Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  Hell, I may never win another game, for she makes losing such pleasure.

  “Checkmate!” she exclaimed.

  “You are victorious,” he said, ritually knocking his king over with a flick of his forefinger to formally surrender. “I am yours.”

  Mrs. McFadden cleared her throat as she entered with an empty tray to collect their half-empty plates with a fleeting look of disapproval. She said nothing as Darius met her gaze openly, daring her to spoil the evening’s fun.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McFadden,” he said calmly.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. McFadden,” Helen added, her expression anxious. “We . . . didn’t mean to be a bother.”

  The housekeeper’s stern look softened. “No matter. I’ll serve your dinner here in the future if you’d rather and save myself a few steps. But you should mind the time, Mr. Thorne. It’s getting late and the lady should be resting.”

  Darius looked over at the clock on the mantel, amazed at how they’d lost track of the hours. “So it is!”

  Helen stood and he immediately did the same. “I’ll retire if only to allow me to withdraw while I’m victorious. It was a wonderful evening, Mr. Thorne. Thank you for being such a patient teacher.”

  “We’ll have a rematch tomorrow night and see if you’re as graceful in defeat as you are in triumph,” he teased her.

  “You let me win this first time but I’m enjoying it all the same, sir!” She curtsied and left the room with the carriage of a queen.

  Darius forgot his housekeeper and simply watched Helen go.

  Best game of chess I’ve ever played!

  Mrs. McFadden cleared her throat again and Darius sighed. It was too much to hope for that she’d keep her opinion to herself for very long. “She’s not a kitten come in from the cold.”

  “Why? Was I offering her milk and discussing the vermin population in the stables to give you that impression?”

  She ignored him. “I’ve said nothing of her arrival to anyone and have no intentions of betraying my promises, but have you decided what you’re to do?”

  “I’m already doing exactly what I should be doing. I’m letting her heal and recover until I can come up with a good plan that doesn’t put her in jeopardy.” He walked over to the center of the room, collecting papers from the chairs and various surfaces as he went. “Besides, Hamish said her mount won’t be fit for at least another three weeks, so there’s no need to rush.”

  “I don’t see that her horse has anything to do with anything. There are other means of travel in this world! You’ve a good carriage of your own and—”

  “I’m not packing her off until I know that she has somewhere to go.”

  Mrs. McFadden grunted her disapproval. “I’m getting fond of her, so don’t you dare misunderstand. It would be impossible not to melt a bit, but it’s no harmless game for you. You’re a bachelor and it’s all kind of scandal, this! If her husband finds her here . . . in your company . . .”

  “He won’t and we’ve broken no law taking her in from the cold.” Darius started folding away his maps. “But I’ll be damned if I—”

  Darius didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. What threat could he make? He’d vowed to keep her safe, but if her husband appeared and demanded her, if Helen herself agreed to return to him—it could be a lost cause. It made no sense for her to forfeit her hard-won freedom, but he’d experienced firsthand the deadly, illogical turns of abuse. Helen was terrified enough of her husband to run from him.

  But nothing was certain.

  Darius sighed. “I don’t care what the risk is. If things turn ugly, then I’ll be sure to proclaim your and Hamish’s innocence in all of it. It was my decision and I’ll take the blame.”

  “It’s not really myself or that brute I was worried about. She’s so pretty,” Mrs. McFadden said more quietly. “Mind you don’t lose more than a chess game in this nonsense!”

  “You’re the one encouraging entertainments!” Darius’s temper gave way at last. “Mind your manners, Mrs. McFadden. I’m not a schoolboy in need of a chaperone and you are not a relation to be so familiar and so unkind! Helen has done nothing wrong and I . . . I will be responsible for my own actions. I am a gentleman and a scholar; and there’s an end to it!”

  He braced himself for a waspish reply but none followed. He’d never chided her before but he couldn’t take it back.

  “I see.” Her hands fell away from her hips. “Are you to town tomorrow? It’ll be Tuesday.”

  There’s an unexpected show of mercy!

  “Yes. Let Hamish know we’ll make the rounds in Edinburgh as usual.” He laid the stack of maps down haphazardly on his already cluttered desk. “And, Mrs. McFadden, please determine what things our guest needs and I’ll try to acquire them as discreetly as I can in the city.”

  Mrs. McFadden pressed her lips together in a thin line but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  She closed the door firmly behind her as she left with her tray, and Darius sat down slowly behind his desk.

  Helen was a lady of quality and good breeding. He knew he was in denial of just what level of quality he might be contending with.

  Could she be the wife of a recently elevated man? Some self-important baron or squire, God willing! Please, God, be willing!

  He abandoned his chair and began to pace the room.

  And what if he is a baron? My logic’s flawed. As if being some country gentleman means I can afford to buy out his wounded pride or that he’d be more easily persuaded to release his wife or be less stubborn. A small terrier can be worse than a deerhound, and I’ve known enough village bureaucrats and university officials to know that even a small dash of power can transform men into tenacious vipers.

  But even vipers have their price.

