“DON’T PITY ME,” THE SCARRED DUKE WARNED—SHE TOUCHED HIS FACE AND CALLED HIM BEAUTIFUL

Don’t pity me. >> It isn’t pity I feel, my love, >> only tenderness. >> The whispered rumors of 1,817 called him the beast of Mayfair, a duke so horribly disfigured by fire that grown men could not hold his gaze. But when he stepped from the shadows and warned her to avert her eyes, she did the unthinkable.

She reached out and she smiled. The ball hosted by Lady Windham at her sweeping Grovener Square mansion was suffocating, thick with the scent of crushed roses, expensive French perfumes, and the sharp metallic tang of desperate ambition. For Miss Beatatrice Lynfield, the glittering chandeliers, and the sweeping melodies of the string quartet offered no joy.

At 21, she was already considered dangerously close to being a spinster, a status exacerbated by the catastrophic financial ruin her father, the Earl of Alsbury, had brought upon their house. Lord Thomas Lynfield had wagered their ancestral estate, their London townhouse, and Beatatric’s dowy at the card tables of Whites Club.

He now owed an insurmountable sum of £40,000 to relentless creditors. Beatatrice was not at this ball to dance. She was here to be sold to the highest, most forgiving bidder. It was precisely 10:00 when the music abruptly faltered. The sudden silence in the grand ballroom was so profound that the clinking of crystal champagne flutes sounded like shattering glass.

Standing at the top of the grand sweeping staircase was Arthur Montigue, the Duke of Harrington. He was a phantom of the ton, a man who had not been seen in polite society for four agonizing years. Before the tragic fire at his country estate, a blaze that had claimed the lives of his parents and left him fighting for his own, Arthur had been the golden boy of the aristocracy.

Now he was a living ghost. He wore perfectly tailored, stark black evening clothes, bereft of the colorful silks or elaborate created by the dandies of the season. But it was not his attire that drew the horrified gasps from the dowagers. It was his face. The right side of his jaw and cheek was a landscape of twisted raised scar tissue.

A violent road map of the hellfire he had survived. The skin was pulled taut, discoloration marring his once striking features, creeping up toward a cold, unyielding blue eye. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Arthur descended the stairs. Whispers rustled through the room like dry leaves. Hideous, a monster. They say the pain drove him mad.

Beatatrice watched him from her place against the silk tapestried wall. She did not feel repulsion. She felt a profound heavy ache in her chest. She recognized the rigid set of his shoulders, the aggressive tilt of his chin that challenged anyone to mock him. It was the armor of a cornered animal. Unable to bear the predatory gazes of her own unwanted suitors, particularly the odious Lord Fe, who had already cornered her twice to lear at her bodice, Beatatrice slipped away through the open French doors, retreating into the dimly lit sanctuary of the Windham Library.

The room was cool, smelling of beeswax, old parchment, and leather. She walked toward the grand fireplace, resting her forehead against the cool marble mantle, closing her eyes to gather her fractured composure. If you have come to faint, madam, I suggest you find a softer landing than the hearthstone, the voice was a low, grally baritone.

roughened as if the smoke of his past still coated his lungs. Beatatrice gasped and spun around. Sitting in a highbacked leather wing chair previously concealed by the deep shadows of the room was the Duke of Harrington. A single candle flickered on the table beside him, casting Macob dancing shadows across the ruined half of his face.

He gripped a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, his knuckles white. He waited for the inevitable reaction, the gasp of horror, the averted eyes, the desperate scramble for the door. It was the reaction he had received from every living soul since he had dragged himself from the ashes of Harrington Hall. Beatatrice did not run. She straightened her spine, smoothing the skirts of her modest, pale blue muslin gown.

I have never fainted in my life, your grace. And if I were to begin tonight, I assure you it would not be because of you. Arthur’s eyes narrowed, the unscarred side of his face registering profound suspicion. He stood up slowly, a towering, imposing figure, his broad shoulders blocking the faint moonlight spilling through the window.

He stepped deliberately into the light of the candle, turning his head so the full gruesome extent of his scarring was illuminated. He wanted to shock her. He wanted to drive her away before she could look at him with the one emotion he despised above all others. “Do not play the stoic with me,” Arthur warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous vibrating whisper. “Look at me.

