Lord of Darkness

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  And she was going to go insane if he kept it up.

  This wasn’t what she wanted, what she needed. She hadn’t asked for careful, warm lovemaking.

  She’d asked for his seed.

  Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he made one last thrust and she felt the stretch of her inner thighs as his hips met hers. He rested there a moment and his chest pushed against her breasts, unbound under her chemise, as he inhaled. He rocked, sliding against her without saying a word, his breath rough above her in the dark. She wondered what his face looked like, if this act transformed it, if he watched her even though he couldn’t see her.

  If he hated her for making him do this.

  She couldn’t touch him—she’d forbidden herself that luxury—so she fisted her hands by her head, torturing her pillow with her nails.

  And still his hard penis invaded her, surging and retreating, demanding something without words. Demanding what she refused to let herself give.

  When his breath caught, when his pace quickened, so that her hips sank beneath his into the soft mattress, she swallowed, straining her eyes to see in the dark. When he suddenly stilled, buried deep in her throbbing flesh, locked with her in animal intensity, she wanted … so much.

  But all she received was what she’d asked for.

  His seed.

  GODRIC CAREFULLY DISENTANGLED himself from Megs, rolling aside as his softening cock slipped from her warm depths. He wanted to stay, to perhaps hold her, and if she let him, kiss her.

  But she’d made it plain that she did this without affection and he was not a raw lad.

  So he stood and pulled the covers back over her form and when she made a small, questioning noise, he only said, “Good night.”

  Turning, he scooped up his banyan and slippers by feel and exited her room.

  He’d left a candle burning in his own bedroom and he was glad of the light now. It brought him out of the too-intimate darkness, made him remember who he was.

  Who she was.

  But even with the candlelight, he found himself at the dresser. His fingers didn’t shake when he fitted the key in the lock and he was inordinately proud of that fact.

  He opened the enameled box. The locks of hair lay there, the same as always, and he reached to touch them but found that he couldn’t. His fingers were still damp from Megs’s skin.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered to Clara.

  At that moment he couldn’t even remember her face, the sound of her laughter, or the sight of her warm eyes. He was speaking to empty air.

  Godric gripped the edges of the drawer, the corners pressing painfully into his palms, but still he couldn’t find Clara.

  Somehow, he’d lost her.

  He was alone.

  He inhaled shakily and fished through the loose letters in the drawer with fingers that now trembled until he found the one he wanted.

  2 November 1739

  Dear Godric,

  Thank you for the monies you made available to me. I’ve had the roof repaired and already the east wing has nearly stopped dripping! There is just one rather persistent leak in the tiny room just off the library. I’m not sure exactly what the room was used for. Battlefield informs me that a former lady of the house was locked in there after her husband became enamored of his (male!) steward, but you know how Battlefield likes his little jokes.

  We ate the last raspberry out of the garden last week before cutting back the brambles. Everything aboveground has been killed by the frost, except for the kale, and I’ve never really liked kale. Have you? I confess I feel a strange kind of melancholy at this time of year. All the green things have gone to ground, pretending death, and I have nothing left but the frosted trees and the few remaining leaves, dead yet hanging on nonetheless.

  But how dreary! I will not fault you if you grumble under your breath and fling aside my maudlin ramblings. I am not an entertaining correspondent, I fear.

  Yesterday I went to tea at the vicarage, playing lady of the manor while being plied with very rich cakes and tea. You will not credit it, but we were served a kind of tart made from orange persimmons, quite pretty, but a bit bitter (I think the persimmons were under ripe) and, I am told, a specialty of the vicar’s wife. (So I could do naught but swallow and smile bravely!) The vicar’s youngest son, a babe of only forty days, was presented for my inspection and though he was a brave boy, my eyes watered for some odd reason and I was forced to laugh and pretend I had got a bit of dust in my eye.

  I don’t know why I tell you that.

  And again! I’ve dribbled into quite boring territory. I shall endeavor to mend my ways and be only cheerful in my next missive, I promise. I remain—

  Affectionately Yours,

  Megs

  PS: Did you try the ginger, barley, and aniseed tisane recipe I sent you? I know it sounds quite revolting, but it will help your sore throat, truly!

  Her postscript blurred before his eyes and he blinked hard, inhaling. This was who he’d done it for: Megs, who thought old crotchety butlers had any sense of humor, who ate bitter persimmon tarts to please the local vicar’s wife, and who cried at the sight of a baby and couldn’t admit even to herself why.

  She deserved a baby of her own. She’d make a magnificent mother: kind, gentle, understanding.

  He placed the letter back in the drawer, closed, and locked it.

  He’d promised to give her that baby, and he would.

  No matter the cost to himself.

  MEGS WOKE TO the sound of Daniels rustling in her armoire. She squinted at the window, realizing it was rather late in the morning, and as she stretched, she made her second realization. Her thighs were sticky.

  Godric had made love to her last night.

  She knew her face was heating. She could feel the ache of the muscles between her legs, a twinge she hadn’t felt in years, and she wished that she could’ve woken alone so that she might assimilate the changes to her life.

  To her.

  Fortunately, Daniels’s mind was on other matters. “We have visitors, my lady.”

