Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

L ouisa could not sleep. For some reason, her mind seemed hell-bent on punishing her with the embarrassing encounter she had with her husband earlier.

The blame for that encounter lay solely at her feet, as she had allowed the brief moments of camaraderie she had shared with him to delude her into letting her guard down enough that she had taken the risk of asking him to visit her bedchamber.

She had been rewarded for her courage by the sight of his warm smile fading into his usual icy demeanor, as if she had asked him to kill a person or dance naked in the streets.

It was becoming worrisome how much he avoided the marriage bed even though they had agreed on it earlier. She had thought, at least, from the way he had kissed her at their wedding that he had changed his mind on the matter.

From the discussions she had overheard over the years, she understood that men, compared to women, looked forward to their wedding nights so keenly that it was considered the highlight of matrimony.

That fact seemed not to be true for her husband, who avoided her like the plague, forcing her to take the initiative in reminding him that their marriage remained unconsummated and still vulnerable to annulment.

Maybe that was why he wanted to keep their marriage unconsummated. In that way, she reasoned, he could easily wiggle his way out of the marriage commitment whenever he chose. But it didn’t seem tenable, considering that he was a duke and would need an heir if he wanted to keep the title in the family even if he had mentioned he already had a relative who would take the title.

She tried to run through the list of relatives he had but none came to mind. Perhaps sshe would check the library to see if she could find his family’s pedigree.

But if that was not the reason, there was a chance he was impotent. Somehow, she doubted that a man as virile as Percival could be impotent. He appeared too virile and possessed an innate magnetism that she believed would not be seen in an infertile man.

But then what did she really know about male fertility?

Those reasons aside, there was one other possibility that she wanted to ignore—the fact that he was avoiding her because he found her unattractive because of her scar. That would mean that the passion they had shared when they kissed at the altar was a figment of her imagination.

If that was the case, it would hurt even more than him choosing an easy way to annul the marriage when he simply didn’t require the arrangement to further his goals.

For one, she had tried to maintain a stoic attitude in regard to her scar and the changes it had brought to her life. For two, she had finally experienced what it was like not to be the object of the opposite sex’s attention—a sharp contrast to the life she had led before the accident.

She had learned to stick to the walls of ballrooms with the other wallflowers—at least, there, she had not felt the need for the rigorous drills of forcing a smile and displaying perfect etiquette. There, she only had to worry about not causing a scene with her improper manners.

With Percival, she had found herself feeling things she would have failed to put a name to if she hadn’t had that talk with her sisters.

She turned to the other side of her bed, biting her lip. She desired her husband, that much she could admit. How could she not, when he was entirely different from every other man she had met?

He was handsome. An epitome of masculine beauty, as far as she was concerned. But it was the darkness that she could sense beneath his facade that drew her to him. Then, there was also the confident way in which he carried himself. She found herself itching to reach out and ruffle his hair or do anything to make him lose his temper.

She sighed again and rolled onto her other side. She was confused by the rejection she had faced earlier, considering that she had seen the barely restrained heat in his eyes as they landed on her.

Sometimes, she even felt the burning intensity of his gaze on her body while she performed her duties. Based on that alone, she could safely guess that he was attracted to her. It was odd that he was reluctant to give in to his desire and consummate their union.

Instead, he seemed intent on sending her mixed messages with his words and actions. The man’s mood changed so quickly that it could give one a headache.

She had conversed with him at length, enjoying his banter and humor until she had felt relaxed enough to discuss the state of their marriage and the fact that she was not really his wife, since their marriage remained unconsummated. She had taken the risk and asked if he had any intentions to visit her bedchambers that night.

But then she watched his smile drop, only to be replaced with his impassive mask. Except, this time, his eyes burned with something that closely resembled desire. Or perhaps a mix of desire or anger? Whatever it was, it had stirred the desire in the pit of her stomach.

The man was the root of her confusion. His words said one thing, but his actions said another.