I am a monster to your kind.” A cautionary tale to be whispered about behind ivory fans. So go on, flee back to the music. And whatever you do, do not pity me. I will not stomach the pity of a desperate Earl’s daughter. Beatatrice held her ground, her heart hammered against her ribs, not from fear, but from a strange, undeniable magnetic pull.

She took a slow, deliberate step forward, crossing the Persian rug until she stood mere inches from his chest. Arthur froze, his breath catching in his throat. No one willingly stepped closer to him. Slowly, deliberately, Beatatrice raised her gloved hand. Arthur flinched, a tragic instinctual movement, expecting her to strike him or recoil.

Instead, her soft fingertips grazed the edge of his jaw, tracing the agonizing boundary where smooth, aristocratic skin gave way to rugged, burned flesh. “I do not pity you your grace,” Beatatrice whispered, her voice steady and clear in the quiet room. She looked directly into his icy blue eyes, finding the deep buried well of loneliness thrashing beneath his harsh exterior.

I see a man who survived the fire when the flames tried to take him. There is a profound beauty in survival, Arthur. You are breathing. You are here. You are beautiful to me. Arthur stood paralyzed, his chest heaving. For four years, he had been a beast. In the span of a single heartbeat, this quiet, debt-ridden woman had reached into his personal hell and called him beautiful.

He looked down at her, the defensive ice in his eyes cracking, and in that shadowed library, a dangerous, lifealtering bargain was silently born. The morning after the windball, the London fog clung thick and suffocating to the cobblestones of Berkeley Square. Inside the crumbling grandeur of the Lynfield townhouse, Beatatrice sat in the morning room, mechanically stitching a tear in her youngest sister’s police.

The events of the previous night felt like a fever dream. Had she truly touched the ruined face of the Duke of Harrington? Had she truly seen the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes before he abruptly turned and fled into the night? The heavy brass knocker on the front door echoed through the drafty house, shattering her thoughts.

Moments later, her father, Lord Alsbury, burst into the room. His usually palid, anxious face was flushed with a terrifying mixture of shock and predatory triumph. He is here, Lord Alsbury, stammered, gripping the doorframe. The Duke of Harrington is in my study. He, Beatatrice, he has brought drafts from the Bank of England.

Oh, he is offering to pay every single debt I owe. The older man swallowed hard, his eyes wide. In exchange, he demands a special license. He wishes to marry you by the end of the week. Beatric’s needle slipped, piercing her thumb. A bright drop of blood welled up, but she felt no pain, only a sudden, rushing roar in her ears.

A duke did not simply pay £40,000 for a penniless bride unless he was desperate. And Arthur Montigue was desperate. He needed a wife to produce an heir. An heir that would permanently block his ambitious, conniving cousin, Lord Henry Cavendish, from inheriting the dukedom. Henry was a man Arthur despised, a man who hovered like a vulture, waiting for Arthur to succumb to the melancholy that plagued him.

Without a word, Beatatrice wrapped her bleeding thumb in a handkerchief, bypassed her trembling father, and marched straight to the study. Arthur stood by the window, staring out at the dreary street. When he turned to face her, he wore the same defensive, impenetrable mask as the night before. But in the harsh light of day, Beatatrice noticed the exhaustion lining his eyes, the slight tremor in his strong hands.

“Is this how you purchase a wife, your grace?” Beatatrice asked, her voice calm, shutting the heavy oak door behind her. Like a prized mare at Tatterols. It is a practical arrangement, Miss Lynfield, Arthur replied coldly, though he could not bring himself to look her in the eye. You require salvation from the debtor’s prison that awaits your family.

I require a duchess, one who will not scream when she looks at me across the breakfast table, and one who possesses the fortitude to endure the whispers of society. You proved last night that you possess such fortitude. And if I refuse, Arthur’s jaw tightened, the scar tissue pulling taut.

Then I will take my drafts and leave, and Lord Fe will likely purchase your father’s debts by sunset, claiming you as his prize. The choice is yours, Beatatrice. It was a cruel reality, stated with blunt precision. Yet, as Beatatrice looked at him, she saw the desperate vulnerability hiding behind his transactional cruelty. He was terrified.

