hours with Elliot. She would have gratefully sat in the gloom of the drawing room and looked at the indistinct features of his perfect profile. She would have welcomed his quiet questions and sudden changes in conversational direction. Anything to relieve the isolation of that moment.

  Isabella ate quickly, wanting the meal to be done with as soon as possible so that she might retreat once more to her own chamber. Curiously, the silence in her room seemed perfectly normal, almost soothing. Perhaps silence at dinner was rather more deafening in its own way.

  With her meal eaten and a vague, dull pain in her stomach that she attributed to the speed of her consumption of it, she thanked the footman and asked that he pass her compliments to the cook for a wonderful meal.

  The footman bowed deeply before she turned to make her way out of the breakfast room with the hopes that it would feel very different when she returned to it in the morning.

  As Isabella reached the bottom of the wide staircase, she stared over at the wooden horse and its metal companion. A knight in shining armour was how Elliot had described it. As if the suit of armour contained the man of his father’s stories.

  With a sigh, she embarked upon the stairs, pausing sharply when she heard the strains of a violin somewhere in the distance.

  She stopped stock still with one foot on the bottom step and strained to hear. Sure enough, she could hear a violin being played somewhere on the ground floor and wondered who the musician might be.

  Isabella wondered if it might be one of the servants, somebody with a musical inclination. Or perhaps it was Crawford Maguire.

  She turned and made her way through the great entrance hall, passing the wooden horse and his valiant rider as she determined to find the source of the playing.

  Isabella had not happened across Crawford Maguire since their meeting on her first morning at Coldwell, and she thought she might like to spend a few moments in his company to stave off the curious sense of loneliness.

  Isabella followed the music, turning this way and that down corridors until it grew louder; nearer. Finally, she arrived at a partially open door to a room that she already knew was the library. She had spent a good deal of time in there on her exploration and had selected several books from the shelves to adorn her chamber.

  She stood for a moment outside the door listening properly to the violin music. It was a tune that she had not heard before, a haunting melody that stirred her. She felt emotional, sad, and there was a little thickening at her throat which made it hard to swallow.

  Isabella knew, of course, that she would have to compose herself before she entered the library. In truth, she did not know if she ought to enter it at all. Perhaps she would do better to find out who was in there before she made so bold a move.

  As the melody continued, Isabella crept closer to the door, attempting to peek in through the gap. There was a fire lit in the grate, and its flames danced in the near darkness. There was not a lamplight anywhere, not even the weak light of a candle’s flame. She squinted and tried to see into the darkness trying to discern whatever she could by the flame of the fire.

  When she saw that it was the Duke who sat alone in the library playing the violin, she found herself suddenly rooted to the spot. She did not want to intrude upon his privacy, especially when he had made it very clear that he had not wanted the two of them to meet that evening.

  However, Isabella could not take her eyes from him. As he played, she felt certain that his eyes were closed, not paying any attention at all to the violin he played so very well.

  And, as he sat unguarded, she could make out both sides of his face. And it was true to say that the diminished lighting did much to improve the appearance of the disfigurement.

  Isabella could not have described what she felt as she watched him. A part of her dwelled upon the fact that he had claimed himself unwell, and she knew now that he had only said so in order that he would not spend any time with her that evening.

  Quite why she felt a little upset by that, she could not say.

  After all, she had known him but a matter of days, and it was quite natural for a person, she knew from experience, to want a little time to themselves here and there along the way. But did he not already have enough time to himself? Did the Duke not already spend much of his day in solitude?

  Isabella thought that that was, perhaps, their largest area of common ground. They both lived in that beautiful, sprawling estate, an enchanted place with secrets and trees and knights in shining armour. And they both lived alone, to all intents and purposes. They wandered by day in their own private worlds, gently tiptoeing from place to place so that they might avoid one another.

  In order that they might make themselves and each other very lonely people indeed.

  Isabella knew that she must go, that she must move and not spy on him a moment longer. Something had affected him greatly that day, whether it was related to her or not, and he had a right to manage his feelings in his own way.

  And yet still she could not go; she could not leave before the end. The piece he was playing was so beautiful, so emotional and heartfelt, that she had to hear it to the end.

  Still standing so close to the partially open door, Isabella did just as her husband and closed her eyes. The moment she did so, she felt herself transported to the woods and the tower and the feeling of great sadness. And despite the feeling of sadness, she could not deny it. She could not turn away or block her ears; she did not want to. It was almost as if it was a fee
ling which must be felt, something that would not be denied.

  As the strains of the violin began to die away, growing ever quieter, she knew that Elliot must be coming to the end of the piece. Her time to stand there as an unseen watcher, an interloper upon the privacy of another, was coming to an end, and she knew she must leave.

  As she opened her eyes and looked at him to watch him play those last few notes, Isabella was taken aback to find that the Duke’s eyes were already open and that he looked at her intently.

  Seeing that she had finally opened her own eyes did not make him stop playing, nor did it make him take his eyes off her. He simply continued on to the end, finishing his piece as he had clearly intended to.

  Isabella wanted to turn and run; she felt so ashamed of her behaviour. But she knew that she could not. She must make her apology and make it most genuinely.

  “I am sorry,” she said the moment he had finished playing and lowered the violin onto his lap. “I should not have …”

  “You need not stand in the doorway, Isabella,” he said, his deep voice quiet and yet resonant.

  Isabella continued to stand where she was, unsure if he was dismissing her from his sight or inviting her into the room. She looked at him helplessly.

  “Isabella, come in.”

