by Brenda Joyce
His heart was broken, and in loving him, so was hers.
Three long days had passed since the funeral. Nicole had not gone to any social gatherings for she was in no mood to be gay. She had not known Elizabeth well or for very long, yet the shock of her abrupt death still lingered distressingly. And then there was Hadrian.
Her thoughts were consumed with the Duke, and for him she grieved. At the funeral she had felt his bereavement even though they had been physically separated by many yards, and his anguish was hers. How she wanted to comfort him. And even while she wanted to comfort him, to heal him, there was hurt too, of a different nature, in the realization of how much he must have loved Elizabeth. But the hurt she shoved aside, because his suffering was so much more important.
Nicole had to see him. She had to help ease his sorrow and offer what support she could, to let him know that no matter what, she was there for him. She knew it was not appropriate, not as far as superficial appearances went, yet somehow, it was highly appropriate, for Hadrian needed her. He had never needed her more. She was nervous, not knowing what kind of greeting she might initially receive, but nothing in this world could prevent her from calling upon him.
She knew from Regina and Martha, who had been out on the town since the funeral, that the Duke had refused all invitations and all callers. She was certain he would not refuse her.
The butler allowed her to enter the vast, domed foyer while taking her calling card. A heavyset, heavily jowled man, he studied it, then said impassively, “His Grace is not receiving visitors.”
“So I’ve heard,” Nicole said, taking a deep breath. “But I am a good friend of the Duke’s—what is your name?”
“Woodward,” he said, unimpressed.
“Please, Woodward, tell His Grace that I am here. He will not refuse to see me.”
Woodward hesitated, then nodded and moved off down the corridor. Nicole expelled her breath. She realized that she was trembling.
The Duke of Clayborough was drunk.
Not obviously drunk, not stinking drunk, but drunk nonetheless. Hadrian had not imbibed spirits since he was a rowdy adolescent of fourteen, but on this day he had done so with determination. He had not slept in days. He needed to sleep and he would drink until he could. He needed to sleep so he could escape the emotions threatening to overwhelm him—the sorrow and the guilt.
The sorrow weighed down his heart as if he carried a heavy stone within his chest. He knew now, belatedly, that he had loved his fiancée. Not in a carnal way, never in a carnal way, but he had loved her, and now he missed her. He missed her sweetness and her smile. He missed her unfailing kindness, her unstinting generosity, her compassion and her grace. Memories haunted him. Elizabeth as a toddler, stumbling from one piece of furniture to the next, while he, at twelve, had watched with no small amount of amusement. Elizabeth falling off her pony at six and weeping in his arms. Elizabeth at thirteen, almost a woman, shyly offering him cookies which she herself had baked. Elizabeth at eighteen, dazed after he had kissed her for the first time.
It was too late now, but he realized that Elizabeth had been his best friend. His only friend. He was a man who kept to himself, a habit learned preciously early in his childhood. But never with Elizabeth. Perhaps duty had dictated his behavior toward her, but it had been so easy to be with her. And while he had taken their relationship for granted, she had been selfless. She had been constantly supportive of him no matter the circumstance—she had always been there for him. When he was not quite there for her, she had a hundred excuses to make for him.
If he could relive their relationship, he would. And everything would be different.
Hadrian was awash in explosive emotions that he did not want to face. For he had also learned in his childhood to carefully hide his pain, his anguish. To never reveal what he might be thinking or feeling. Not just from the perception of others—but from himself. And he had been successful for many years in doing so. Until recently. And now this, Elizabeth’s death, was the final spark, and a conflagration of the heart threatened.
He did not understand why she had died. He believed in God, although he did not attend church very often, and her death made no sense. But then, much of life as he had witnessed it had made no sense. His father’s cruelty to his mother had made no sense. Nor had his father’s cruelty to him. Perhaps there was no God after all, or perhaps there was just no justice or mercy.