He was offering an ungodly sum of money to trap her because he believed no woman would ever choose him freely. “I will marry you, Arthur,” Beatatrice said softly. “But not for the money. I will marry you because I meant what I said last night.” 3 days later they were wed in a hollow, hastily arranged ceremony at St. George’s Hanover Square.

There were no grand celebrations, no admiring crowds. As they stepped out of the church, the gathered members of the ton whispered behind gloved hands, their eyes darting to Arthur’s scarred face and Beatatric’s plain silk dress. They were an oddity, a tragic transaction laid bare for all to see.

To escape the suffocating gossip of London, Arthur immediately spirited his new bride away to Oak Haven, his vast, brooding estate on the jagged cliffs of Cornwall. Oak Haven was a fortress of gray stone, relentlessly battered by the roaring Atlantic winds. It was beautiful, wild, and incredibly isolated. For the first month, their marriage was a polite, agonizing dance of avoidance.

Arthur gave Beatatrice free reign of the estate, showered her with exquisite jewels she never wore, and provided her with everything except his presence. He took his meals in his study. He rode his black stallion across the moors until midnight. He slept in a separate wing of the manor. He was starving himself of her company, convinced that his proximity would taint her, but Beatatrice was a woman who refused to be ignored.

Slowly she began infiltrating his fortress. She brought tea to his study, refusing to leave until he drank it. She forced him to walk with her in the cliffside gardens. She spoke to him not as a duke, and certainly not as a monster, but as a man. The ice between them was finally beginning to thaw when the uninvited carriage arrived.

It was a stormy Tuesday evening when Lord Henry Caendish stepped into the grand foyer of Oak Haven. Henry was everything Arthur was. Not conventionally handsome, charming with a smooth silken voice and a predatory grace. Arthur, my dear cousin. Henry practically purrred as he stroed into the drawing room, unbothered by the sheer tension his arrival caused.

He turned his charming smile to Beatatrice, sweeping into a flawless bow. And this must be the brave duchess. How remarkable. We had all assumed Arthur would perish a bachelor in this damp tomb. Arthur’s entire body went rigid, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles popped. “What do you want, Henry?” “Simply checking on my family,” Henry replied lightly, though his eyes were cold and calculating as they flicked over Arthur’s scars.

Later that evening, while Arthur was meeting with his estate manager, Henry cornered Beatatrice in the gallery. You are a remarkably courageous woman, your grace,” Henry murmured, leaning entirely too close to share a life with a man prone to such volatile madness. “Tell me, has he spoken to you of the night of the fire? Has he told you how it started?” Beatatrice narrowed her eyes.

“My husband’s past is his own to share.” “Lord Henry,” Henry chuckled, a dark, venomous sound. How very loyal. But you should know, my dear Duchess, the fire was no accident. The authorities blamed a fallen candle. But Arthur, Henry paused, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight.

Arthur knows the doors to his parents’ wing were locked from the outside. The question you must ask yourself is this. Who was holding the key? Henry walked away, leaving Beatatrice standing in the cold gallery, her heart pounding with a sudden terrifying dread. A seed of doubt had been planted, and the true nightmare of Oakhaven was only just beginning.

The relentless Cornish rain battered the thick leaded glass of Oak Haven’s windows, mirroring the violent storm raging within Beatatric’s chest. Three days had passed since Lord Henry Caendish had planted his poisonous seed of doubt in the gallery, and the atmosphere in the manor had grown unbearably toxic.

Henry lingered like a plague, occupying the guest wing with a cheerful, arrogant sense of entitlement. He spent his days drinking Arthur’s finest brandy, and his evenings making veiled, cruel remarks that made Arthur retreat further into his shell of icy silence. But it was not Henry’s presence that kept Beatatrice awake in the dead of night.

It was the question he had posed. Who was holding the key? Unable to bear the suffocating darkness of her bed chamber, Beatatrice rose. She wrapped a heavy velvet dressing gown over her linen night shift, took up a single brass candlestick, and stepped into the freezing drafty corridor. She did not know what she was looking for, only that the oppressive silence of the manor felt like a lie demanding to be unraveled.

She moved like a ghost through the labyrinth and halls, her bare feet making no sound on the worn Persian carpets until she found herself standing before the heavy iron gates that sealed off the east wing. This was where the fire had happened. This was the tomb of the previous Duke and Duchess of Harrington. The gates were chained, but the padlock was old and had not been properly clasped.

