by Jess Russell
In the months Dev had been at Ballencrieff, he had listened ad nauseam to Mr. Beauchamp’s accounts of pale little men with their egg-shaped heads and huge almond eyes.
“You are wise, Mr. Beauchamp,” he said. “Better to keep your brain within your own skull than have it bobbing in a jar to be prodded by—”
“Lord Devlin.”
He had wondered when Lady Tippit would take over. She had been fussing and fluffing while Mr. Beauchamp held forth, but apparently at last satisfied with her appearance, she now commanded his, as well as the entire company’s, attention.
“Why have you not come to tea before now? It has been ages. One never knows what to expect in this place.” She turned to Miss Winton. “Winton, why wasn’t I informed his lordship would be in attendance? I would have worn my puce with the bobbin lace.” She shook her head and turned back to him. “But perhaps you thought to surprise me? You put me in mind of Lord Rivkin.”
“I don’t believe I know the gentleman, Lady Tippit.”
“Poor man was excessively fond of me. Poppa never liked him. Rivkin would try to stay away—to excise my visage from his heart—but it could not be. I would finally relent and send for him to give him another sustaining glimpse. But it was never enough. He finally married that troll, Miranda Harper. What a grasping chit she was. Never mind. You may kiss me now.” Her ladyship tipped her head back and pursed her lips.
He did not mind. The old woman was officious but harmless. He bent to buss her cheek. A screech and a missile smacked him on the side of the head.
“Stay away from her, you ravenous fiend!” Mrs. Nester had risen, another pillow at the ready.
“Ah, Mrs. Nester.” He should have been more prepared. Phoebe Nester had taken a violent dislike to him from the very beginning of their acquaintance. Miss Winton rose as well. It was unclear if she were ready to defend him, or Mrs. Nester.
“I did not see you there, madam, you blend in with the furniture so.”
The woman seemed torn between defending Lady Tippit and protecting her own person. But when she looked up into his smile—touché—she retreated, sinking back into the plum damask.
“I beg your pardon, madame.” He made a slight bow. “You need not have any fear of my gobbling up her ladyship this afternoon, delectable as she is.” He risked a wink at Lady Tippit who squirmed in her seat. “Lucky for all I have been fed my porridge recently.” He handed Miss Winton the pillow, hoping to catch her gaze again. Mrs. Nester snatched it, hugging it tightly against her as she sat, and once again, completely disappeared into the furnishings.
He turned back to Miss Winton, smile still in place. “Indeed, I am so sated I do not think I could even stomach Mr. Beauchamp’s celestial cheese if it were handed to me on a silver platter by the moon goddess herself. But a sweet orange…well, that is a whole other matter.” Ah, now he got a full-fledged blush.
The time for levity was over. Hives had him in this room for a reason. Better to face these memories before a headache obliterated them. He crossed to the far corner of the room where the small chess table stood.
The board was still set up just as it was the last time they had played.
Dear God, why? Why had Cummings done it? The major was getting better.
Cummings would have won. Only a few more moves.
Mr. Beauchamp’s yammering receded farther and farther away until finally he returned to the window where he continued to hold a furtive conversation with the drapes.
Dev reached out and took up the white knight. The ivory was cold and hard in his hand. He held it in his fist, wanting to give it some warmth. Why? Why did you do it?
The sharp edges bit into his palm. Still so cold.
He laid it on its side in the middle of the board. The other pieces stood as mourners. Had anyone outside this castle mourned the major?
“Lord Austin,” Lady Tippit’s voice pierced the quiet. “I understand the marquess is painting your portrait?”
“Yes, your ladyship, that is the plan, though I must take the early train for London tomorrow.”
Austin was leaving again? But they had just started the portrait. And worse, his brother’s departure would likely mean he would not see Miss Winton. His head throbbed like a soundly struck bell.
“Ah, how does your dear father?” Lady Tippit purred. “Malvern wanted me too, you know. At my come out ball, the gentlemen were like bees to honey.” Her ladyship’s hand dipped into her décolletage. Miss Winton rose hastily and handed Lady Tippit her cup and saucer, laying a napkin discreetly over her breast.
