by Lydia Joyce
"I thought you would find me disgusting—as unnatural as you told me I was the first day you arrived. I thought you would be frightened, or that you would pity me like a sick pup."
"If disgust is feeling ill and hurt every time I see your injury because I hate that you ate in pain, and if being frightened is being scared for you, and if pity is wishing I could do something, anything for you, then I suppose I am as guilty as you thought I would be." She bit her lip and took one of his hands in both of hers. "You know none of those things are in my character."
"You are a hard woman," he said quietly.
It was Victoria's turn for bitter laughter. "Yes, adamantine. This from the man who first called me a fraud."
Raeburn sighed. "Am I such a fool?"
Victoria bunched her fists in his jacket. "Fool and blind man both, but I forgive you with all my heart, and I only hope you can forgive my theft of your hat and my stubbornness that hurt us both."
"There is nothing to forgive."
They lapsed into silence for a long moment.
"Does—does it hurt much?" Victoria finally brought herself to ask.
"There will be a new layer of scars atop the old, but it will heal. It always has before."
"Is there nothing I can do?"
"You are already doing everything I might ask of you." He frowned down at her, then winced at the movement. "But I am not doing everything I should for you. You should have been asleep a long time ago."
She sighed. "I couldn't sleep. Not truly."
He started to reach for the bellpull. "I can have some warm milk and beef tea brought—"
Victoria caught his hand. "No, no, I'll be fine."
"Is there anything you want, then?"
She hesitated. "Would you stay? I mean, if you don't need to treat your face—"
"There's nothing I would rather do than remain with you." The words were soft but with an intensity that made her shiver.
He released her long enough to pull off his shoes, then blew out the lamp and slid into bed beside her, silently arranging himself so that her head was pillowed against his shoulder.
Victoria stared into the darkness for a long time, savoring the feel of his body against hers, his warmth and strength, intensified, if anything, by the revelation of his condition. The thought of his sun-branded face made her ache in sympathy, but his confidence in her, his willingness to reveal himself despite how much she realized it cost him—that calmed something that had been twisting within her since their second day together.
How long has it been since he told anyone? she wondered. Remembering his expression, braced and defiant, she could not guess. Her brother Jack certainly didn't know, though he had once been as close a friend to Raeburn as she'd ever heard the duke to have. And yet he had trusted her, the sister of a man he hated, a woman he'd known only for the space of a few days; she had arrived on a Tuesday, and now it was only Sunday night. But despite that short span, it seemed impossible that there had been a time she didn't know him. She felt his chest rise and fall, his breathing steady in sleep. How tired had he been, to drop off so easily? She almost envied him his exhaustion.
Sunday… Less than two days left, now. Tuesday's evening post brought her, and it would take her away again. Suddenly, it seemed monumentally unfair, that she should have to leave so soon after she had reconciled with the reclusive duke, so soon after he had bared himself to her—so soon after she was at peace with him and herself for the first time.
But what could she say? That she did not want to go? That their bargain should be extended? She tightened her lips against the foolishness of that thought. Leave she would, whatever she might feel about it, and soon there would be nothing left of the week except her memories of the strange manor house and its dark master.
Perhaps it was the pain of her ankle, beginning to ache again, and the dull headache that still throbbed between her temples, but her eyes began to fill, and even the most determined blinking could do nothing but send the tears rolling more quickly down her cheeks.
* * *
Chapter Twenty
Raeburn woke to Victoria shifting in his arms. The curtains were still drawn, but enough light leaked through to bathe the room in a dim saffron glow.
Victoria moved again, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep and shifting her head in the crook of his arm. He looked down over the top of her hair to see her fine brows knitted and her delicate mouth set in a frown. Carefully, he bent down to kiss her, barely brushing his lips against her hair. An odd sheen on her cheek caught his eye, and he realized with a wrench that tear tracks were dried upon her face. Had he made her cry? The thought was more disturbing than he cared to contemplate.
But she wasn't crying now. She had asked him to stay, and now she was snuggled against him in sleep. He lay for a moment, staring at the canopy above them, and he suddenly wished that the moment could last forever. But the itchy aching of his face roused him, and reluctantly, he eased away from her and slid off the bed. Victoria moaned and rolled into the indention he left in the mattress, but she did not wake.
He poured water into the washbasin and splashed it over his face, the cold both soothing and stinging the blistered, itching skin. Running damp fingers though his rumpled hair, he positioned himself so that he could see though the crack in the curtains without falling in the path of the sunbeam that speared across the floor.
The sun squatted on the horizon, weak and orange with dawn. He watched its infinitesimal creeping into the steely sky. He loved sunrise as some men loved fire. It was beautiful and pitiless, rewarding fascination with pain and so utterly indifferent that his anger and bitterness lost their focus and flew away, if only for a moment.
A noise outside the door made him start and turn to face it. It opened, and Annie entered with a laden tray in her arms.
"Oh!" she yelped at the sight of him, blushing furiously. "I didn't know thoo was here, thy grace."