With trembling fingers, Beatatrice pulled the heavy metal chain free. The gates groaned in protest as she pushed them open, stepping into the skeletal remains of Arthur’s past. The air here was permanently tainted with the acrid metallic scent of charred timber and despair. The plaster had melted away from the stone walls, and the grand ceiling fresco were reduced to black, blistered flakes.

Beatatrice walked slowly, her candle casting long, trembling shadows over the ruined furniture that sat like decaying corpses in the gloom. She reached the end of the corridor, stopping before a massive set of double oak doors. They were the doors to the master suite. The wood was blackened and deeply scarred, but it was the heavy brass latch that drew her eye.

It was bent entirely out of shape, marred by deep, frantic gouges, as if someone had taken an axe to the metal in a desperate bid to break it open. I took a broadsword from the armory to it. I swung until my hands bled and the blade shattered, but the iron hinges would not yield.

Beatatrice gasped, spinning around. Arthur stood in the shadows of the burnt corridor. He was not dressed for sleep. He wore his riding breaches and a loose linen shirt. his hair damp from the rain, as if he had been walking the cliffs in the storm. In the flickering candle light, the scarred half of his face looked terrifyingly stark, a road map of the tragedy they were currently standing in.

“Arthur,” Beatatrice breathed, her heart clenching at the raw, undisguised agony in his voice. “I did not mean to intrude. I could not sleep.” Arthur stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the ruined doors. He did not look angry. He looked utterly broken. Henry told you, did he not? He told you the fire was deliberate.

He wants you to believe I murdered my own parents to inherit the title. [clears throat] He wants you to look at my ruined face and see the mark of Cain. I do not believe that, Beatatrice said fiercely, stepping toward him. I would never believe that of you. But Henry implied you knew who locked them in. He implied there was a secret you were burying.

Arthur closed his eyes, a shudder racking his broad frame. The secret is my own failure, Beatatrice. The night of the fire, I awoke to the smell of smoke. I rushed from my chambers and found this corridor already engulfed in flames. I tried to reach my parents’ doors. When I grabbed the handle, it would not turn.

It was not jammed by the heat. It had been barred from the outside. He opened his eyes, staring at his hands, hands that had been severely burned that night. I could hear them inside. I could hear my mother screaming my name. I fought the flames. I fought the smoke. I battered the door with the sword, but I was not strong enough.

The ceiling collapsed, pinning me beneath a burning beam. The last thing I heard before I lost consciousness was the silence from their room. A choked sob escaped Beatatric’s throat. She closed the distance between them, ignoring the soot that stained her dressing gown, and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest.

Arthur stiffened, his breath hitching before his arms slowly came up to crush her against him, burying his face in her hair as he trembled. I did not lock the door, Beatatrice, Arthur whispered, his voice cracking with years of unshed tears. But I know who held the key. It was a man named Thomas Croft, the estate steward. He was responsible for locking up the manor every night.

When the ashes cooled, Croft was gone, vanished without a trace, taking the master keys with him, Beatatrice pulled back slightly, looking up into his tortured eyes. Then you must find Croft. You must prove it. Croft was not acting alone, Arthur said, his jaw hardening. A dangerous, vengeful fire igniting in his good eye.

Croft was a man of low birth and lower morals. He was brought to Oak Haven and highly recommended for the position by only one man. Beatatrice felt the blood drain from her face as the horrifying truth locked into place. Henry. Yes. Arthur breathed, his hands gently framing her face. Henry orchestrated the murder of my parents to accelerate his path to the dukedom, and he intended for me to burn with them.

When I survived, horribly disfigured and entirely isolated, he simply decided to wait for my grief to drive me to the grave. But then I went to London, and then I found you.” Arthur stroked his thumb across her cheek, his touch incredibly gentle. “You ruined his plan, Beatatrice. By marrying me, you threatened his inheritance.

And now that he is here at Oak Haven, I know he has not come to gloat. He has come to finish what he started 4 years ago. The morning sun broke through the storm clouds, casting a deceptive golden light over the rugged Cornish coastline. Inside the dining room of Oak Haven, the tension was thick enough to slice with a carving knife. Henry sat at the mahogany table methodically cutting his ham, completely unbothered by the heavy silence radiating from the Duke and Duchess of Harrington.