Not for the first time, she felt angry that he would toy with her this way when there was a possibility that he wanted the same thing that she was asking him for.

It seemed that her husband was a contrary man, but he would have to be clear and honest soon, or else she could not trust herself not to go mad from the frustration.

The sudden sound of something falling with a loud thump in the room above startled her. It came again and again, each time punctuated by shouts.

It seemed that someone was hitting something, and whatever it was that he was hitting seemed to be crying out in pain. But then who could possibly be awake at this ungodly hour, and who was his victim?

The yelling came again, and this time she could recognize her husband’s voice.

What is he doing up there? Is he beating someone or being beaten?

It did not matter. Someone was in danger—most likely Percival—and she had to help. That thought spurred her out of her bed. Opening her trunk, she retrieved a wrapper to cover her nightgown and wore her slippers. Snagging a candle holder, she padded to the door, opened it, and stepped into the long, dark corridor.

The manor looked more hideous and haunted at night, and despite the light of the single candle she carried, a shiver of fear and foreboding ran down her spine.

How on earth did her husband manage to live here, she did not know. But then it was said that a person became blind to the imperfections in their home once they had lived in it long enough.

Tiptoeing, she avoided holes in the flooring where the wood was decaying. While she wished to rescue her husband from whatever battle he was involved in, she had no wish to be buried alive under the rubble of this manor. The manor might be haunted by ghosts of old, but she had no wish to join them that night.

“While I respect your presence here,” she said in a high-pitched voice, addressing the ghosts she imagined hovering around her, “I do not wish to die. Your son and I haven’t even consummated our marriage.”

She felt silly but relieved in a way that she had acknowledged their presence, instead of trying to pretend that they did not exist.

A stream of air blew into the corridor, touching her skin in a fleeting caress. She knew it was quite silly of her, but she felt that was a sign of acceptance by whatever spirit haunted this house.

The sound came again, jolting her back to reality—rather rudely, she might add—and prompting her into action.

Following the sound of the thumping, she moved towards the staircase—the one that was falling apart. It looked like a dead effigy in the darkness, and she was quite sure that those stairs had wide, yawning holes where the wood had rotted.

She stood on the landing, paralyzed by indecision. Her husband had warned her to avoid those stairs for the simple reason that their state made them a death trap.

As if egging her on, the thumping sound grew louder and became more erratic. The boxer, whoever he was, seemed to be in a frenzy. The sound struck fear in her heart.

While she knew the risks she was taking, she could not imagine abandoning Percival to the mercy of whatever it was that was lurking in the tower, breaking things.

She put her foot on the first step and was a little startled by the creaking sound it made. Her heart lurched into her throat with fear.

Steeling herself, she slowly ascended the steps, placing one careful foot before the other and trying as much as possible to avoid the darker areas where the wood had decayed.

Of course, there was no guarantee that the intact parts of the wooden stairs were safe, but then that was what a risk was—betting that you were right even though it was more probable that you were wrong.

Halfway up the stairs, she stepped around a particularly weak patch in the wood and felt the flooring cave, trapping her right foot deep inside the gaping hole that was rapidly widening and making her yelp.

Swallowing hard, she focused on her breathing, tightly clutching the rusted railing. She could not die like this, not while she was still at a crossroads with her husband. She was going to find him, rescue him, and have a very long talk with him about their marriage.

She was not going to give him the chance to end the conversation just like he ended the other ones—with angry outbursts that forced her to retreat into her shell. Well, now she was even more angry than he ever hoped to be.

She was no longer going to allow his outbursts to affect the way she felt about herself. It had taken her so much to build the confidence she had now, despite the many challenges she had faced after her accident. She would not let years’ worth of work go to waste just so he could feel good about himself.

