Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  She was suddenly grateful that all the Baniards were gone. It was too shameful to think how far she’d strayed from her purpose. To let a drunken lecher make her forget that this was a year simply to bide her time with Baniard patience, just as she had done in her dreadful years with Gammer Pringle. To bide her time until she could fulfill her purpose and justify her existence. It was the only reason that God had left her alive out of all the family. To destroy the Wickhams.

  Anything else—happiness, peace, the enjoyment of that devil Ridley’s kisses—was no more than wicked self-gratification.

  Allegra raised herself on tiptoe and stretched her arms to the topmost shelf. Even with a high stool to elevate her, she could just reach to the back corner of the plank. She swept off the thick dust with a little straw brush, placed it on the shelf below and then wiped the spot again with the damp rag she held in her other hand.

  What foulness, she thought with a click of her tongue. From the yellowing labels on the bottles, she guessed that the stillroom hadn’t had a competent maid since Wickham had sold Baniard Hall to Lord Ridley a year ago. And the dirt and filth only confirmed her belief. She had spent the whole morning cleaning and scrubbing. She had managed to lay out the various powders and liquid ingredients in some sort of rough order on the work table; she hoped to sort and label them afresh before nightfall.

  It felt good to be busy again. The sea voyage from Charles Town had taken forever, with nothing to do but dwell on the painful past and nurse her grievances against Wickham. But there was a rhythm about working that had always pleased her, however hard her tasks; while performing her chores, she could clear her mind of whatever thoughts weighed heavily. She sighed, turned her rag to the clean side, and wiped the shelf once more. But this time the blessed forgetfulness of work eluded her. She could scrub furiously until midnight, and still her brain would teem with the memory of Ridley’s invasion of her room this morning. God help her, did he plan to do it every day until she succumbed to him?

  “Godamercy!” she cried, and dropped her rag in surprise. Strong arms had wrapped about her hips like a vise. She found herself lowered to the floor, turned around and captured within the solid embrace of Grey Ridley. “Let me go,” she said, and wriggled against his arms.

  He smiled down at her. His golden eyes were sly, catlike…and faintly unfocused. Allegra wondered how much more he’d had to drink since their dawn encounter. “The fair Allegra,” he drawled. He held her squirming body more closely to his breast. “’Tis a stillroom. Can you not contrive to keep still?”

  She was determined that this time he wouldn’t have his way so easily. It was one thing to be caught unawares from a deep sleep. But now she had her wits about her. If she made it clear to him, by word and deed, that she didn’t intend to be seduced, perhaps he would find someone else to torment, and leave her alone. She forced her body to go rigid, and kept her expression as cold and stiff as she could make it. “Did you wish something from the stillroom, milord?” she asked.

  His mouth twitched. “Wish something? Of course. I came to refresh your memory of something that I have not forgot. Something that I should like to repeat. A sweet kiss, given in my closet.”

  “I have no remembrance of it, milord,” she said in a frosty tone. “I can only recall a very unpleasant kiss in the woods, the other day. Would you care to repeat that? Or will you let me go?”

  He laughed aloud. “A hit, or I’m damned! That brazen answer has earned you your freedom.” He released her and fished in the pocket of his waistcoat. “In point of fact, I came to give you something.” He pulled out a gold coin and held it out to her. “No doubt you will refuse it, and say that I’m trying to bribe you. To ease my conscience after this morning,” he added sarcastically.

  “Not at all, milord,” she said, taking the coin from his hand and putting it into her pocket. “I’m not too proud to take it.” Though her voice was even and calm, she found herself quivering with anger. He insulted people shamelessly, and then threw them a sop, as if gold could salve hurt pride. Reckless of her safety, she lashed out with the only weapon she had—her words. “Besides, how can it be a bribe? I consider that I earned it by enduring your presence in my chamber this morning.” Instinctively she ducked her head, half expecting a blow to her ear.

