The Grace of a Duke by Linda Rae Sande Page B

the time came for their (she hoped) spring wedding.
    But most in London society were of an opinion that Joshua Wainwright would never fully recover from the burns that covered so much of his left side. They knew of his penchant for wearing a leather mask over half his face, to protect curious eyes from seeing a sight worthy of hell as much as to protect the tender flesh from further damage. And after several months in London, where he only left his townhouse to attend Parliamentary sessions at the House of Lords, Joshua had returned to Wisborough Oaks to oversee the rebuilding of the estate house and take on his duties as the eighth Duke of Chichester, never returning to London since before Christmas, for the Season or for Parliament. He sent Garrett McElliott in his stead when estate business required it.
    “You think me worthy as a duke?” Joshua wondered, the fingers of his left hand threading themselves through her silken hair. He watched as she closed her eyes, heard her purring as his fingernails combed against her scalp. Felt her fingers lightly caress the ropy skin that now made up the scars of his chest and hip. The pleasant sensations she induced coursed under his skin, and he found himself struggling to maintain his sanity.
    “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, wondering why he seemed so hesitant about marrying her. Could he truly be so self-conscious about his burns that he would refuse her on those grounds? She was ready to offer herself as his mistress if he still insisted on not taking a wife. What else can I do? she wondered. She had come to Wisborough Oaks to marry him, to take on her duties as the duchess, to bear him children. And to love him, she thought with a bemused smile. “I believe you to a be a perfect duke. From all that I have heard, you were respected in the House of Lords, you are well regarded by your staff, and by the townspeople and those who do business with you,” she murmured, her fingers still absently stroking his healing skin.
    But Charlotte’s father was not so convinced Joshua Wainwright would make the perfect husband for his perfect daughter. When he hinted that he was searching for a more suitable husband for her, one that wasn’t so disfigured he couldn’t appear in public without causing a scene, Charlotte assured him that she was quite satisfied with her arranged betrothal. She was even looking forward to the day she would move to Wisborough Oaks to be reunited with her recovered patient. To become his wife .
    Convinced the Duke of Chichester was burned beyond recognition and not fit to even be a member of the ton , Ellsworth had decided to seek a different husband for her, settling on the Earl of Gisborn. But when Charlotte insisted she was going to fulfill her obligation to the Duchy of Chichester by marrying Joshua Wainwright, Edward Bingham became quite angry. At her willful refusal to even consider the arrangement, her father had sworn at her, called her names she was sure were meant to describe the harlots of London, and then drunk an entire bottle of scotch whiskey whilst she and her mother attended a music soirée in Westminister.
    When Charlotte and Lady Ellsworth returned to their townhouse, there were no servants about despite the early evening hour. Lord Ellsworth, even more angry than when they had left, pulled Charlotte into his study, ordered her to remove her pelisse and then lashed her across the back with a horse whip, claiming that he wasn’t about to allow a man with half a face to have his daughter unless she shared some of the same ugly scars. Despite the corset that protected the lower half of her back from the slicing leather, the pain she felt had taken her breath away, and then when she did breathe, the pain seemed even worse.
    The rest happened so quickly she thought she was merely experiencing a vivid nightmare from which she would awaken at any moment. For as her father was about to whip her a second time, her mother flung herself at him,