  Megs blinked. It couldn’t be that late. Besides, they hadn’t had any callers since coming to London. She wasn’t even sure the sitting room had been cleaned yet. “We do?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Daniels frowned at a yellow brocade gown and placed it back in the armoire. “Three ladies.”

  “What?” Megs sat up hurriedly. “Who are they?”

  “Relations of Mr. St. John, I believe.”

  “Good Lord.” Megs scrambled from the bed, feeling a bit irritated. Why hadn’t Godric told her that he’d expected family to visit? But then, knowing the state of Saint House when they’d arrived, she had the sudden idea that maybe he hadn’t known.

  Good Lord, indeed.

  Megs made a hasty wash while Daniels’s back was discreetly turned, using the warm water already brought up. Then she stood obediently as Daniels and one of the little maids from the home dressed her in a pink and black figured gown. It was several years old and Megs made a mental note—again—that she really needed to call upon a modiste while in London.

  Daniels tutted despairingly as she dressed Megs’s hair. Usually her lady’s maid needed a good forty-five minutes to tame the springy locks. Today she was making do with ten.

  “That’s enough,” Megs said, keeping her voice calm even though she wanted to run down the stairs before these relatives of Godric left in high dungeon at the state of the house. Good lady’s maids were hard to find—particularly ones who would work in the country. “Thank you, Daniels.”

  Daniels sniffed and stood back, and Megs walked quickly out of her room.

  The first floor was very quiet and Megs bit her lip as she descended. Had they left?

  But as she made the lower level, she was greeted by Mrs. Crumb, looking as perfectly put together as always. “Good morning, my lady. You have guests waiting in the primrose sitting room.”

  Megs nearly gaped. Saint House had a primrose sitting room
? “Er … which room might that be?”

  “The third on the left, just past the library,” Mrs. Crumb said sedately.

  Megs’s eyes widened. “The one with the ball of cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling?”

  Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow twitched. “The very same.”

  “Er …” Megs bit her lip, staring at the formidable housekeeper. “It doesn’t still—”

  Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow slowly arched.

  “No. No, of course not.” Megs smiled in relief.

  The housekeeper nodded solemnly. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea and biscuits from Cook.”

  Megs nearly gaped again. “We have a cook?”

  “Indeed, my lady. Since this morning at six.”

  “You’re a paragon, Mrs. Crumb!”

  The housekeeper’s lips curved very, very slightly at the corners. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Megs took a breath and smoothed her skirts before gliding down the hallway at a sedate pace. She opened the door to the primrose sitting room, bracing herself for some aged relation of Godric’s, but she immediately relaxed with relief when she saw the three ladies within.

  “Oh, Mrs. St. John,” Megs exclaimed as she hurried forward. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming to London?”

  Megs hugged the elder woman and then stood back. Godric’s stepmother was nearing her fifty-fifth year. A short, somewhat stout woman, she had the flaxen hair that all her daughters had inherited, though hers was faded now to a vague pale color. Mrs. St. John’s face had taken on a ruddy hue as she aged. She was a rather plain woman, physically, but one hardly noticed because of the vivaciousness of her expression. Megs knew from village gossip that Godric’s father had been deeply in love with his second wife.

  “We took a page from your notebook, Megs, and thought it best to simply arrive on Godric’s doorstep.” Mrs. St. John huffed as she sat down on a settee.

  “Rather like one of those vagabond peddlers,” Jane, eighteen and the youngest St. John sister, said. “The ones who won’t leave the doorstep until you buy some ratty length of ribbon.”

  “That ribbon was not ratty.” Charlotte, who was two years older than Jane, looked indignant. “I vow you’re jealous because the peddler came around when you were out romping through the fields with Pat and Harriet.”

  “Pat and Harriet needed a good run.” Jane pointed her nose in the air. “Besides, I wouldn’t want a ribbon that ratty if it were given to me.”

  “Girls,” Mrs. St. John said, and both sisters abruptly shut their mouths. “I’m sure Megs doesn’t care to hear you bickering over fripperies and the dogs.”

  Megs didn’t really mind. She found the St. John sisters’ obvious affection for each other—when they weren’t quarreling—rather refreshing, actually. She’d never been close to her own older sister, Caro. The St. John dower house was in the village of Upper Hornsfield, so she had the opportunity to observe the St. John sororal dynamics quite often.

  “I can’t think where Sarah is,” she said diplomatically. “Or Godric, for that matter.”

  “We were told that Godric had already gone out,” Jane informed her. “And no one could find Sarah.”

  “That’s because I was out for a walk,” Sarah said from the doorway. The two little maids were behind her, carefully holding trays full of tea things. “I only just returned.”

  Charlotte and Jane were up immediately, hugging and exclaiming over their sister as if they hadn’t seen her in months rather than little more than a week.

  Mrs. Crumb entered the room with the maids during the flurry and quietly directed setting everything out. She glanced inquiringly at Megs when the maids were done. When Megs thanked her, Mrs. Crumb nodded and ushered the maids out, closing the door behind her.

  “Mama,” Sarah said, leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek. “What a surprise.”

  “That was the idea,” Mrs. St. John said.