  The Jaded already possessed one unknown enemy, and Darius wasn’t oblivious to the fact that by complicating his own situation, he could inadvertently add to everyone’s troubles. But he knew there wasn’t a man in the Jaded who wouldn’t have done the same to protect a woman in need—and not a single man who would advise him to set her out.

  He pulled the heavy curtains back from the window, rewarded with nothing more than his own reflection in the glass. The sight interrupted his thoughts. He’d never been a vain man. Darius had spent a lifetime more focused on his internal landscape and the capacity of his mind than anything else. Ashe Blackwell had chided him more than once in their friendship for ignoring fashion or forgetting to savor the finer things in life. But he’d never seen any value in peering at one’s own skin.

  He wondered how a woman saw him.

  How Helen sees me . . .

  His gaze narrowed as he assessed the man in the glass. His features were well-defined but Darius thought them a bit too sharp. The eyes were unremarkable, in his opinion, and his coloring hardly exotic enough to evoke the prose that ladies seem to favor. He was paler than he liked but knew he had himself to blame for all the days spent indoors with his books. He was tall and lean, broad in the shoulders, but not overly athletic.

  Darius leaned forward, pressing his hot forehead against the icy glass, and closed his eyes. What does it matter if she thinks I’m a bespectacled troll or an Adonis?

  I’m forgetting my place in the world.

  He didn’t possess the pedigree to aspire to marry even the second cousin of an impoverished country squire. He knew the worst of his past, and before he’d put on his first pair of long pants, he’d determined to live alone and it wasn’t just because of the simple stains of poverty. They say blood will tell. Why am I dwelling on it now?

  He’d vowed to protect her. It was a flimsy excuse for keeping her.

  Mrs. McFadden is right. I’m in danger of losing more than a chess game.

  He crossed his arms defensively and turned back to survey the room. “Perspective, Thorne. One puzzle at a time.”

  He worked late into the night, reading texts from other travelers to Bengal and from local sources until the words began to swim on the
pages and Darius conceded his efforts. He retreated to a wide couch to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, where the tangle of the Jaded and his fears for Helen disappeared.

  Chapter

  6

  The dining room was set for a party downstairs, the long gilt mirrors glittering with the reflection of dozens of candles. She knew it even though she was standing in a dark closet. She could hear the muffled sounds of the guests’ conversations and laughter through the door. Somewhere music was playing and she wondered if there would be dancing.

  The earl was having a house party.

  His wife would not be attending.

  He’d told everyone she was ill, and they had sighed in sympathy, pouting at the young lady’s misfortune. They’d hoped to meet the new mistress and catch a glimpse of her famed beauty, but poor Richard had apparently married a sickly thing, for she was never seen in public since the wedding.

  “What a shame!” The words echoed and echoed and Isabel struggled not to cry.

  She could hear Richard’s voice downstairs and she was glad. That meant he wasn’t nearby. That he might enjoy his party and drink too much and forget where he’d put her for—

  “Punishment,” he whispered behind her, and in the logic of dreams, it made terrifying sense that he was there. That she could hear him laughing in the dining room but feel his hot breath at the back of her neck.

  Even in a dream, she knew not to fight him.

  She wasn’t allowed to attend the party because she’d angered him that morning at the breakfast table. She couldn’t remember what she’d done or said, but he’d struck her hard across the face.

  Richard almost never hit her where the mark would show to a casual observer.

  But his rage had been so great that he’d forgotten his own rule.

  And so it was her fault.

  To have angered him so and spoiled her looks before his grand party.

  She’d earned another punishment and he’d locked her in the upstairs hall closet until he’d decided what it should be.

  And the demon in the dark began to touch her and Isabel screamed.

  She awoke to the sound of her own distress, already on her hands and knees in twisted bedding as if she’d meant to crawl her way out of the nightmare. Isabel’s skin was damp with sweat and she shivered at the lingering memory of Richard’s hands around her throat.

  And then Darius was in her doorway, his handsome face illuminated by the candle he was carrying. He was still dressed for dinner, but his shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was mussed as if from sleep. “Helen?” he asked. “Are you unwell?”

  She shook her head, her voice thick with shame as she pulled the lace of the nightgown up to cover her throat. “It was—just a dream. I’m fine.”

  “Here, let’s get you resettled. Mrs. McFadden isn’t awake but I think we can manage things without disturbing her.” He stepped forward and set his lit candle down on the table next to the bed. “I shall avert my eyes and allow you to get back under the covers, if that helps. It’s almost five in the morning, but there’s time yet to rest.”

  She smiled. The man was a marvel to worry about her modesty at such an hour, but her feet felt like ice and she was grateful for the kindness. She climbed back under but sat up against the pillows. “I’m back where I belong, Mr. Thorne.”

  He didn’t turn right away and she almost repeated herself in case he’d misheard her, but then Darius shifted back around to make quick work of readjusting the feather comforter, his movements brisk and efficient. “Let’s get something for your shoulders.”

  He located the knitted wrap that Mrs. McFadden had left at the end of the bed and brought it over to her. “Here we are.”

  “You’d make a remarkable ladies’ maid, Mr. Thorne.”