Perhaps he could have dealt with the sorrow if that was all there was to it. But there was more, so much more—there was the guilt.
He tossed down another scotch whiskey, scowling at the taste. He was in his library—he had not left it in days. He paced to the fire and poked at it, trying not to let his thoughts take their inevitable turn. But they always did.
Guilt festered. Nicole’s image rose, still haunting him, with Elizabeth barely cold in her grave. Damn her, he thought, jabbing the fire viciously. Damn her!
Or should he damn himself?
These past months, while Elizabeth had been ill and dying, he had not spared her a thought, much less his attention. He had been too busy lusting after Nicole Shelton. Elizabeth had not deserved this from him; she had deserved so much more.
I am a bastard, a total bastard, a self-serving carnal bastard—not so different from my father at all.
He closed his eyes, but the vivid image in his mind would not go away. Nicole’s vibrant and exotic face, laughing, sparkling, next to Elizabeth’s pale lifeless one.
She was everything most beautiful in life; she was fiery energy, exotic beauty, untamable pride. Elizabeth had never been fiery, exotic or untamable, but rather the precise opposite. The contrast was unsettling, gruesome.
He had gone this far in a journey he was helpless to stop, despite the scotch whiskey; a journey deep into his darkest, most private inner self. And he did not want to take another step.
There was a wanting in him, a secret yearning, which he could not shake, and it was focused on Nicole.
A knock on the door snapped him from his reverie. Hadrian had told the staff he was not to be disturbed, but he would never take out his flaring temper on any of them. His tone civil, he said, “Yes?”
Woodward entered, looking as apologetic as he was capable of looking, given his well-schooled implacability. “Lady Nicole Shelton is here. She insisted I inform you, Your Grace.”
Hadrian’s heart slammed. The wanting, the yearning, choked him. “Send her away!” he snarled.
Woodward appeared shocked, but recovered instantly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Wait!” Hadrian called when the butler was at the door. “I’ve changed my mind. Show her in.”
Woodward nodded expressionlessly and disappeared. Hadrian paced, his blood boiling. Why had she come? Couldn’t she even wait a decent interval after the funeral? Had she no respect for the dead? What did she want? How dare she!
He had meant what he had said the other day, just before Elizabeth had died, that he would adjourn to the country with his fiancée and that they would be wed immediately. Perhaps he had known she was dying and his intentions had been a form of denial. All that week as he attended Elizabeth on her deathbed, he had resolved to be loyal to her, both in deed and in thought—which meant he must end his obsessing over Nicole Shelton. Now, on the verge of a precipice which he had no intention of falling over, Hadrian was more determined than ever to get her out of his mind and his life.
Woodward showed Nicole in and Hadrian waved him away. His gaze pierced her. Why had she come? Why now?
As he stared at her he saw that she was distraught. Certainly not for Elizabeth. That would be utter irony. Her pale gray eyes seemed to be filled with compassion and concern. He wondered if he was drunker than he thought, for this empathy could not be for him. Could it? This was not the savage harridan he knew so well, this was not the woman who had practically confessed that she sought to seduce him.
“Hadrian? Are you all right?”
He leaned back against the f
ireplace, ignoring the heat of the flames behind the screen, which were dangerously close to his body. “Oh, I am all right,” he said, his tone mocking and belying his words. “After all, one’s fiancée’s dying is an everyday event.”
A vast silence greeted his words. Her expression dissolved into even greater sympathy while he was shocked at what he had done—he had put himself forth nakedly and revealed his grief. As if he wanted her to react—which he did not.
“I am so sorry,” she cried, but he cut her off.
“I should not be surprised at this visit, should I? You have always defied propriety. But I confess that I am.”
She did not move, standing behind the sofa, facing him, her gloved hands holding her reticule. “I could not stay away,” she said softly. “I had to be certain you were all right.”
“You have come here out of concern for me?” he asked incredulously. He did not believe her. Or did he? The soft caring look in her eyes tortured him. Tested him.