“It is a glorious morning, Arthur,” Henry remarked, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “The rain has cleared the air beautifully. I thought I might ride out to the cliffs today.” “The views from Devil’s Drop are said to be spectacular after a storm. Care to join me? Just the two of us for old times sake?” Beatatric’s grip on her teacup tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Devil’s Drop was a treacherous stretch of cliffside, where the chalky earth often crumbled into the raging sea 200 ft below. It was a perfectly isolated place for a fatal accident. Arthur met her terrified gaze across the table and gave a microscopic shake of his head, a silent command to stay calm.

He turned his cold, piercing gaze to his cousin. I would be delighted, Henry, but Beatatrice will join us. The Duchess has yet to see the full extent of the estate. Henry’s smile tightened, a flash of genuine irritation breaking through his polished veneer. Of course, how charming. An hour later, the three of them were mounted on horseback, riding through the windswept moors toward the jagged coastline.

Arthur rode his massive black stallion, Hades, while Beatatrice sat astride a sturdy gray mare. Henry trailed slightly behind them on a chestnut geling, whistling a jaunty, grading tune. Beatatric’s heart hammered against her ribs with every step the horses took. She watched Arthur closely.

He sat tall and commanding in the saddle, but she could see the rigid tension in his shoulders, his hand hovering constantly near the riding crop, tucked into his boot, which she knew concealed a sharp steel blade. As they reached the edge of Devil’s Drop, the roar of the Atlantic Ocean became deafening. The path narrowed dangerously, forcing them to ride in single file.

To their left was a sheer, terrifying drop into the churning black waters. Magnificent, is it not? Henry shouted over the wind, spurring his horse to trot closer to Arthur’s. One misstep here, Arthur, and it is a long way down to hell. I have already been to hell, Henry, Arthur replied without turning his head. I found it lacking.

Suddenly, a massive seabird, startled by the horses, burst from the cliffside shrubs with a violent flapping of wings. Hades, usually a remarkably disciplined beast, reared up on his hind legs, nighing in sudden panic. Arthur, hold him. Beatatrice screamed. Arthur tightened his grip on the rains, leaning forward to calm the frantic stallion.

But as he shifted his weight, a sharp, terrifying crack echoed over the roar of the ocean. The leather girth strap securing Arthur’s saddle beneath the horse’s belly snapped completely in two. With nothing holding the saddle in place, it slipped violently to the side. Arthur was thrown off balance, hurtling through the air toward the edge of the cliff.

Beatatrice shrieked, kicking her mare forward. Arthur hit the chalky ground hard, sliding dangerously toward the precipice. At the very last second, his gloved hands scrambled for purchase, his fingers digging into the deep, wet roots of a twisted gorse bush hanging over the edge, his legs dangled over the abyss, the crashing waves roaring directly beneath his boots. Arthur.

Beatatrice threw herself off her horse, hitting the ground and scrambling toward the edge on her hands and knees. She reached the ledge, grabbing his wrists with all her strength, her boots digging into the mud. She looked back over her shoulder. Henry was sitting perfectly still on his horse, watching the scene with cold, detached fascination.

He made absolutely no move to help. He was waiting for Arthur to fall. “Henry, help me!” Beatatric screamed, her muscles burning as she desperately tried to pull her husband’s dead weight upward. Oh dear,” Henry said mildly, slowly dismounting. “It seems the saddle gave way. How terribly tragic.” He took a slow, deliberate step toward them, his eyes fixed on Arthur’s white- knuckled grip.

“If you touch her, Henry, I will pull you down to hell with me,” Arthur snarled, his scarred face twisted in ferocious determination. He locked his unscarred eye with Beatatric’s. “Let go, Beatatrice. I am too heavy. You will go over with me. Never, Beatatrice sobbed, her arms trembling violently. She shifted her weight, anchoring her knees behind a jagged rock and hauled backward with a guttural cry of sheer adrenalinefueled strength.

