Something near the edge of the room caught her eye; it was a painting that looked as if it had been torn out of its frame and slashed with a knife. Even rolled up, she could make out the great gashes in the canvas. Frowning, she took a step closer then reached down and began to piece it together.
It was a painting of a man. And as she unfolded it all the way and then smoothed it out, she couldn’t help but gasp.
The painting was a portrait of the Duke.
Her hands shook as she held the painting out in front of her, her eyes raking over the deep cuts that had been slashed, as if with a knife or sword, throughout the painting. They were everywhere, like gaping wounds, across the man’s torso, his arms, and most grisly of all, across his face.
Why would he slash a portrait of himself? Could he really dislike himself so much?
It wasn’t a perfect likeness—the shape of the chin was off and perhaps the color of the eyes which were slightly lighter in the man in the portrait. And her noticing that unsettled her more than the self-hatred before her eyes.
She set the portrait aside and turned to the desk. Sitting on top of it, next to the smoldering cigar, was a letter.
I shouldn’t read that, she told herself, even as she took a step towards it, but her heart was hammering, and much to her chagrin, she couldn’t help but notice how much she felt like a character in a novel, sneaking through the castle of a villainous duke, looking for clues about her imprisonment. The thought thrilled her, and she leaned closer.
But just as her eyes came to rest on the letter, her sense returned to her.
I shouldn’t read his private correspondence! That’s not the kind of wife, or person, I want to be.
Because the Duke was right: life wasn’t a novel, and she shouldn’t act as if it was.
But just as she was leaning away again, her eyes caught one of the words in the letter, and she froze:Redfield.
Lord Redfield.Like the name of the man Violet was almost forced to marry?
Fear seized her at once, and she grabbed the letter from the desk, all caution evaporating. She had to know if Lord Redfield was once again threatening her family as he had before. She had to know that her sister was safe.
But just then came the sound behind her of a foot on a creaking floorboard, and Rosalie screamed and jumped. At the same time, a hand reached out and snatched the letter from her. Rosalie looked up to see the fierce, fuming eyes of her husband staring down at her.
“What are you doing here?” he snarled. The look on his face was terrifying. His lip was curling, and she could see the whites of his eyes. She shrank back.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was just curious about what was in here.”
“You have no right to come into my private study,” he seethed. “You have no right to snoop through my things.”
Rosalie knew, from past experience with her father, that the best thing to do right now would be to apologize, become demure and obsequious, and let him lecture her until he was satisfied. Fighting back would only add fuel to the flames. It was never the right decision.
But this time, she couldn’t do it. She had spent a lifetime watching her sisters be bullied by her father. She had endured his bullying as well. And every time, she had given in—let him yell, apologized, and demurred.
Not anymore.
“I have every right to snoop!” she shouted, surprising both herself and from the look on his face, him as well. “You told me I’m not allowed to ask questions, so how else am I supposed to find out the truth of what’s going on here?”
“Nothing is going on here,” he said, recovering himself quickly.
“Oh, is that right?” She put her hands on her hips. “Then what does that letter say? Why are we really here?”
“We’re here for our honeymoon,” the Duke snapped although a vein in his jaw had begun to bulge which made her think he was holding something back—the truth, no doubt.
“I have a right to know!” She stomped her foot on the ground. “The late Lord Redfield nearly kidnapped my sister! If my family is in danger?—”
“Then I will protect them and you,” he interrupted her. “And I don’t appreciate you questioning my ability to do so.”
“I’m not questioning that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But I’m not a helpless little girl anymore; I have a right to know.”
“Oh, aren’t you?” The Duke snorted. “Because if I remember correctly, you’re the kind of helpless little girl whose head is so lost in the clouds she lets herself be manipulated by gentlemen pretending to court her.”
Rosalie gasped. She couldn’t believe that he would bring up Lord Cain to her or use it against her like this. Tears pricked her eyes, and she felt the venom on her tongue, turning her words poisonous.