  Sarah sat. “Why?”

  “Well, I thought this estrangement had gone on long enough, and since Godric obviously won’t do anything about it, I decided to. Thank you, dear.” Mrs. St. John accepted a dish of tea from Megs, sweetened with several spoons of sugar, just the way Megs knew she liked it. “And,” she added practically after taking a sip, “the girls and I are in need of new frocks, especially Jane since she’ll have her coming-out this autumn. You as well, Sarah, dear.”

  “Oh, good,” Megs murmured. “I’ve been meaning to visit a modiste. We can all go together.”

  “What fun!” Jane bounced in her seat. The door to the sitting room opened, but she continued, oblivious. “That sounds much more pleasant than having to visit grumpy old Godric.”

  “Jane!” Megs hissed, but it was far too late.

  “I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors,” Godric rasped from the doorway.

  Megs bit her lip. He did not look pleased.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Is this Hell?” Faith asked as she looked at the rocky shore. “No,” the Hellequin said. He’d either not noticed or not cared that she’d pushed Despair off the great black horse. “We still have a long journey ahead before we reach Hell. Before us now is the Peak of Whispers.” He pointed to a range of black, jagged mountains that loomed across the distant horizon. “Are you sure you wish to continue?” “Yes,” Faith said, and wrapped her arms about the Hellequin’s middle.

  He merely nodded and spurred his horse on. …

  —From The Legend of the Hellequin

  Grumpy old Godric.

  It was a fair assessment—though Godric doubted that Jane had taken any time thinking the matter over. He was grumpy—or at least morose. And as for old, well, he supposed he was that as well—in comparison to his half sisters, anyway. He was seven and thirty. Sarah was a mere dozen years younger than he, but Charlotte was seventeen years younger and Jane nineteen.

  He was old enough to be her father.

  It was an unspannable gap—always had been, always would be.

  “Godric,” his stepmother said softly. She rose and crossed to him, and then surprised him by taking one of his hands in her own, small soft ones. “It’s so good to see you.”

  There it was, the guilt and anxious resentfulness he felt every time he saw this woman. She made him into an awkward schoolboy, and he hated it.

  “Madam,” he said, aware that his tone was too stiff, too formal. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  She looked up at him—the top of her head came only to his midchest—and her eyes seemed to search for something in his face.

  “We wanted to see you,” she said at last.

  “And we need new frocks,” Jane said from behind her mother. His half sister’s tone was defiant, but her expression was uncertain.

  He’d probably looked like that much of the time when he’d been her age.

  Godric nodded, leading his stepmother over to where she’d been seated before. “How long do you intend to stay?”

  “A fortnight,” his stepmother said.

  “Ah,” Godric murmured, and felt Megs’s look. For the first time he glanced at his wife.

  His wife, whom he’d bedded just last night.

  She wore a smart pink gown with black figures and trimmings, her hair dark and lustrous, and she sat very straight, watching him with a worried frown knit between her gracefully arched brows. He nearly stopped breathing. She was so lovely, Megs, his wife. Had his father’s family not been here, he might’ve crossed to her, pulled her from her seat, and led her to their rooms where—

  But, no.

  She’d made quite plain that was not the type of arrangement she wanted with him. Even had his stepmother and sisters not been looking on curiously, he would’ve had to wait until tonight.

  He was a stud, nothing more.

  Godric took a breath, focusing once more on the conversation. “Would you like me to escort you to the shops?”

  He saw Megs’s look of surprise out of the corner of his eye.<
br />
  Jane, predictably, opened her mouth first, but the glance her mother shot her made her close it again very quickly.

  His stepmother smiled at him. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  He nodded. Megs gave him a small, grateful grin and handed him a dish of tea—a drink he’d never particularly cared for. But he sipped it and let the women’s chatter flow around him, observing.

  It seemed his wife had formed an intimate bond with his father’s family while she’d lived at Laurelwood. That wasn’t so surprising, he supposed, since the dower house was nearby. She made a pretty picture with his sisters, her dark head in contrast with their lighter ones. All three had inherited their mother’s coloring. Charlotte was the fairest, while Jane’s tawny locks were the darkest. Sarah sat next to Megs, laughing at something, and Jane was nearly in Charlotte’s lap, her arm draped companionably over her sister’s neck, the skirts of their dresses frothing over each other. His stepmother looked on benignly and the circle was complete: a feminine sorority perfect and exclusive.

  Godric glanced down at his tea.

  It would be awkward with his father’s family in the house. He still had to continue his Ghostly duties, find the lassie snatchers, and now Roger Fraser-Burnsby’s murderer as well. Add to that Captain Trevillion watching him suspiciously, and his job had become much more difficult.

  Not that obstacles would stop him.

  “… if that’s agreeable with you, Godric?” his stepmother inquired.

  He looked up to find five pairs of feminine eyes focused on him. Godric cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  Megs sighed, making him aware that he’d missed more than one or two sentences. “We’ve decided to visit the modiste directly after luncheon and then tonight we’re to dine with Griffin and Hero. But”—she turned to his father’s family—“I’m sure Hero will invite you as well, once she hears you’re in town.”