Arthur found a foothold on a protruding piece of chalk, pushing upward just as Beatatrice pulled. With a violent heave, he scrambled over the ledge, collapsing onto the muddy grass beside her. They lay there for a moment, chest heaving, fingers intertwined in a vicelike grip. Beatatrice was shaking uncontrollably, her face buried in Arthur’s neck, weeping into his collar.

Arthur wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly he bruised her ribs, his eyes locked on his cousin. Henry’s pleasant mask had completely vanished, replaced by a scowl of pure, venomous hatred. fortunate,” Henry spat, turning on his heel to retrieve his horse. “You always did have the devil’s own luck, Arthur.

” Once Henry had ridden away, Arthur forced himself to his feet, pulling a trembling Beatatrice up with him. He walked over to the discarded saddle lying in the mud. He knelt, picking up the snapped girth strap. “It did not snap from where,” Arthur said, his voice deadly quiet. He held the thick leather up for Beatatrice to see.

The brake was entirely clean, sliced 3/4 of the way through with a razor-sharp blade, leaving just enough intact to break under the sudden strain of a rearing horse. Beatatrice stared at the sabotaged leather, a cold, terrifying rage replacing her fear. “He tried to kill you in front of my very eyes. He sabotaged the saddle in the stables before we left.

” “And now we have proof of his intent,” Arthur said. his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying resolve as he looked toward the manor in the distance. He believes I am the broken, grieving boy he burned four years ago. But he has made a fatal error. Beatatrice, he has threatened the woman I love. Beatatric’s breath hitched. It was the first time he had said the word, the first time he had admitted that this was no longer just a transaction, but a matter of the heart.

Arthur stepped close to her, uncaring of the mud and dirt that covered them both. He cupped her face in his hands, pressing his forehead against hers, the scarred skin rough against her smooth cheek. “He will not win,” Arthur vowed, pressing a desperate, bruising kiss to her lips. “I will tear him down,” Beatatrice. “I will tear him down for what he did to my family and for what he almost did to you today.

” The vulture has overstepped, and now the beast will hunt. They returned to Oak Haven, not as victims, but as predators. As they rode into the courtyard, Arthur’s demeanor had completely transformed. The brooding defensive duke had vanished, replaced by the ruthless, commanding aristocrat he was born to be. He immediately locked the sabotaged saddle girth in the heavy iron safe in his study and dispatched his fastest rider on a relay of fresh horses to London.

Carrying an urgent sealed missive to the home office. For three agonizing days, Beatatrice and Arthur played a terrifying game of cat and mouse. They sat across from Lord Henry at the dining table, sipping tea and engaging in polite conversation, acting as though the near fatal fall had been nothing more than a dreadful accident.

Henry, bloated with his own arrogance, believed he had simply been thwarted by Arthur’s unnatural luck. He continued his veiled insults, completely unaware that the walls of Oakhaven were slowly closing in around him. The climax arrived on a Thursday evening. Arthur had requested a formal dinner, informing Henry that an old acquaintance of his father’s was passing through Cornwall and would be joining them.

When Henry descended the grand staircase, dressed in an immaculate emerald silk tailcoat, he found Arthur and Beatatrice waiting in the drawing room with an older stern-faced gentleman. “Henry,” Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly smooth. “Allow me to introduce Sir Nathaniel Conand. He is the chief magistrate of the Bow Street Runners in London, acting under the direct authority of Lord Sidmouth, the home secretary.

Henry’s charming smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting toward the heavy oak doors, but he quickly recovered his composure. A magistrate? How terribly dreary. Have we experienced a spate of sheep thefts in Cornwall, Arthur? Something rather more severe than sheep, I am afraid. Sir Nathaniel replied dryly, not offering his hand.

Dinner was a suffocating affair. The heavy silver clinkedked against the porcelain plates. The silence in the room stretched so tight it threatened to snap. When the footman cleared the main course, Arthur stood up from the head of the table. He did not ask for brandy or port. Instead, he signaled to his fiercely loyal estate manager, a burly Cornishman named Treves, who stood by the door.

Treves stepped forward, carrying a large silver serving platter covered by a domed lid. He placed it directly in the center of the mahogany table. “What is this?” Henry asked, a sneer curling his lip. “A new Cornish delicacy?” “A reminder,” Arthur said coldly. He reached out and lifted the silver dome. Resting on the pristine white linen of the platter was the thick leather girth strap from Arthur’s saddle, its cleanly sliced edge exposed for all to see.

