Chapter 30 - A Husband's Return, A Wife's Deceit

Baron Reginald stumbled through the door of his bedchamber, his mind foggy from too much wine. The night at Lord Malachi's estate had stretched into the early morning hours, leaving him exhausted and troubled. I collapsed into the nearest chair, rubbing my temples against the throbbing pain behind my eyes.

"So, you've finally decided to return," Lady Beatrix's cold voice sliced through the silence.

I looked up to see her standing in the doorway between our sleeping chamber and the dressing room, her silk robe wrapped tightly around her slender frame, her face a perfect mask of disapproval.

"Not now, Beatrix," I muttered, struggling to remove my boots. "I'm in no mood for your lectures."

She moved closer, her perfume overwhelming in the close quarters. "Where were you this time? Another gambling den losing what little money we have left?"

"I was handling business," I snapped, finally yanking off one boot. "Important business that puts food on our table and keeps this crumbling house standing."

"Business," she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Is that what they call drinking and whoring these days?"

I slammed my fist against the armrest. "I was at Lord Malachi's estate, if you must know. And I'm too old for this—his late-night revelries, the constant pressure." I ran a hand through my thinning hair. "I'm tired, Beatrix. So damned tired of it all."

Something in my tone must have caught her attention, because she pulled a chair closer and sat facing me, her expression shifting to one of calculation.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice softer now. "Did you lose at cards again?"

I laughed bitterly. "I wish it were that simple." I looked around nervously, as though Lord Malachi's spies might be listening from the shadows. "I've found myself in quite a predicament, my dear."

Lady Beatrix leaned forward. "What sort of predicament?"

"Lord Malachi wants Isabella," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Tonight."

Her eyes widened. "But she's not here. She's married to—"

"I know damn well where she is!" I hissed. "That's precisely the problem. Malachi doesn't care. He wants her delivered to him, or he'll double the money he's offered." I swallowed hard. "Or he'll have me killed for wasting his time."

Lady Beatrix's expression remained unreadable for a moment before she asked, "How much is he offering?"

"Are you not hearing me?" I stared at her in disbelief. "It's not about the money anymore. It's about staying alive! And if I deliver Isabella to him, what do you think Duke Alaric will do to me?" I shuddered. "The man's reputation isn't exaggerated. They call him the Monster Duke for good reason."

Lady Beatrix waved her hand dismissively. "You men and your dramatic fears. The Duke married her on a whim. He hardly knows her. Give Isabella to Lord Malachi and take the money." She stood up and began pacing. "We need that money, Reginald. The creditors are circling like vultures."

"You don't understand," I insisted. "The Duke was at the palace ball with her. He danced with her—only her. He's clearly possessive of his new bride."

"Then don't let him find out," she replied, as if the solution were that simple. "Isabella's visit could be a tragic accident. She went riding and never returned. Or she was kidnapped by bandits." Her eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "The possibilities are endless."

I stared at my wife, momentarily shocked by her callousness toward my own daughter, but then reminded myself that Isabella wasn't her blood. Still, the casual way she plotted a stepdaughter's demise chilled me.

As I studied her more carefully in the morning light, I noticed something unusual on her neck.

"What happened there?" I asked, rising from my chair to examine the marks more closely.

Lady Beatrix's hand flew to her neck, covering the bruises. "Nothing," she said quickly. "It's nothing."

"Those are finger marks," I insisted, growing suspicious. "Who put their hands on you while I was away?"

Her eyes flashed with something I couldn't quite identify—was it fear? Annoyance? "It's nothing," she repeated. "Just a small incident with that butler of yours. He was impertinent."

"Hamilton?" I said incredulously. "He's served this family loyally for twenty years. He wouldn't—"

"I don't want to talk about it," she interrupted, turning away. "Not now. Not when we have more pressing concerns. Lord Malachi's demands, the money we need..."

"Beatrix," I growled, grabbing her arm and turning her to face me. "Who did this to you?"

"Let it go, Reginald," she warned, yanking her arm free. "I'll tell you after we deal with Isabella. After she's gone."

I studied her face, trying to read the truth behind her evasions. Something wasn't right, but my head was pounding too fiercely from last night's excesses to piece it together.

Before I could press her further, Lady Beatrix's expression softened. She stepped closer, running her hands up my chest.

"You're so tense," she murmured, her fingers working at the buttons of my waistcoat. "Let me help you relax. You've had such a difficult night."

I felt my body responding despite my suspicions. It had been weeks since she'd shown any interest in my touch, and the familiar scent of her perfume clouded my judgment.

"Beatrix," I said, my voice hoarse with sudden desire as her hands moved lower.

"Forget about everything else for now," she whispered against my ear, guiding me toward our bed. "Let me ease your... frustration."

I groaned as she pressed herself against me, all thoughts of Isabella, Lord Malachi, and the mysterious bruises temporarily forgotten. My hands found their way to the tie of her robe, loosening it with clumsy eagerness.

She pushed me down onto the bed, her robe falling open to reveal her nightgown. I reached for her hungrily, pulling her down toward me.

Just as our lips were about to meet, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Lady Beatrix froze, then let out a convincing sigh of disappointment. "Who is it?" she called, her voice steady despite our compromising position.

"It's Kiera, my lady," came the maid's voice through the door. "You asked me to remind you about the linen delivery this morning."

I saw something pass between Lady Beatrix and the door—some unspoken communication or relief that confused me in my aroused state.

"Yes, thank you, Kiera," Lady Beatrix called back, already pulling away from me and retying her robe. "I'll be right out."

"Beatrix," I protested, reaching for her. "Surely the linens can wait."

"I'm afraid not," she said, smoothing her hair with practiced ease. "The new bedding for Clara's room must be approved before midday." She leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on my forehead, a startling contrast to her passionate advances moments before. "Rest, husband. You've had a long night. We'll continue our... discussion later."

I fell back against the pillows in frustration as Lady Beatrix slipped from the room, leaving me alone with my troubled thoughts. The interruption had been too convenient, her retreat too quick. As the haze of desire cleared from my mind, I began to wonder if she had orchestrated the entire encounter—a distraction to keep me from asking more questions about the marks on her neck.

Those weren't a butler's marks. I'd seen enough bruises in my lifetime to recognize a deliberate grip, not an accidental one. Someone had held her throat with intent, and she was hiding the truth from me.

I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing despite my exhaustion. Lord Malachi's threats loomed over me, and I had no idea how to escape the trap I'd laid for myself. I couldn't deliver Isabella without facing Duke Alaric's wrath, but refusing Lord Malachi meant risking my own life.

And now, adding to my troubles, my wife was keeping secrets—dangerous ones, if the marks on her neck were any indication. What game was Lady Beatrix playing, and with whom?

As sleep finally began to claim me, one troubling thought remained: in this house filled with lies and secrets, I couldn't trust anyone—especially not my own wife.