“Why else?”
“I can think of other reasons,” he said crudely, his gaze sliding over her. “I meant what I said the other day—I did. It is over, Nicole. Whatever was between us—it is over.” Anger washed over him with frightening intensity. Anger at her, at himself, at the world.
“I understand.”
“If you understood you would not be here.”
“It is because I understand that I am here, Hadrian,” she said softly. “You should not be alone.”
“I want to be alone!”
“If that is true, then why did you allow me in?”
He stared at her, unable to deny more of the stark truth. He didn’t want to be alone—he wanted to be with her. “Get out. Now. Before it is too late.”
She did not move. Her eyes seemed softer, more caring. It could only be an illusion.
He was furious now. “Didn’t you hear me?” he roared. “I told you to get out! Out of here, out of my life!” He hadn’t been aware that he was still holding his whiskey glass, but the next thing he knew, he had thrown it as hard as he could, not at her, but at the door behind her. It whizzed past her head and shattered explosively against the rich wood.
Nicole flinched slightly.
He was panting. A cavern had opened up inside of him. It was black, but deep in the abyss was a kaleidoscope of swirling colors, his blood, his guts. So many feelings. At all costs, to be avoided. He hated it, hated her. “You are a fool. I almost hurt you.”
“But you didn’t,” she whispered. “And you won’t.”
He turned abruptly away from her, shaking.
“I know you are hurting,” she murmured. “I know you are striking out at me because there is no one else to strike out at. I don’t mind. I, too, think it horribly unfair. How could such a thing happen? To someone so kind, so sincere?”
“Don’t.” He was facing the fireplace and its blazing heat was becoming painful on his thighs and stomach. He closed his eyes. She was everything Elizabeth had never been, and in being here now, so alive and vital and vibrant, it struck him painfully. So painfully. And Elizabeth’s image was receding, eaten up by the choking yearning. In its stead was Nicole.
“I am going to ask Woodward to bring us tea,” she said finally. He listened to her leaving and felt a moment of panic when he knew he should be relieved. He tried to summon back Elizabeth’s face, but only succeeded in gaining a hazy, indistinct image. He took a deep breath to gain control of his emotions. He must fight himself, he must.
Nicole entered. His heartbeat became erratic the moment she did. “You look very tired, Hadrian. Please, come and sit. Woodward will be here shortly with hot tea. Have you eaten anything recently?”
He turned slowly. His gaze met hers and held it for a long time. He hadn’t been imagining it, the expression in her eyes. It was genuine. It was for him. He was afraid to go near her. For, in that moment, desire slammed violently over him.
“Hadrian?”
His answer was to turn away from her, to lean on the mantle and stare at the flames in the hearth. No matter how hard he tried, he could no longer see Elizabeth’s face clearly in his mind.
Woodward knocked and entered with the tea. He listened as the butler set the tray down and asked Nicole if she wanted anything else, but he did not turn around. He was afraid to move, afraid of himself and what he might do.
The door closed. Silence fell across the library. It was broken only by the ticking of the tall grandfather clock on one wall, and the snapping and popping of the flames. He heard Nicole get up and walk over to him. He tensed.
She stood behind him so closely he felt her warmth. “Hadrian? Don’t you want to come sit down?”
“No.”
“Would you like to go upstairs to bed? It frightens me to see you like this.”
It frightened him to be like this. He didn’t move, clutching the stone mantle. It was his intention to tell her again to leave—to order her to leave. Instead, he said, “I cannot sleep, Nicole. If I could, believe me, I would not be here like this.”
She made a small sound of distress. Hadrian almost jumped when he felt her gently touch his back. He closed his eyes, barely hearing what she was saying, desperately wishing she would put her arms around him and hold him as if he were a child. But she did not.
He could not fight anymore.
“Hadrian, maybe if you try now, you will be able to sleep. I can see how exhausted you are. Let me call Woodward.”
