“Get. Out.”
“I will. I would. But . . .” She glanced longingly at the door. “I can’t.”
He stared down at her and then, realizing her predicament, he took a step to the left.
With a wordless cry, she picked up her skirts and ran out of the room.
Trevayne stared after her, engulfed by rage and an overpowering sense of hopelessness. He had never meant to care for her, had not thought it possible. But she was so young, so innocent. She stirred feelings within him that he had thought long dead, crushed beneath the bitterness, the hatred, that had been his constant companions since Dominique’s death. He had married Kristine because she was a stranger, because she had no ties to his past. He had thought he could wed her and bed her and forget her. Now her very presence threatened to bring down the walls he had so carefully erected between himself and the rest of the world.
He paced the floor, the mask he had taken from her crumpled in his hand. He would go to her tonight and plant his seed within her. If there was any mercy in the world, his seed would take root and he could leave here, leave her. He could not bear the pain of his reawakened emotions, could not let himself care for a woman who would recoil in horror if she but knew what lay behind his mask, what kind of monster came to her bed in the dark of night.
The day passed slowly. With Kristine in the house, he felt like a prisoner in his own chambers. He wished, futilely, that he might go downstairs and engage her in conversation, but the mask he was forced to hide behind was like a wall between them. He could not abide the curiosity in her gaze, could not answer the unspoken questions in her eyes, could not pretend that their marriage was anything but what it was—the means to an end. He dared not let her become important to him for fear it would weaken his resolve and that, when the time came, he would be unable to end his life, that he would be unwilling to leave her once the child was born. It would be far better for her, and for him, if there were no tender feelings between them. If he were wise, he would cultivate her hatred. He wanted no one to grieve for him when he was gone. At his death, she would become a wealthy woman. She could remain a widow or marry again at her leisure.
The thought of another man savoring her sweetness filled him with rage. It was part of the curse, he thought, that horrible fury that rose up within him more and more often of late, urging him to strike out, to destroy those who elicited his wrath.
Filled with black despair, he paced the floor, waiting for darkness to cover the land so that he might go to his wife’s bed.
He stared out the window, willing the sun to set, willing the night to come quickly and cloak the land in shadow. He, who had once loved the light, now sought the sheltering cover of darkness.
Was it a lifetime ago that he had hunted the woods with his companions, spent his days at his club, his nights drinking and carousing or pursuing the pleasures of female flesh? Hard to believe he had once been rather vain of his looks, harder still to recall that beautiful women had once sought his favor, that he had been the envy of his peers. Once, secure in his youth and virility, he had attended numerous balls and cotillions where women old and young, married and single, had vied for his attention . . . and then he had married Dominique and that life had come to an end.
A bitter laugh that resembled a growl more than human amusement rumbled deep in his throat. His days of youth and innocence were gone now, forever gone. He was no longer the man he had been, but a freak, half beast, half man. A heavy sigh rose within him. Soon, too soon, there would be nothing left but the beast. . ..
A knock at his door roused him from his morbid thoughts. A curt word sent Mrs. Grainger away. He had no appetite for food this night.
He thought of Kristine, imagined the two silent women readying his bride for bed, bathing her in perfumed water, anointing her body with sweet-smelling oils.
He summoned Yvette and ordered water for a bath, then sent the maid away.
He bathed quickly, hating the sight of his own body . . . the right half forever reminding him of what he had been, the left side evidence of what he would soon become. He pulled on a clean pair of breeches, a wool shirt that hid his misshapen left side, the soft leather boots that were specially made, the left one larger than the right to accommodate his changing shape. He donned a clean mask, drew a glove over his deformed hand.
He swore silently as he unlocked the door between his room and hers, damning the vindictive witch who had cursed him. He could feel the curse spreading, knew that in the morning, he would have lost a little more of himself to the beast that was slowly stealing his humanity, devouring him a little more with each passing day. Soon, too soon, there would be nothing left of the man he had been.