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CHAPTERTEN
Fergus laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to take his mind off Edwina, who lay just on the other side of the wall from him. Morning light peaked through the curtains at last. He had passed another fitful night’s sleep, afraid to close his eyes in case the nightmares returned. He could not bear to think of rousing Edwina with his cries. He had considered going to the library for the evening, but her presence anchored him in his bedroom.
He had fully intended to spend the evening with her getting to know her. He had meant to tell her that he would not force her to lie with him until she was comfortable. However, as soon as he stepped into her room, he felt his mind cloud with desire.
She had stood there in nothing but her shift, the candlelight shining through the thin fabric such that he could see every curve of her body. Her golden hair, braided over her shoulder, glowed in the flickering light, making her shine like a goddess. He wanted to bed her then, just pick her up into his arms and deposit her on the bed, part her legs, and slide into her depths.
Her apparent nervousness held him back. The gooseflesh on her arms and the wide-eyed way she looked at him resolved him not to bed her. She acted brave, ready to accept her fate, but that was not what he wanted. He did not want to start his marriage by demanding his rights as a husband with a wife that would only subject herself to her duty.
His valet stepped into the room, interrupting Fergus’ thoughts by throwing up the curtains. Fergus quickly covered his eyes with his hands, groaning.
“Her Grace is dining in the breakfast parlor,” James said as he worked through each curtain. “We thought you might want to join her.”
His servants must have been in collusion with each other to force him to be a good husband and master. James rarely woke him. Fergus never dined in the breakfast parlor.
“Shall I lay out your blue coat?” James asked. Fergus almost grumbled out loud that he never cared about what he wore at home.
“Her Grace did ask whether you might join her. Should we tell her you will soon be downstairs?” James continued.
“Fine,” Fergus grumbled, throwing back the covers from the bed. He stepped out of the bed, ready to dress.
“Perhaps a shave, Your Grace?” James suggested, waving to a bowl of warm water Fergus had not noticed him bring up.
Fergus narrowed his eyes. “Did Simon put you up to this?”
James just motioned to a chair. “If you would please sit, Your Grace.”
Sighing, Fergus sat in the chair, flinching as James removed his mask. Fergus often shaved his own face because of his aversion for others to see his scars. Simon and James were two that occasionally saw him without his mask, but he had never gotten comfortable with that. James deftly covered Fergus’ face with a warm towel before taking out a razor. After a moment, James lathered a shaving soap, removed the towel, and covered Fergus’ face with the soap.
Fergus relaxed into the process, only growing anxious again as James shaved around the raised scars on his cheek. Hair did not grow on the puckered skin in some places, but in other areas, shaving between the ridges required skill which James had. Still, on several occasions, James had accidentally nicked him though Fergus could not hold it against him.
Once shaved, washed up, and dressed, Fergus felt less grumpy and more refreshed. He looked back into the mirror, holding a mask in his hand, ready to put it on, and he could only shake his head.
“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” James asked, watching Fergus with concern. Fergus struggled to think of what to tell him. James had done his job perfectly, but he could not work miracles. No one could erase the scars on his face, the tired, dark circles under his eyes, or the wounds in his heart from the torment and rejection of society. The mask felt heavy in his fingers.
“Everything is fine,” Fergus lied, smiling at James.
“If there is nothing else, Your Grace?”
“No, thank you,” Fergus said. James bowed to Fergus and ducked out of the room. Fergus remained in front of the mirror, wondering what more he could do with his appearance. He wished that he looked more dapper, more handsome, more like a Duke, and less like a wounded soldier. Edwina deserved a husband that complimented her beauty, not detracted from it.
His reflection mocked him. He told Edwina the prior night that he would give her anything that she wanted. What he told her was true: he had the money and resources to fulfill almost any wish she had. But like the wishes she mocked him with, money and resources could not change his appearance.
Rage built up in his chest, anger for a situation that he could not change. The one thing that he could not control had ruined his life. He tightened his hands into fists, shaking with anger. He knew he should go down to the breakfast parlor to Edwina, not leave her waiting, but he could not face her in his current state. He could not even enjoy spending time with his own wife because of his own embarrassment and shame.
Without thinking, he slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass all over the floor. Searing pain coursed through his knuckles as his reflection looked back up at him from a hundred shards of mirror across the floor, speckled with blood. Realizing the stupidity of his action, he sighed, covering his face until he heard footsteps running down the corridor. Assuming that one of the servants had hurried to investigate the sound, he looked around for something to wrap up his hand with.
A knock came at his door, and he shouted, “Come!” as he found a linen cloth on his vanity table.
“What happened?” Edwina cried.
Fergus whirled around, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard the noise and wanted to make sure everything was all right! Oh, my goodness, you are injured,” she rushed to say, hurrying toward him. She took his hand in her own, despite the blood covering his skin, and inspected the wound before he even had time to realize what she was doing.
“I will be fine,” he told her briskly.
“No, you need bandages, surely,” she breathed. “Let me help you.”