Henry stared at the leather. The color rapidly drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly ashen gray. He looked up, his eyes meeting the flinty, unyielding stare of Sir Nathaniel Conand. A clean cut, Sir Nathaniel noted, leaning forward. Executed with a razor-sharp blade. Sabotage, Lord Henry. Attempted murder of a peer of the realm. This is absurd.

Henry scoffed, his voice pitching higher in panic. He threw his napkin onto the table and stood up. You invite a magistrate to my cousin’s table to accuse me based on a piece of ruined leather. Any stable boy could have done this. You have no proof to tie this to me, Arthur. None. It is purely circumstantial.

You are entirely correct, Henry, Arthur said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. The saddle alone is not enough to hang you, which is why I sent my men to Plymouth 3 days ago. Because a rat will always try to flee a sinking ship. Arthur nodded to Treves. The manager opened the dining room doors.

Two heavily armed bow street runners dragged a man into the room. He was filthy, wreaking of cheap gin and terror, iron shackles binding his wrists. It was Thomas Croft, the former estate steward. Henry gasped, stumbling backward until his spine hit the dining room wall. His emerald coat suddenly looked like a mocking imitation of his lost aristocratic grace. Mr.

Croft was apprehended attempting to board a smuggler’s ship bound for the Americas, Sir Nathaniel explained, casually sipping his wine. He was found in possession of £500 in Bank of England notes. Notes traced directly to your personal accounts at Coots and Co. Lord Henry. Furthermore, Mister Croft has signed a full confession.

He admits you paid him to lock the master’s sweet doors on the night of the fire and paid him again to disappear. He is lying. Henry shrieked, all pretense of civility shattering. He is a common thief. You cannot take the word of a peasant over a caendish. I will take the word of the man holding the key to your execution.

Arthur roared, slamming his hands onto the table with such explosive force the crystal goblets shattered. The beast of Mayfair had finally been unchained. You murdered my mother. You murdered my father. You burned my face. And you tried to murder the woman I love. Your reign of terror ends tonight.

Realizing he was completely trapped, Henry’s eyes went wild. In a sudden, desperate blur of motion, he snatched a heavy silver stake knife from the table and lunged toward Beatatrice, intending to use her as a shield. But Arthur was faster. Before Henry could even cross the rug, Arthur vaulted the corner of the table.

He struck Henry with the sheer unbridled force of a charging bull. The knife flew from Henry’s grip, clattering uselessly into the fireplace. Arthur slammed his cousin into the stone wall, his large, scarred hands closing like an iron vice around Henry’s throat, lifting the treacherous man inches off the floor.

Please, Henry choked out, his legs kicking frantically, his face turning a dark modeled purple. Arthur, mercy. Arthur leaned in, his ruined face mere inches from Henry’s, letting his cousin see the absolute hellfire burning in his blue eyes. Mercy is a luxury afforded to men with souls. You have none. Arthur did not break Henry’s neck. He simply tossed him to the floor like a piece of discarded rubbish.

The Bow Street runners immediately descended, hauling the gasping, weeping noblemen to his feet and dragging him out into the stormy night. The heavy doors clicked shut. The danger was gone. The silence that settled over Oak Haven was not the suffocating quiet of a tomb, but the peaceful stillness of a tempest that had finally broken.

Arthur stood by the fireplace, his chest heaving, his hands trembling with the receding adrenaline. He felt a soft, warm touch on his arm. Beatatrice stood beside him. She reached up, gently turning his face toward the fire light. For the first time in four years, Arthur did not flinch away. He did not try to hide his scars in the shadows. He let her see all of him.

It is over,” Beatatrice whispered, tears of profound relief sliding down her cheeks. She pressed her lips to the rugged scarred tissue of his jaw, lingering there with a desperate, fierce affection. “My brave, beautiful Duke!” Arthur pulled her against his chest, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and rain.

He had walked through the fires of hell, but as he held Beatatrice in his arms, he knew he had finally found his heaven. Did you enjoy this tale of betrayal, survival, and a love that sees beyond the scars? If Arthur and Beatatric’s thrilling triumph over the wicked Lord Henry captivated your heart, please hit that like button.

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