Strike. “Why else, Miss Belle?”
“But you’ve recovered?—”
Before she could finish, she was interrupted.
Not by the ring of the axe—but a sharp, violent crack, splitting the air.
The tree groaned, a deep, protesting sound, and then began to fall.
Rosamund forgot her argument for a moment and simply stared as branches snapped, birds took flight, and then the ground shuddered under the tree’s weight.
And then the duke turned.
He faced her fully and, abruptly, reached up and tore the patch from his eye.
Her hand flew to her mouth—not from fear—but from shock. The patch, she’d gotten used to over the last few days. Just a part of his face now, no more remarkable than the shape of his chin or his nose.
She’d almost forgotten about the injury hidden beneath it.
It was the sort of wound people looked away from.
The socket was sunken, the scar pronounced and uneven. His lashes ended abruptly, the lid drooping where the eye had been.
And as Rosamund stood there, in this sudden silence, she felt the disorientation keenly.
“You’re wrong.” His voice was raw. “This ugliness, it’s only the surface. Easy enough to hide.”
His fingers pinched the edge of the patch. “Men see this,” he went on, not looking at her. “They understand it. A physical wound with edges. People understand that kind of ugliness.” His mouth tightened. “It makes sense.”
He took a step away.
“It allows them to believe I am… finished with it.”
Rosamund’s fingers curled into her skirts. “But you are.”
A short, humorless breath left him.
“If that were true, Miss Belle, you wouldn’t be here.”
He stared past her, into the distance.
“The scars I carry inside,” he said with finality, “Cannot be hidden by a patch.”
He gestured vaguely toward his head.
“The stories people tell, they’re not all lies. There is truth behind the rumors. I can… I have… acted violently. I cannot guarantee I won’t act thusly again. Anger… arrives fully formed. The injury… It’s caused me to lose time. Minutes. Sometimes longer.” His mouth twisted.
She swallowed.
“You say I ought to marry,” he went on, too calmly now. “To take a wife into my confidence. Into my bed. To place her at my side when I cannot always be certain what man will wake in my skin.” He shook his head once. “No.”
Rosamund’s voice came softly. “You would never harm?—”
“I might,” he said. Not sharply. Not loudly. Simply honestly. And then shrugged. “I… don’t know.”
He looked back at her then, and there was something naked in his expression—something far more frightening than anger.
“It’s why…” The corner of his mouth ticked. “Why I avoid society. Why I… keep my distance.”