  Instead, he smiled and moved closer to her on unsteady legs. “Then your pleasure in it was a bounty, was it not?” he murmured. “And you did take pleasure, by my troth.” His voice was low and seductive, mocking her with the memory of her own weakness. She would have turned away in anger, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I brought you another gift. Here.” He pressed a key into her palm. “For your chamber. So that you need not fear unwelcome visitors.”

  It seemed too simple—that he would concern himself with her welfare. Not this drunken scoundrel! “And do you have its mate in your pocket?” she said with a snort.

  “No. What need I for another key? I know that, sooner or later, you will open for me. In every way.” He laughed wickedly when she blushed at the pointed crudeness of his words.

  She was suddenly filled with a deep heaviness, a despair that clutched at her heart. He would never leave her in peace. He would persist in his unwanted attentions, and torment her with his cruel words, until she had learned to hate him as much as everyone else did at the Hall. Or until she learned to hate herself because she couldn’t resist his seductive entreaties. She remembered Mama and Squire Pringle. At least Mama had beer forced to submit, to play the whore against her will and strength. But how would she justify it to herself if she surrendered to Ridley? She sighed heavily, feeling defeated. “By your leave, milord, let me be. I have my stillroom duties waiting.”

  The arrogant smirk faded from his face. “Why do you have such pain in your eyes?” he asked, scowling. “We only jest, you and I. There’s nothing deeper in our discourse. Not for me. Don’t you know life is to be laughed at?”

  She blinked against the unexpected rush of tears. “Life has taught me other lessons.”

  For the first time, his eyes focused clearly on her face, as though the solemnity of her pain had sobered him. He reached out and brushed a crystal droplet from her cheek. The touch of his finger held the tenderness of a loving parent. “Tell me, fair Allegra,” he murmured, “why are your dark eyes so sad?”

  She stared at him in confusion. Who was this man? So mocking and cruel, so shallow and dissolute? Scarcely worthy of anything save her hatred. And yet, in her short stay at the Hall, she had caught a few glimmers of another man. The man who now smiled so gently at her, and touched her cheek. A man as different from the profligate Ridley as the Angel Gabriel was from Lucifer. A man whose merciless tiger eyes could turn suddenly soft with concern, dark with shared pain. Those eyes seemed now to reach into her very soul, to invite her confidences.

  She was torn with the mad desire to throw herself into his arms and pour out her sad story, to weep the ocean of tears she had suppressed for so long. She had lived with her heart in isolation, alone and friendless, since Mama’s death. Perhaps—because of that—she was even more vulnerable to Ridley’s brief flashes of humanity than to his caresses. Or perhaps, out of her own need, she only imagined that spark of warmth in him. “Milord…” she said, trembling.

  “Lord Ridley. Your pardon.” Briggs stood in the doorway of the stillroom, an uncertain smile on his face. “I have no wish to intrude, milord. But Colonel Lane has come up from Diddlebury with that pair of horses you wished to buy. Will you look at them again before I count out the guineas?”

  Ridley twitched with annoyance at the interruption, then shrugged. “Do you fear he will cheat me, Briggs?”

  “’Tis common knowledge in the parish that he has been known to substitute an inferior animal.”

  “Is there an honest man in this whole world? Or a good one?” He gave a sharp laugh and a bow in his steward’s direction. “Besides you, of course, Mr. Briggs. Ah, well. You were born a gentleman. Perchance, in your commendable up
bringing, you learned to judge horseflesh. I leave the final decision to you.” He started to dismiss Briggs with an impatient wave of his hand, then checked himself and frowned at the expression on the man’s face. “Is there more?”

  To Allegra’s surprise, the normally composed Briggs seemed somewhat agitated. “It can wait, milord…A letter…” he stammered.

  Ridley raised a mocking eyebrow. “A letter? This sounds fateful. From whom?”

  Two small spots of color appeared on the steward’s cheeks. “The Most Honorable Lord Richard Halford, Marquis, writing on his own behalf and that of his sister. Lady Dorothy Mortimer.”

  Was Allegra mistaken, or had the tone of Briggs’s voice subtly changed when he uttered the lady’s name?