  It was his turn to smile. “I will make a note of it, and if my next work fails publication, I’ll make inquiries.” His smile faded and he reached out to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You’re soaking wet and icy to the touch.”

  “I . . . The night terrors are . . .”

  “You’ll catch your death if the chill takes hold,” he said. “Damn, the fire’s gone out.”

  “I’m fine!”

  He didn’t bother to argue. He stood from the bed and immediately began to reset the little fireplace with kindling and wood and started a blaze. Within just a few minutes, a cheerful warmth began to radiate from the hearth and he’d rearranged the screens to direct its heat toward her.

  “Mr. Thorne,” she said.

  He stood, his back to her. “There. That’s better.”

  “Mr. Thorne,” she repeated, making a firmer bid for his attention.

  He turned and her breath caught in her throat.

  There it is again. That flutter in my stomach when he looks at me. That same sensation as when he took my hand . . . She could see the bare skin of his throat and a few tantalizing inches of skin across his chest to reveal the dark brown swirl of hair there. He emanated an attractive masculine power that confused and excited her. On the heels of her nightmares, instead of being frightened by his strength, Isabel was drawn to it.

  “You’re still wearing your clothes, Mr. Thorne. Did you never go to bed?” she asked.

  He reached up to touch his jacket collar, as if just discovering his state of dress. “I fell asleep in the library again. Another terrible habit.”

  Isabel pulled the soft shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “It doesn’t seem like such a horrible flaw. There are worse sins.”

  He drew closer, standing to one side at the foot of the great bed. “There are.” Darius’s fingers traced the scrollwork on the carved bed’s columns. “After . . . India, when we’d returned to England, I had nightmares every night. I think I deliberately got into a habit of working late to the point of exhaustion to try to outpace them, but it only made them worse.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  “No.” He tipped his head to one side, shy at the topic. “Because I finally confessed about them to Ashe. I told him about the dreams and—it helped. I’m not sure why, but when I named my fears, they lost their power over me. And if”—he looked back at her before going on—“you ever wanted to talk about what happened or describe your nightmares, I’m a good listener.”

  “You truly are, I think.” Isabel took a deep breath, wondering if she could be that courageous and speak the unspeakable. Shame and embarrassment threatened to drown out reason, but looking at him, Isabel could remember only how sweet he’d been and how he’d not once pressed her for answers or spoken out against her impulsive escape from her commitments. “I don’t believe I could bear it if you thought less of me, Mr. Thorne.”

  “My opinion of you could never lessen, Helen, no matter what you say.” He sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, a respectable distance from her but still within reach. “Unless you’re about to tell me that you value Roman philosophies over the Greek schools of thought—a man must draw the line somewhere.”

  The jest surprised her and made the moment more real.

  “Marcus Aurelius’s writings are unparalleled for their common sense, are they not?” she challenged him quietly. It was truthfully the only Roman philosopher she could summon to mind as his nearness worked against her wits.

  “Marcus Aurelius?” He pretended shock. “But where is the elegance? He dictates the answers when Socrates would seek to ask questions.” He sighed. “You’re a master of redirection.”

  “As are you,” she said. Isabel took a few moments to study her hands on top of the coverlet and gather her courage. But it eluded her. “It’s all so . . . vile and . . . demeaning. I can’t speak of it. Please don’t ask me.”

  He said nothing and she risked a glance to see if he might be frowning in disappointment. But his expression was kind, his concern apparent. “Another time perhaps.”

  She nodded, but Isabel wasn’t sure if she ever wished to give voice to any of it. If she even knew how to describe the horrors that marri
age had brought her—or admit to her worst fear, her fear that she had somehow earned her punishments by some great inherent failing of her own. Richard had made it clear that she was a disgrace, not good enough to be a proper wife. He’d said that she’d forced him to treat her harshly so that it was all he could do to make an effort to salvage happiness from his disappointment.

  On their “best” days, he’d looked almost sweet expressing his regret that their marriage was so tumultuous and that she was so dispassionate. He would buy her a gift or allow her to go for a ride on Samson to coax her into hoping that the worst was behind her.

  She’d seen so many other women positively glowing with the pleasure of a good match and marriage. Richard blamed her, and after hearing it a thousand times a day, Isabel wasn’t sure that he wasn’t right.

  Perhaps all of it was my fault.

  Which would make my escape even more groundless and stupid.

  Or my complaints of any of it sound like the whining of a child.

  Darius shifted off the bed and added one more piece of wood to the fireplace. “There, that should keep until dawn and Mrs. McFadden comes up to check on you. I’ll be gone at first light on business, but I expect to be back in time for dinner and our chess game.”

  “You’re going?” she asked, a stab of distress at the news choking her.

  “Just into the city for a few hours. I’ll hurry the matter, Helen, no need to fear.” He retreated to the door with an awkward bow, leaving the candle behind with her. “But for now, I should get to my own room and get some sleep. I’m at the end of the hall, and if you’re in any distress, I’ll return right away.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thorne.”

  He ducked his head with a smile and left, and Isabel lowered herself to settle under the covers. The ghost of her husband was held at bay as she watched the fire dance and considered the changes in her fortune.