Chapter 300
Chapter 56
That night, Graham had made a fatal assumption–that things couldn’t possibly get worse.
After all, what could top a wedding night that had ended with his bride screaming in pain, blood staining the sheets, and the town’s only doctor being dragged out of bed to examine her? Surely, from here on, things had to get better.
God, how wrong he’d been.
Because things did get worse. Much, much worse.
The moment the old doctor left, Graham lingered by the staircase, running a hand through his hair, the weight of it all settling like lead in his chest. H could still hear the echo of Isla’s muffled sobs from the bedroom above, and the image of her lying there–eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning with
humiliation–clawed at him.
His jaw tightened. Damn it. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He hadn’t meant for any of this. But what did that matter? Intent didn’t erase bloodstains.
He grimaced and started up the stairs, each step heavy with dread. His body ached with frustration, guilt, and something sharper–something that felt lil failure. And Graham Lancaster did not handle failure well.
The memory of The silk of her wedding nightgown was rumpled around her hips, the fabric askew from where the doctor had conducted his humiliating exam. Graham squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to erase the memory. The way she had lain there, stiff and silent, cheeks stained pink while D Holloway prodded and questioned her.
“Was this your first time being intimate with a man,
Mrs.
Lancaster?”
He had wanted to punch the old man then, despite knowing it was necessary.
But Isla’s expression had been worse. The burning shame in her eyes, the way her lips had trembled as she whispered, “Yes,” like it was some confession of guilt. He didn’t doubt that this memory was going to be one of his recurring nightmares.
Graham stood at the bedroom door, his hand resting on the brass handle, hesitating for the first time in his life. How the hell were they supposed to bounc
back from this?
The night had gone spectacularly wrong, and the fragile intimacy that had once simmered between them now lay in tatters, much like the ruined bedsheets still crumpled on the mattress. The thought of facing Isla’s wide, wounded eyes made his chest constrict with something uncomfortably close to guilt–an emotion he was neither familiar with nor fond of.
He needed a plan. A gesture. Something to soften the sharp edges of the night.
Maybe a peace offering.
He shoved a hand through his hair and turned away from the bedroom. The corridor stretched before him, dimly lit by the flickering sonces on the wate The servants had all vanished, no doubt whispering about the spectacle that had unfolded hours carber. He could already imagine it. The new Mis. Lancaster screamed bloody murder on her wedding night. Poor girl. Wonder what the master did to bet
He ground his teeth at the thought and stalked toward the kitchen. Let them talk. He didn’t owe anyone on explanation the cals convenn was the worden lying upstairs, probably curled beneath the blankets, aching and humiliated.
Chapter 300
As he descended the stairs, his footsteps echoed through the silent manor. The kitchen door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing an empty st smelled faintly of bread and herbs. The servants had abandoned their posts for the night, leaving the room cold and uninviting.
“Of course,” he muttered, lips twisting into a wry smirk. When I need them, they scatter like frightened mice.
His eyes swept the kitchen until they landed on the old oak cabinet by the stove. He strode over, yanked it open, and found exactly what he was i cocoa powder.
He didn’t particularly like hot cocoa. The stuff was far too sweet for his taste–like drinking melted candy. But Isla used to love it. She’d once conf
cocoa was her comfort drink, the thing she turned to when she needed warmth or reassurance.
Well, if ever there was a time to need comfort, it was tonight.
He grabbed the cocoa, a jug of milk from the icebox, and set them on the counter. The kettle groaned as he filled it and placed it on the stove.
He muttered another curse, picked up the jug, and poured the steaming milk into two mugs. One for Isla. One for himself.
He didn’t actually want it. What he really wanted was a glass of whiskey–something with a bite to burn away the frustration coiled in his chest. But
wouldn’t appreciate the stench of alcohol on his breath, not after the night they’d had.
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The End Of a Marriage