  “Christ’s blood,” growled Ridley. “Meddling fools. What do they want now?”

  “They wish to visit. In little more than a fortnight, according to Lord Halford.”

  Ridley slammed his hand against the edge of the work table. “Again, damn it? What is it…three months, four, since last they were here? Why the devil must they plague me again?” He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. “God save me from old friends!”

  “Lord Halford writes that they have been in London Renewing old acquaintances that had faltered while they were in India. And Lady Dorothy, I understand, has opened up her late husband’s townhouse. But they wish to leave London and seek the comfort of their country estate. To escape the heat of the city.”

  Ridley snorted in derision. “A poor excuse to come interfering in my affairs. London in July and August is a damn sight cooler than Calcutta. Do they think I’ve forgotten that? Well, tell them not to come. I don’t want them.”

  The flush had reached the roots of Briggs’s hair. “But, milord,” he said in a pained tone, “how can I tell an amiable gentlewoman such as Lady Dorothy that she is unwelcome? That is…Lord Halford, I mean…he considers himself your friend!”

  “Sometimes, Briggs, your sense of honor makes me want to choke. Tell them I’ve grown another leg and have taken to hopping about like a bloody toad. Tell them anything, for God’s sake. But I do not want them at Baniard Hall again! Lie to them, if you must. If you can prevent them from coming, there will be fifty guineas for you, in gratitude. Now, get out. And see if you can manage my affairs without disturbing me when I have other business on my mind.”

  Briggs’s frown was matched only by Allegra’s as the steward bowed stiffly and left the stillroom. “Do you take pleasure in that, milord?” she muttered.

  Eyes glowing, Ridley reached out and gave a savage tweak to her ear, wringing a grunt of pain from her lips. “I did not give you leave to tell me your opinion today,” he said coldly. “How I deal with Briggs is my affair. Remember that. In the meantime…” Though he still held fast to her ear, he relaxed into a careless smile. “I was only sharp with him because I wished to be alone with you.” He softened his cruel hold and caressed the delicate skin of her ear. “Charming. Not only will I consider shortening your indenture, but I’ll buy you pretty eardrops if you agree to…” He allowed his hungry, lecherous expression to finish the thought.

  She pulled away in dismay. Had she been foolish enough to imagine—if only for a brief moment—that there was a human being hiding beneath the surface of this monster? “You must have better things to do than to torment me constantly, milord.”

  He grinned. “Is it torment? Then succumb to it.”

  It was exhausting just to keep him at bay. “Why me?” she asked with a weary sigh.

  He shook his head, the cynical smile vanishing, to be replaced by bewilderment. “God knows. You’re a strange creature. Sometimes I think that we have met before. What is it I see in you that so bewitches me?”

  “The same thing you see in all women, I warrant,” she said bitterly. “Find another who is more willing, and leave me in peace.” She glared at him, defying him with her glance.

  For a moment, she feared that he would explode into a rage. Then he laughed and shrugged. “I can wait for your surrender. I sought you out for another reason. Are you skilled at distilling cordials?”

  “Yes, of course, milord. I told that to Mr. Briggs.”

  “What can you concoct for me, then? I should like something interesting for tonight. To aid in my digestion and help me sleep.”

  She eyed him doubtfully. Despite his drinking habits, he seemed as sound as a bull. More likely, he enjoyed the strong spirits for entirely different reasons. “It will take at least two days, milord, before I can produce anything. I haven’t yet examined the alembics, to be sure that they are still sound. However, if you must drink…” She tried to hide her disgust as she pointed toward the work table. “I found several cordial waters that your last maid must have distilled. A fine aqua mirabilis. There, in that crock. ’Tis a trifle heavy with the taste of cloves, but quite pleasant for all of that. What I concoct for you will depend on what herbs I find in the cook’s garden. At least until I can grow my own. I know the plants from the New World. I beg your indulgence until I learn what I can use here.”

  He nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Each evening after supper you will attend me in my drawing room, bearing whatever you have distilled that day.”

  “Will I be expected to stay until you have quite drained the beaker?” she asked, reluctant to be a party to his drunkenness night after night.