Victoria stirred in her blankets. "Thank you, Annie." Her voice was heavy with sleep. "Leave the tray on the night table, and you may go." Then Victoria's eyes found Byron's, and he nodded in response to her questioning glance. She added, "But bring another for your master. He wishes to break his fast with me."
Annie left. Byron returned to Victoria's side and sat down on the edge of the bed.
There was tension between them, sensuality overlaid with a new, raw awareness, and Byron tried to cover it by arranging the pillows behind Victoria as she sat up, feeling oddly nursemaidish as he did. Suppressing that thought, he settled the tray across her lap, and she gave him an odd look, as if she felt as awkward about his attentions as he did. Looking away, she picked up the knife and fork but paused with them suspended in air.
"I feel terribly strange with you sitting there, staring at me as if you're making sure the invalid eats as she ought." she said. "Share this tray with me, and we'll split the other when Annie returns."
"There is only one set of silverware," Byron pointed out.
She quirked an eyebrow. "That would not have stopped you three days ago. Has so much changed?"
There was teasing in her tone, and wistfulness, too. More has changed than I could have imagined, he thought. But he just smiled slightly—carefully—and closed his hands over hers. "I will feed us both, then."
Relinquishing the silverware, Victoria settled back against the pillows and looked up at him through the pale fringe of her eyelashes. He shoveled some eggs onto the fork, fed her, and then took a bite himself. The last time he had done this was with the peach crumble; it seemed incredible that there could be a repetition both so close and yet so different in such a short span of time. As if she, too, was recalling that memory, Victoria blushed slightly and looked away. Neither of them were in any shape to relive that night, and now, over commonplace eggs and rashers, the memory was ungainly and intrusive.
"I feel like a child," she said with a forced laugh before accepting the next bite.
"It was your idea."
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And that was the last thing that was said until Annie brought Byron's tray, and then Victoria took back her fork and the strain between them eased.
"I've been thinking about what you've said," Victoria said suddenly, looking up from buttering her toast. "About me, I mean, deceiving myself."
Muscles relaxed that Byron was not aware of having braced in anticipation of her questions about his illness—questions that were not coming yet, at least. "Yes?"
"I thought then that you were mistaken, that you over-stated the case in that dramatic way of yours. But now I'm not so certain. Because I've realized something about myself." Her blue-gray eyes met his, solemn and unblinking. "I am a coward. I'm frightened of change, I'm frightened of risks, but most of all, I'm frightened of myself. What Walter and I did… that was rash. Stupid, even, in hindsight. But when we were in his parent's back parlor, the garden, the cupboard, the stables—it felt wonderful. It felt right. Only a few months later, I knew how stupid I had been, and making a mistake of that magnitude scared me."
"And you never trusted yourself again."
Victoria gave a little shrug. "Oh, I trusted myself when I thought I was being cool and dispassionate. But emotions couldn't be trusted."
"like when you were feeling wild?"
"I only let myself feel that when I rode. Riding was safe enough, I thought. And I felt it when it stormed." The corner of her mouth quirked. "I never could control myself when it stormed."
"You punished and smothered yourself for years," Byron pointed out. "For a girlhood indiscretion, it seems a little extreme."
She shook her head impatiently. "It wasn't that. It was what I might do next. I never could know for sure at the time whether it was idiocy or inspiration."
"Which was our contract?" Byron asked.
Relaxing slightly, Victoria laughed. "Both. I still can't quite believe that I agreed to it. It's so contrary to everything I've stood for—"
"But not everything you've felt."
"No, not that." She paused. "I am sure you wonder now if I regret it. I regret my ankle and my head and your face, but I cannot regret this week."
Byron felt a small lurch deep within him. "If my face is the price for the days we've had together, I pay it gladly."
The customary hardness around her mouth and eyes eased for a moment. "Thank you."
And they finished their meal in silence.
Victoria sat in the window seat again, and Raeburn lounged in the chair Mrs. Peasebody had had brought up. Victoria had wanted to call Annie to help her dress, but Raeburn had insisted on doing everything himself. Somehow, it was so much more embarrassing to have him dress her than undress her, and it did not set her at ease to find him equally competent with both. In the dark, in the heat of their lovemaking, unself-consciousness was effortless. But even the light coming through the crack in the curtains revealed far more than he had seen in any of their nocturnal trysts, and without the haze of passion, Victoria feared that Raeburn would find her bony, aging body unattractive.
But he gave no indication that he felt anything but solicitousness until she was once again ensconced on the window seat, and when he had looked at her then, the muted fire in his eyes spoke of desire rather than distaste.
Abruptly, Raeburn turned to her again and broke the easy silence.
"I thought you would have asked me a dozen questions by now."
Victoria, caught staring, did not pretend to misunderstand. "I trusted that you would finish your explanations in your own time."
"My own time." Raeburn shook his head. "There is not a saint above with enough patience to wait for that."
"You broached the subject last night," she pointed out. "It was your decision. No one could force your hand."
"It only felt like it." A wry smile flashed across his ravaged face. This morning, Victoria found she could look at him without a jolt of sympathetic pain shooting through her, but the sight still left an ache in her center. He sighed. "Not everyone has been as accepting as you."
