Chapter 5

William paced back and forth in his study, unable to keep himself seated for longer than three seconds. The weight of the day's events was pressing heavily upon him, and his mind raced with thoughts of his lovely guest, her presence under his roof lingering like a flickering flame in the recesses of his thoughts.

She had been unconscious in his drawing room for several hours, and he wondered if she would be all right. Then she woke up, and he now found himself in a predicament. She promised she would consider his offer, but it was their entire conversation which had left him intrigued, a spark of curiosity igniting within him as he pondered over who she was.

There was something about Rose that drew him in, a magnetic pull he couldn't deny, no matter how much he endeavored to remain reasonable and remind himself that a woman as lovely as her could never be interested in a man such as himself. It was an impossibility.

He poured himself a drink, the clinking of the ice soothing him. He took a sip. He couldn't shake the image of her pale complexion, the slight dizziness that clouded her features before he left her in care of Mr. Hancock.

With a furrowed brow, he knew that her well-being was of the utmost importance, whether she decided to take him up on his offer. He would call for a physician in the morning, ensuring that Rose received the care she needed in case she still felt unwell.

As he continued to pace the length of the study, William couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. There was something about Rose that stirred a dormant passion within him, a desire to protect her, a longing to unravel the secrets that lay hidden beneath her stoic exterior.

Unable to get her out of his mind, each moment only seemed to heighten his concern for her well-being. Was she all right? Was she in need of anything? A sense of urgency pulsed through his veins.

I'll just check on her for a moment, he told himself, finally relenting. His resolve to leave her be crumbled beneath the weight of his concern. He knew he should stay away. He knew he was supposed to respect Rose's privacy, but he had to know if she was all right. Only that.

With a determined stride, he marched through the darkened hallways of his mansion, thinking about what he would say. As he approached her guest chamber, a polite intention to merely check on her drifting through his mind, he paused. His hand poised to knock; he realized the door was slightly ajar. Curiosity mingled with caution, and he leaned closer. Swallowing heavily, his heart felt like it was about to jump right out of his chest.

The sight that greeted him stole his breath away. Rose stood in the middle of the chamber, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, in the midst of undressing. His eyes widened in shock and attraction as he caught a glimpse of her bare back, a glimmer of moonlight tracing the delicate contours of her skin.

Time seemed to stand still, his senses reeling from the unexpected sight before him. A magnetic attraction stirred deep within him, catching him off guard with its intensity. But just as quickly as it had come, reason flooded back into his mind, and with a sharp inhale, he tore his gaze away, cheeks flushing crimson with embarrassment. He felt like an intruder, a trespasser on Rose's privacy, and the weight of his indiscretion bore down on him with a crushing force.

However, before he could disappear down the dark corridors, he must have made a noise, because he heard Rose's voice.

"Hello?" she called out. "Is someone there?"

He knew he had to show himself. Inhaling deeply, he tried to steady his nerves. He knocked on the door. A moment later, Rose opened the door. She had a thin, almost transparent robe wrapped around her body, making her look like a water nymph under the soft light of the candles.

"Your Grace," she said, sounding surprised.

"Rose, I… apologize for appearing so late," he managed to muster as he felt a rush of guilt wash over him. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just… I wanted to check on you, to make sure you were all right."

She regarded him with a mixture of understanding and slight amusement, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "It is quite all right. Thank you for your concern. I appreciate it."

As he still stood in the corridor, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he suddenly became acutely aware of the way he had turned his body to reveal his scars to her, and have them in plain sight. Hastily, he turned to the other side, in an effort to hide them from her view. It was a reflex born of habit, a subconscious effort to protect himself from the judgment and pity that often accompanied the sight of his disfigurement.

But as he turned away, he felt Rose's gaze upon him, her eyes filled with understanding. And then, to his surprise, she spoke, her voice gentle, but firm.

"Your Grace," she said softly, her words cutting through the tension that hung in the air. "There is no need for that. Your scars are a testament to your service. There is no need to hide them from me."

Her words caught him off guard. He turned to face her, and his heart pounded in his chest as he met her gaze. There was a sincerity in her eyes, a warmth that washed over him like a soothing balm, easing the knots of insecurity that had taken root within him. There was something about her voice, something that beckoned him to come closer and have her whisper into his ear, feeling her hot breath on his skin. He quickly banished the thought.