Louisa felt a sense of calm slowly wash over her, bringing clarity to her thoughts. Holding on tightly to the rusted railing, she managed to lift her leg out of the hole, pulling up pieces of rotten wood in the process. Then, she hopped the rest of the way to the top of the stairs. When she stood on the landing, she saw nothing, as she had dropped her candle holder and the candlelight flickered out sometime during her venture up the stairs.

Now, standing on the landing of the treacherous stairs, another thought occurred to her—while she might have succeeded in climbing up that deathtrap, she was unsure now how to go back down.

She suppressed the feeling of concern and fear that she could feel bubbling up to the surface. For now, she was going to focus on the matter at hand, which was to find her husband and make sure that he was all right before scolding him for causing her such distress so late at night.

She spun on her heels, her back facing the ruined staircase, and walked down the hallway towards the room the sound came from.

As she marched down the hallway, she noted that several of the rooms were in a terrible state. The ceilings in some of them hung so low that it was almost as if they wanted to collapse on the floor. In other rooms, the doors were barely hanging on their hinges, and some other rooms did not even have doors. The flooring here was even more precarious, and she had to be careful, relying heavily on her instinct more than her sight at this point. She could see a glimmer of light at the end of the hallway, which gave her hope that she had not taken such risks unnecessarily.

Soon, she got to the end of the hallway and was struck by the difference between the room there and the other rooms that occupied the same floor.

This room was much bigger than the others, and to a large extent, the ceiling and floor there remained in slightly better condition than in the other rooms. The ceiling boasted steel rings that supported a giant leather bag that she guessed was filled with sand.

Apart from the solitary leather bag, there were no other furnishings in the room except for a solitary stool that had a single shirt thrown over it. Percival stood in the middle of this room, throwing brutal punches at his leathery enemy with so much anger that he might as well be back on the battlefield.

He was shirtless, and the only stitch of clothing he had on was his trousers. One of the best pairs she had seen him wearing. In the absence of his shirt, Louisa had the chance to drink in the sight of his naked back. She had always known that he was attractive and potent, but as she watched him now with an increasing desire, she agreed that she had underestimated his magnetism and beauty. Her mouth went dry.

His skin glistened with sweat, shimmering in the candlelight. His shoulders—God, his shoulders were so broad and strong that she imagined he could throw her over one of those shoulders, and suddenly she wanted him to do that.

The thought caused nervous excitement to rise in her belly.

As he swung his hand to land a particularly vicious blow to the leather, she watched, mesmerized by the flexing muscles of his back. His back was strong and toned, peppered with several scars that were most likely souvenirs from his time in the army.

His body was one of a soldier who had fought so hard to protect his country even if it left him with memories that haunted him. While she stared at his back, the scars on his skin and his flexing muscles, she thought that those scars on his back did not even scratch the surface of the scars deep inside of him, and somehow she knew that it was those innermost scars that were responsible for him being awake this night, viciously punching the leather bag.

She longed to soothe him somehow, but he was not ready to open up to her. Something about his movements told her that he was not really present in the moment, and she would do less harm by leaving him to his devices. By letting him let out his frustration in a healthy way without an unwanted intruder.

She made to leave but was halted in her tracks when his voice came.

“I believe I warned you not to come to this part of the manor for your own safety,” he said, his tone dangerous, a vein of anger lacing it.

“Well, you are here, the very place that you labeled unsafe. So you value your life so little?” she retorted, her annoyance taking over as well.

“It is different for me. This is my house, and you would adhere to my rules, dammit,” he insisted, his voice rising an octave.

Percival had always made efforts to avoid swearing in front of her simply because he saw her as a lady, her ears too innocent for coarse language.

The fact that he was now using those words in front of her spoke volumes about his state of mind.

Spinning on her heels to tell him off, she yelped when she felt herself sink into a hole in the floor. She let out a scream and scrambled for purchase, getting more agitated by the moment.

Quick as light, Percival caught her and dragged her to safety. As she leaned against him, panting, he hissed in her ear, “I told you to be careful, wife. You shouldn’t be here.”