Knowing an invitation when she heard it, Victoria made an inquiring noise.
Raeburn looked away, staring blankly at the tapestry that covered half the wall. "I had a friend," he said, his voice flat. "His name was Will. We were only boys, so perhaps I should be a little more forgiving. But he knew me better than anyone. I was burned one day in his company. We were asleep outside, and when I woke up, I was"—he waved his hand toward his face and looked at her—"worse than this."
"And he woke up, too, and did not react well," Victoria guessed. Such a sight would be a shock, a terrible shock to a young boy.
"He ran away, even as I was trying to explain. He never spoke to me again."
She looked hard at him for an instant, but his expression remained emotionless and he gave no indication of exaggeration. How could any one incident, however traumatic, cause such a reaction? "Never?"
"Never." His eyes slid away. "The rift is not so dramatic as it sounds. He went away to school before I had healed enough to leave my room."
"Did you ever try to say anything more to him? You said he was your friend."
"My best friend. No. If he was avoiding me—" Raeburn cut himself off with a rough shake of his head.
Victoria searched for a delicate way to phrase her question. "Did he ever before seem shallow? Or… spiteful? Or cowardly?"
"No. He was the truest friend a boy could have." His voice dripped with irony, but she heard the aching honesty behind it.
"Did you never see him again, then?"
"When he was on holiday, and after he graduated from Oxford. We moved in the same circles."
"And he never gave you any indication of—of remorse? Or regret? Or anything?" If they were such great friends…
For the first time, Raeburn paused. "There were times that I thought he was going to come over to me, when I caught him looking at me with an expression of… I don't know. But he seemed almost sad."
"You said you were schoolboys then—children. Perhaps he knew he had behaved badly and was too ashamed to speak. Children do stupid, hurtful things that they regret yet cannot face even as adults, and sometimes they neglect putting things right so long it seems impossible to speak of them." Surely he knew that—had thought of that in his long days of going over old memories.
Raeburn's hands tightened around his chair arms so suddenly and violently Victoria feared the chair would break.
"He wed Charlotte."
The words came out as a shout, and in the sudden stunned silence, Victoria glanced down at her own hands, embarrassed in front of the welter of emotions that washed across Raeburn's face. "The vicar's daughter," she remembered aloud, hardly a murmur. "Do you really think that he chose her to hurt you?"
Raeburn said nothing for a long time, then shook his head. "Does it matter? He knew that it would. And if he had cared about hurting me the first time—"
"You think he wouldn't have done it," she finished for him. "I see." She could think of nothing to say to comfort him, and she turned away, gazing at the strip of drive and lawn that was visible through the crack in the curtains.
"I would have lost her anyway," Raeburn finally said. "I thought I loved her, but not enough to answer the question I always saw in her eyes—the one only you have ever been brave enough to ask me. Every day that I stayed silent, she became more distant. Perhaps Will saw that. He loved her, too, that I knew. Perhaps his marrying her when he did was a mercy to me, even if I didn't know it. That way, at least, my courtship stopped dying by stages. I have thought of this, but it is not the sop it should be."
"I'm—I'm sorry for it," Victoria said softly.
Raeburn sighed. "I should have let go a long time ago, but I never could. I thought—no, I felt in my bones—that anyone who was not in my employ could not help but react the way Will did. It might have been wrongheaded, but the conviction was powerful. You have proven me wrong at least in one case, and I thank you for that. But I am not so sure that just anyone—or almost any
one—else would accept me as you do. Still, your acceptance alone has changed my life."
Victoria looked back at him, his form suddenly seeming worn down, tired, less thunderously massive in the confines of the chair. "I never meant to change anything."
He sighed. "Ah, Circe, your touch leaves magic in its wake." He gave her a tired smile, and she returned it, hurting for him. She did not know what else she might do for him, but she touched the cushion beside her in hesitant invitation.
He joined her, and when she reached for his hand, almost shyly, he grasped it firmly and laced her fingers between his. There was no mystery now in his calluses—vividly, she remembered how his shoulders bunched and flexed as he swung the Indian clubs—but they were still reassuring, no less warm and strong for all that their mystique was gone.
"I wasn't always like this," he said. "When I was very young, I didn't burn any more than other children. I can remember standing on the grass of the lawns with the sun pouring down and feeling good."
"You can never go out in daylight again? Ever?" Victoria tried to imagine it, an entire life spent in gloom.
"You've seen my limits. When it is very overcast or raining, and when I am extremely careful, I can go out. Dusk and dawn; too. That is all."
"No wonder you never told Charlotte. Even if you hadn't thought she would think you freakish, it would take a great deal of love to want to spend one's life with a man who can never enjoy the day."
"Yes," Raeburn said simply.
They sat together in silence, Victoria wanting to drink his presence, all too aware that every moment spent in his company brought them that much closer to her departure. She wanted to study his face, to memorize it, even blistered and scorched as it was, but she feared he would mistake her desire for macabre fascination. So instead, she fixed her eyes blindly on the bit of drive she could see between the curtains and concentrated on his presence. The feel of him, his warmth, the smell of his skin. She wished she could imprint it all on her mind to take with her when she left.