"That isn't what most people say," he admitted, his voice tinged with bitterness. He was washed over by a sense of raw honesty that he hadn't dared to hope for. "I know what the villagers are calling me. The monster of the manor. The disfigured duke. I've heard them all."

Rose's expression softened with empathy. "I don't see any monster here," she said tenderly.

Against all logic and reason, he couldn't help but allow hope to roam free inside his mind. Despite the scars that marred his face, despite the insecurities that had plagued him for years, he found himself drawn to Rose in a way he couldn't fully explain. They were standing in the doorway still, him not daring to enter.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt the hands of a woman on his face. Desire roared inside of him, a memory of what it was like to be wanted and longed for. He imagined how he would tremble to take her, pressing the tips of his fingers against her skin, pulling her close. His body burned with desire, awakened from an ancient slumber.

He yearned to taste her lips, spilling that angelic voice like a soothing waterfall. But despite how desperately he wanted to reach out, take her hand in his, pull her close and lose himself in the warmth of her embrace, he knew that it was an only kindness on her part. Nothing else.

"I only see scars," she continued, pulling him out of the tangled thorns of his own mind and placing him before her once again. "Everyone has scars of some kind. Yours just happen to be on your face."

As that tender moment between them lingered in the air, William couldn't help but notice a hint of sadness in her eyes, a shadow that dimmed the light within them. He knew immediately that she spoke from experience. He remembered how he called her sweet and na?ve, thinking that she knew nothing of pain and anguish, being so young. But she corrected him then, and he could see proof of that now. Rose had a painful story that he had to unearth.

"Rose," he said her name as if he were saying a prayer from the bottom of his heart, "it sounds like you know something about scars."

Rose's gaze flickered away, a veil of sadness descending over her features as she nodded slowly. "Yes," she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I do."

He waited for a moment or two, wanting to see if she would open up to him. He didn't want to urge her, to push her or force her in any way.

"You don't have to talk about it," he said tenderly.

She bestowed a sad smile upon him, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "It is no secret," she revealed. "And it's been so long, you'd think it would hurt less."

"But it doesn't." They said the same words at the same time.

She swallowed heavily as she spoke. "My parents," she said. "They both died in an accident that left me with a scar on my back."

He frowned. "I didn't notice any scar on your back."

As soon as he said those words, he realized what he had done. His eyes widened in shock of shame and embarrassment, as he took a step backward, feeling exactly the villain from the villagers' stories of him.

"Rose, I… I'm sorry," he said, stumbling over his own words. "I didn't see anything at all, I swear. I wanted to knock, and the door was ajar, and I just took a quick glance, but I didn't see anything, I… honestly, I…"

"My scar is further down my back, Your Grace," she said blushing, clearly embarrassed at what she had just found out. "You wouldn't have been able to see it."

"Yes, that's what I meant. I didn't see anything," he said, mumbling again.

Now even more than before, he couldn't shake the awareness of Rose's current state of undress. He endeavored to avert his gaze, to maintain a sense of propriety, but the allure of her presence was undeniable. Every fiber of his being urged him to look away, to respect her privacy and maintain boundaries. Yet, despite his best efforts, his eyes betrayed him, stealing furtive glances at the delicate curves of her form.

He could sense her gaze upon him, as if she could notice his struggle to maintain composure in the face of such temptation. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, a palpable reminder of the unspoken desires that had awakened inside of him. He knew that if he lingered there a moment longer, he might do something he would regret.

"Well, I do believe it is rather late," he mumbled through a rush of embarrassment, overcome by a need to collect himself. "Good night, Rose," he said, before turning to leave.

"Good night, Your Grace," he heard Rose's soft voice calling out after him.

He didn't turn around. He didn't dare. He darted toward his bedchamber, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. The sensation he had been trying to escape was not left in front of the door; it was lodged deep inside of him. Breathing heavily as if he had been running a race, he changed his clothes hastily and slid into his bed, closing his eyes shut, knowing sleep would not grace him with its soothing presence.

And, he was right.