“Oh, Winton. Yes, tea.”
“He is somewhat better. I thank you, Lady Tippit.” Austin sipped his own tea. “However, I must attend my lady wife.”
“Oh, is she ill? I hope not,” her voice rose. “It is such a bother to lose a spouse. It is one of the reasons I decided never to marry. Well, that and Poppa did not―”
Tea had begun to slosh over her ladyship’s cup. Anne Winton, ever vigilant, mopped at the wet mess. The subject of marriage was apparently an emotional one for Maddy Tippit. Austin had filled him in on her ladyship’s history. Jilted at the altar at the age of thirty-six. Then, rumor had it, only a few weeks later she was intercepted on her way to Gretna Green with a plain Mr. Banks. This last had sent her ladyship into a decline and then to Ballencrieff, where she had been for the last several years.
Oblivious to any of the drama surrounding him, Austin answered, “No, Lady Tippit, she is well. She is merely increasing.”
The words rang in Dev’s ears amid Phoebe Nester’s cries of caution, and Lady Tippit’s gasp as tea soaked her skirts.
Austin’s gaze locked with his.
A child. Austin’s child. Red pain flared in his head but a black desperate feeling shrouded his heart.
“Felicitations, Austin. I did not know,” he managed to say with even a modicum of good will.
“Sorry, old chap. It slipped out. I should not have said anything.”
“Is it so early?”
“The doctor said the beginning of next year. But this science is never certain.”
Hives’ eyes narrowed infinitesimally, and he cleared his throat. “The duke must be pleased. We will have to make sure you are well enough to attend the christening, Lord Devlin.”
First facing Cumming’s death, and now his brother would have a child. Life and death went on around him, yet he remained frozen in this hell.
“Poor lady,” Phoebe Nester sobbed, “she will likely lose it. The first loaf never rises, they say. Tell her she must drink only pepper-water and burn the husks of acorns into a powder to put under her pillow at night. It did not work for me, but she may be luckier. Though God will do what he will—”
“Miss Winton.” Doctor Hives gestured to the door. “Would you please see Mrs. Nester to her room and administer the broth I prescribed?”
“Come, Mrs. Nester. You must not excite yourself.” Miss Winton’s gaze found his as if her words were meant for him instead of her charge. Somehow she knew of his anguish and took a slow calming breath, which encouraged him to do the same. Almost as if she was breathing for him, he drew in the air she expelled. Slow in, slower out.
The flaring in his head turned to cooler green. She nodded almost imperceptibly even as she ushered the agitated Nester out of the room.
Something brushed his sleeve. Austin stood before him pity in his eyes. Sod him.
Doctor Hives was no doubt mentally scribbling in his bloody notebook. Patient obviously startled at news of Lady Austin increasing. Must probe further.
The old duke would not necessarily be salivating at this news. Austin bore a striking resemblance to Lord Desmond, who had been unceremoniously dumped by Beatrice Fletcher when the newly widowed Duke of Malvern had come courting. Austin had been born to the new duchess seven months later. But even a cuckoo in the nest was preferable to the taint of madness.
Ballencrieff’s walls pressed more firmly in on him. If he didn’t get out soon, they wo
uld crush him into oblivion.
Chapter Nine
Nearly three weeks Dev had cooled his heels waiting for Austin to return to Ballencrieff, only to have him return and some wench in the village catch his eye. With Margaret now increasing, clearly Austin felt freer to indulge elsewhere. So today his “angelic” brother had chosen a tumble rather than sit for his portrait. And who could blame him. The painting was shite anyway.
All this damned stopping and starting. And when Austin did present himself, he’d find some reason to pop up every five seconds, or have poor Miss Winton fetching this or that for him. Austin simply didn’t understand the artistic process, not possessing a creative bone in his body—except the one between his legs. Again, who could blame him.