  He clearly chose to interpret her question differently. His mouth curved in the familiar lustful smirk. “Only if you wish it. Do you?” He laughed at her silence. “An eloquent answer.”

  She pretended not to hear. It seemed the safest course. She turned to her work table and poured a bit of water from a pitcher into a small basin. She retrieved her cleaning rag and rinsed it out. “Is there anything further, milord, before I return to my work?”

  “Yes. You have fine healing skills—to those I can surely attest. You cured me of too much claret, God knows,” he said fervently. “But now I’m wracked with pain. ’Tis a very delicate part of me—I hesitate to speak of it. But it brings me suffering that will not cease. I know that you are the only one who can cure me.”

  She understood enough of nature to know that a man’s body could physically suffer if his carnal hungers were not satisfied. Clearly, the sly rogue meant to take another tack on the way to his vile seduction. Would he be crude enough to uncover himself next? “I fear I cannot help you, milord,” she said firmly.

  “But surely…” he began. He ambled over to the work table beside her and perched on the edge of it so that his eyes were level with hers. Golden, liquid eyes, filled with wicked laughter and desire. “’Tis my tongue,” he said softly. “It still hurts from the other day. Look. When I move it like this.” He stuck out his tongue and ran it across his lower lip. It was a gesture that was so bold and deliberately seductive that Allegra fought to contain the sudden thrill that tugged at her vitals, a longing that took her breath away.

  Longing was followed by anger. How dare he? “I am not a surgeon, milord,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “But you are so skillful. And, since you were the cause of my distress, I thought you might be the cure. Surely there are many healing potions here.” His tongue, as he slid it across his lips and thrust it suggestively toward Allegra, was pink and moist and sensuous. His eyes smoldered with passion.

  Allegra gulped and shivered in spite of herself. He seemed to know just how to tantalize her. Curse the man and his teasing ways! Well, she would be revenged. She moved closer to him and forced a smile of concern. “Perhaps there is some cure after all, milord.” She ran her finger along the top of his tongue. He shuddered in pleasure and closed his eyes. “Poor tongue,” she murmured. “This will help you to forget your pain.” She reached for the bitterest salts she could find on the work table and dumped a generous handful into his unsuspecting mouth.

  He choked and gasped and jumped to his feet, his eyes springing open in fury. He snatched up the water pitcher and poured half its contents into h
is mouth, frantically swirled the liquid around, then spat the residue to the floor. He turned on Allegra, his eyes burning with a frightening intensity that made her quake in terror. “Damn you!” he roared, and struck her savagely across the side of her face.

  She staggered backward from the force of the blow. Only the work table kept her from falling to the floor.

  In a moment—and to Allegra’s astonishment—the rage in his face had crumbled into remorse. He turned away, shoulders sagging, and groaned. “My God, what is happening to me?” He took a deep, steadying breath, then turned back to face her. The unexpected smile on his face was brash, arrogant, and artificial. He shook his head. “Egad! You’re like a contagious malady! A disease of wild passion that seems to have infected me, willy-nilly. ’Tis a danger to succumb to it. I shall have to be more careful.” He reached for the crock of aqua mirabilis, took a deep swallow of the liquor, and swaggered to the door. He wobbled slightly, seeming more drunken than he had been just a moment before. He turned and grinned again, but Allegra thought she could read apprehension in his eyes.

  “’Tis a wonder you didn’t try to poison Wickham rather than stab him,” he drawled. He strutted from the room, all male pride, leaving Allegra to rub the side of her face and wince in pain.

  “I curse you with every breath, Ridley,” she whispered. She wondered if she would have any hatred left for Wickham by the time this ghastly year was done.

  Chapter Six

  Allegra finished setting the last of her seedlings, tamped the soil around the tender shoots, then rose to her feet and brushed the rich, damp earth from her hands. It was late in the season to start herbs, but a few weeks of good growth before autumn would give her enough—between the distillations she could make from the first few plants and the drying of the remainder—to supply her stillroom through the winter.