  Chapter 9

  Isabella made her way cautiously into the room. For one thing, she thought she might be in trouble for seeking him out when he had clearly not wanted company. For another, it was almost dark in the room, and she was struggling to see a clear path by the light of the fire.

  “Perhaps you could take a seat here?”he said, and she could just make him out moving one of the armchairs in the darkness.

  Although she knew the library well, Isabella was not confident negotiating her way in the darkness. But, as she reached Elliot, he reached out and took her arm to guide her. For a moment, Isabella thought she would flinch. As soon as his hand was on the soft skin of her forearm, the image of his face as he turned to her in the chapel on their wedding day seemed to flood her brain.

  However, Elliot quickly released her once she was safely sitting down, and the memory soon fled.

  “I am not fond of bright light, as I am sure you have already perceived,” he said in his quiet but resonant tones.

  “It is of little matter; I am seated now. And I intruded upon you this evening, not the other way around.”

  “There is no intrusion, Isabella,” he said as he moved his chair a little.

  Isabella quickly realized that he was intent on turning away from her, just as he did every evening in the drawing room.

  Even in the darkness, he would sooner hide away. And was it any wonder? After all, had she not almost flinched at nothing more than a memory of his face?

  “You play the violin beautifully.” She wanted to change the conversation.

  Isabella did not want to be drawn to making some insult by allowing her mind to dwell upon the subject of light and darkness. It could only end with talk regarding his disfigurement, which would be most uncomfortable, or silence, which would be worse.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have not heard that piece before. What was it?”

  “It is nothing,” he said and gave a light laugh.

  His laugh was warm and almost tuneful. It made him seem much younger than a man approaching his fortieth year.

  “Nothing? I do not understand,” Isabella said quizzically.

  “It is not a piece you will have heard before because it has only ever been played within these walls. It is just a little melody I made up to amuse myself.”

  “A little melody?” Isabella said and was amazed. “You are too modest to describe it as such. You composed the piece, Elliot?”

  “Yes. Although composed sounds rather grand.”

  “It is nothing of the sort.” Isabella forgot the discomfort of the preceding moments. “That was a truly beautiful piece of music. And no simple thing either. That was a piece of genuine complexity.”

  “You are very kind, Isabella.”

  “And I am honest.” She laughed. “I cannot think I have heard the violin played so well, nor a piece of music I liked better.”

  “I do not play as often as I used to.”

  “It does not show itself.” She meant every word. Isabella knew she had been transported by Elliot’s playing and by the magical, haunting melody. “Have you played since childhood? I have never truly mastered an instrument.”

  “I did not begin to learn until I was perhaps eight and twenty years,” he said quietly.

  “Eight and twenty? But you have only played these last ten years?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would have assumed you were a lifelong musician.”

  “You pay me a great compliment.”

  “To think you did not take lessons until so much later on.” Isabella was astonished.

  “I did not take lessons,” Elliot said simply.

  “You did not? But how did you learn?”

  “I just kept trying until I had it worked out.”

  “You taught yourself how to play the violin?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that must have been so difficult. And it must have taken so long.”

  “I had a good deal of time to fill and had spent too much of it wallowing in self-pity. I found it a most healing, restful thing, and it gave me a sense of purpose for the years it took to master it.”

  Isabella was silent for a moment as she thought how he must have spent day after day practicing from morning until night.

  No doubt it had been something for Elliot to focus on in what she knew must have been so many years alone. And even now he was still alone, to a large extent, at any rate.

  “Do you play any other instruments?”

  “The piano, but I learned to play as a child. I must admit I was not particularly fond of the amusement. I doubt many children are.”

  “I must agree,” Isabella said with a laugh as she remembered her own exasperating piano lessons.

  “You play the piano?”

  “Yes. Not very well, it must be said, but I do play. I learned as a child and somewhat against my will also.”

  “Mothers seem always to want their children to play the piano.” Elliot laughed.

  “Your mother liked to hear you play?”

  “Yes. However awful, she always enjoyed it. I have memories of playing pieces far too difficult for one of my limited experience, and yet my mother always rose to her feet and applauded loudly as if she were in a hall listening to a professional.” She could hear the warmth in his voice at the memory.

  Isabella felt suddenly a little sad. Her mother had, of course, insisted that she played the piano and saw to it that she was trained by a very fine teacher over a number of years. However, it had been because proficiency in a musical instrument was expected of fine young ladies and nothing more. It had not been for the love of music and certainly had not been for Isabella’s benefit specifically. It was an accomplishment and nothing more.

  And as for acting as an appreciative audience, no matter the quality of the young Isabella’s performance, that had not happened. The Countess had only ever winced her way through any piece she heard her young daughter play, likely wondering how her lack of proficiency would affect her marriage prospects in later life. As far as she could remember, her father had never heard her play. The Earl of Upperton seemed never to spend any time with them in the drawing room as a family.

  When they had guests, any showing off from her father was linked exclusively to her brother, Anthony.

  “How wonderfully attentive,” Isabella said with the feeling that she had missed out a good deal.

  “And then there was the question of my singing,” Elliot said with another laugh.

  “Oh, you can sing too?” Isabella said brightly.

  “Good Lord, no.” He laughed all the harder. “But my mother would hear none of it. As far as she was concerned, I was a true proficient in the art.�
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  “It must have given you great confidence.”

  “Given my level of skill, perhaps a little too much confidence.”

  It was the first time Isabella had seen a glimpse of the real Duke, albeit through the darkness. He was a man of modesty and wit who seemed most comfortable when he was being amusing.

  “But what of you, Isabella? Do you still play the pianoforte?”

  “Not for many years. My mother did not take much interest in my performances. She simply thought I ought to know how to play.”