In truth, he missed his Owl more than his brother. He had come to rely on her calm spirit. It was as if a silken line bound them together, a connection in which Austin had no part. Only their shared secret. He could not explain it. It must be her magic. He’d asked Austin once if he felt her peace, but his brother had only laughed and called him a Poor Tom.
The snick of the lock turning snapped his gaze to the door. What had Ivo forgotten?
Not Ivo. The shock of the cold floor against his bare feet as he stood was nothing to the surprise of seeing Anne Winton entering his cell.
She stood by the door as if, now that she had entered the room, she’d forgotten why she’d come.
He waited.
Finally she spoke. “I went to the North Tower, but there was no one there. Are you ill?”
“No, Lord Austin had some urgent—business in the village. But I expect his absence has more to do with the Midsummer fair than business. I am sorry you weren’t informed.”
“Ah.” She seemed to hang like a drop of water. Would she stay, or would she go. “We missed our reading.” She held up her Bible. “Doctor Hives likes to adhere to a routine whenever possible.”
So she had volunteered to mind the madman for this afternoon. What was she about? Was this some new test?
If only he could see her face more clearly, but the light was behind her, and the remnants of a fire gave little more than a glow. Midsummer Eve, the longest day of the year but his room, with its eastern view and still boarded windows, would soon fade from gloom to dark.
Miss Winton set a branch of candles on the small table which stood in the corner next to a chair. Her shadow cast a long path across the floor, reaching toward him in the far corner of the room where Ivo had left him shackled.
“And where is Ivo?” His keeper was the last thing he wanted, but he had to ask. He kicked the chain under his cot.
She flinched at the sound and then smoothed her skirts. “He begged to go to the fair.” As if that fact could possibly explain her presence here alone.
After some dithering, she dragged the table, chair, and candelabra not five feet from his bed. Well within the length of his chain. The gallant part of him wished he could help her, but then he’d miss the show—her juggling handfuls of skirts with furniture and dripping tapers.
“Apparently the scullery maid had been to the village and filled his head with tales of a Persian llama. He was desperate to see and touch the beast.” Miss Winton winced as a trail of wax caught her finger. “Mrs. Coates left me in charge.” She put the finger to her lips.
Oh, to be that finger…
His eyes must have looked as licentious as his thoughts, for she hid her hand behind her back and firmed her lips.
“I suppose I have a soft spot somewhere,” she said as her lashes dipped to fan her cheeks.
“I daresay you do.” He bit back a smile though he needn’t have, she was suddenly busy squaring her Bible precisely with the corner edge of the table. “You did not wish to see the festivities? I would have thought you might be Lady of the Flowers.”
She froze, her lips pulling even tighter.
Ah, too much flattery for his poor Owl.
She spent an inordinate amount of time adjusting the candles. Finally pleased with their arrangement, she stood still, her Bible now in hand.
No Austin.
And no Ivo.
The rules had changed. She knew it. No doubt that was why she was prattling on about llamas and scullery maids. And soft spots. It was the most he had heard her say, ever. What had turned her into such a chatterbox?
She caught her lip with her teeth as her gaze dipped to his bare feet and the chain he’d tried to hide.
Five feet between her and a madman. Would she fly? She gripped her Bible like a shield, definitely unsure of her next move. Perhaps it was a bit of Midsummer Madness but she sat.
“So, the Good Book again for our entertainment,” he said sitting as well. She seemed to have given up on her knitting.
She cleared her throat. “It is what Doctor Hives prescribes.” No glance to the spy hole this time. No voyeuristic observer lurking behind the wall?
“Then by all means, we must follow the doctor’s orders,” he said to the hole, just for good measure. Miss Owl took no notice. A good sign.
What if he suddenly charged at her and took her in his arms? Surely that would flush any rat from his hole. Hell, it might be worth the punishment to embrace another human being, if only for a moment. And if no one came charging to her rescue…well that might mean something quite different.
“We had just finished Exodus.” She paged through the book, head bent, her tongue peeping between her lips.
No, he would not assault her. He did not want to risk her leaving him. Not just yet.
“Thank God we have finally exited Exodus.” He meant it facetiously, but if she got his jest, she made no sign. “Austin will be ecstatic. What is next?”