Her palm trembled on his back. He let out a long breath. Unthinking now, except for the one word screaming at him inwardly. Danger! “Don’t call Woodward,” he said harshly.
Nicole bit her lip, then with both hands began to knead his neck. Hadrian went very still, becoming even more tense. As her hands dug into his muscles, he felt himself beginning to shake. He couldn’t stand it. He had lost.
“Nicole,” he cried, turning abruptly and enveloping her in his arms.
She froze, but she did not attempt to push him away. Her eyes were wide but not frightened. He hugged her to him and felt an answering quiver in her body. He buried his face in her neck. The vibrant colors swirled over him, fast and hard, too many to identify.
“It’s all right,” she quavered. She stroked his hair, his back. “It’s all right.”
He was aware that he was crushing her, perhaps hurting her. But as if he were in a trance, he could not ease his hold. He held her for a long time. The waves of color kept crashing over him. Joy, despair. Grief and pain, so much pain, and a strange exultation. The panic had gone. Instead, there was pulsing desire.
And in his arms, Nicole was warm and wonderfully alive. He could feel the beat of life in her, pulsing through her, its heat, her heat. She was strength, she was sorrow and compassion, joy and triumph. He rocked her. She clung to him.
Tears stung his closed eyes. He was shocked at how he needed her. If the need weren’t so strong he would confuse it with physical desire. But it was that strong, and the feelings intensified each other.
Her hands came up to hold his face. “Always,” she whispered, pulling back so she could look into his eyes. He saw tears in hers, as well. “I will always be here for you.” Slowly, almost chastely, she covered his mouth with hers.
It was too much. Hadrian exploded. His hand anchored itself in her nape, abruptly loosening her unswept hair so that it spilled down her back. He tilted her face up for his kiss. For one scant instant their gazes met, hers wide with both surprise and anticipation, his blazing. Then his mouth covered hers.
Hard and hot. Wet. Their tongues entwined recklessly. Mated with abandon. Mewling noises escaped from Nicole’s throat. Hadrian sank down to his knees, taking her with him. When she was on her back, he rained desperate, hungry kisses all over her face—on her eyelids, her forehead, her cheeks and temple, on her jaw, mouth and neck. Nicole sobbed.
“Nicole,” Hadrian whispered, his thick, hard body coming down on hers. There were words which wanted to gush forth, but he was so overwhelmed, he could not fin
d them, did not dare express them.
Nicole clutched him fiercely, kissing him back wildly. Hadrian pulled her skirts up, found the slit in her drawers, and grabbing the fabric with both hands, he ripped it apart.
Seconds later he had freed his massively engorged phallus and was thrusting ruthlessly into her. She stiffened at his onslaught, but it was too late, he had forgotten she was a virgin, he had forgotten everything. He tried to slow his rampaging thrusts, tried to stop the madness that possessed him, and failed.
A moment later it was over. He collapsed, shuddering, on top of her. She held him, caressing him. His pulses subsided and eventually his mind began to function.
The colors were still there. Bright and strong, vivid. His expression uncharacteristically soft, relaxed, Hadrian smiled. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Nicole said vehemently, stroking his damp hair. “Don’t ever be sorry, not with me.”
He was groggy now with a fatigue induced not just by physical release, but by the whiskey he was unaccustomed to and the days he had not slept. Nicole’s soothing caresses were impossible to fight. He felt the heavy cloak of sleep descending and could not resist. He tightened his hold on the woman in his arms. His last waking thought was that he no longer wanted to resist, not her, and not himself, and he dreamed of brilliantly hued rainbows.
Hadrian awoke in darkness. For a moment he was completely disoriented. He turned his head, wincing at the stab of pain behind his temples, and saw the dying coals of the hearth. The burgundy drapes on the tall windows on that wall were open, revealing a heavy darkness outside. It was very late in the night. Total recall hit him. He was on the library floor, where he had fallen asleep. After making love to Nicole Shelton.