“Leviticus.”
“Oh, no, out of the smoke and into the fire. Must we have more stoning and slashing and chopping off bits?”
She frowned and pursed her lips. “You do not fancy, ‘I will release wild animals that will kill your children and destroy your cattle, so your numbers will dwindle and your roads will be deserted’?”
Was she actually making a small joke? “Oh, is that the best you can do? Too tame. Can’t we have a good beheading and some pestilence, or perhaps a plague of vipers?”
She started to thumb through pages.
Dear heavens, she was a literal little thing. “Bloody hell. Please, I beg you, Anne, skip it.”
Her hand stilled mid-way through a turn.
Anne. He had used her Christian name. Well, he would not apologize for it, or cursing for that matter. Rattling her was worth flouting decorum. He liked her off balance.
The page still hovered in limbo.
“In fact.” He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “Let us skip the whole blasted book,” he whispered. Suddenly it seemed vital she let go of that page. Let go of Hives’ orders. Let go of herself.
She closed her mouth and dipped her head, and then turned unerringly to the middle of the book.
No, too much to hope for. He settled back for another sermon.
What was beneath her hideous, shapeless frock? Half her body would glow like ivory bathed in candlelight, the other half, would be cast in velvet shadows.
Her hair looked to be stick straight and as glossy as an oriental princess’. If she let it down, would it tease her bum? A few tendrils always managed to slip free, no matter how severely she twisted it up into that neat, uncompromising bun.
He would trace her soft feathery brows first, and then thread his fingers through the wings of her hair. Pins would slip out of the lush black silk. Long braids would loosen with just the brush of a hand. She would try to stop him, but he would catch her hands, full of heat and vibration, and together they would skim over his chest, down his belly, to rest at the root of his cock. She would bend to take him in her—
She cleared her throat, and his fantasy unraveled. Smoothing her hand over the page, she sat up straighter pulling her shoulders back.
“‘The Song of Songs, which is Solomon’s. Let him kiss me with the
kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.’”
What the—? He blinked, trying to fit this primly sitting maiden to the liquid honey voice that dripped a naïve sort of seduction.
She plowed on paying no mind to the clinking of his chains and him half rising from his cot. “‘Because of the savor of thy good ointments thy mane is as ointment poured forth, Therefore do the virgins love thee.’”
Her voice had sped up and dropped in volume for this last line. If he were in a teasing mood, he would have tortured her, making her repeat it, but he no longer felt like teasing.
“‘Draw me, we will run after thee: the King hath brought me into his chambers:’” She cleared her throat again. “‘We will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.’”
One thing was surely upright. He shifted, his chain shushing along the floor.
Miss Anne Winton seemed to have lost her place.
Spy or no spy, he couldn’t give a rat’s ass. He took up the poetry. “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes.’”
Her dove’s eyes were looking straight into his, her lips softly parted.
The moment hung with promise. She shook her head minutely and frowned. “You have skipped.” Logic reared its oh-so-practical head.
He leaned closer. “I make no apology. I remember the parts I like and toss the rest.”
“Hmmm.” She nodded like some wise sage.
“No doubt you are putting me down as one of those naughty children who sampled a bite of every sweet and then only took the ones he liked, leaving the rest to his siblings. Well, you would be correct. Though in my case it is sibling. Singular. And only a half one at that. And possibly even not a sibling at all if the rumors are true.” Banal words flowed from him, poor substitutes for what churned underneath.
She caught her lip between her teeth.
Yes, she felt it too.
Insistent as a drum, the throbbing of his cock had him hugging himself to make sure the rest of him was still there. He had not had a woman since being shut up in this place.
The poison did odd things to his desires, sometimes snuffing them to nothing, and sometimes making them rise and rage. A mere brush to his skin could send him over the edge—or just some words from the bloody Bible. He could not trust his body just as he could not trust his mind. But he no longer craved that feeling of loose dissipation where his mind and body disappeared into the walls and floor, into the sheets where he slept and gruel he ate.