The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  She continued to plead for answers. “I need you to stop being this stranger in my husband’s body. I need you to be the person I married. I can’t live with this person who is forever licking his wounds and hiding secrets. This isn’t you, not the real you. This is some mask of protection, and you need to remove it so I can see my husband again.”

  His fear turned to frustration, anger building in his gut. “This isn’t a mask, Lizbeth. This is me. If you don’t like what you see, then you shouldn’t have married me.”

  He thought she understood. He thought she wouldn’t push him until he was ready.

  “You think this mask is you? Who, then, is the man I swam with in the ocean? Who is the man I laughed with under the stars?” She took two steps towards him. “That man wouldn’t keep secrets from me, especially not to hide an entire person. If that man isn’t you, then who is he?”

  “An illusion.” He turned away from her to face the window, crossing his arms protectively across his chest.

  The welling anger centered him, reducing the sound of the hum, giving him balance. He didn’t want to be pressed or told who she believed him to be.

  “Don’t turn your back on me. Don’t shut me out. You have lived behind a self-made wall so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be yourself. Or maybe you’ve never known yourself? I’ve seen you happy and carefree, an earnest truthsayer. I’ve seen the real you, Sebastian. Why would you ever want to be this untouchable person who shuts out his wife and turns his back on her? I fell in love with the real you, not this cold mask.” Her voice sounded closer, but he didn’t turn to see if she had moved.

  “How can you fall in love with me if you don’t know me? You said yourself you hardly know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of, what my father reminded me of every day, never letting me forget my sins. You ask the impossible.”

  “Oh, but Sebastian, I do know you. I know you better than you know yourself, it would seem. You are you, not who your father defined you to be, not this secretive man afraid to look at me.” She stood so closely he could smell the soap on her skin mixed with a hint of book leather and last night’s lovemaking.

  His heart ached to hold her, to turn to her and ask her to tell him more about falling in love. Had she really fallen in love with him? He braced himself for that to change as soon as he spoke the truth about his sister, as soon as he verbalized it.

  “You’re mistaken. I’m a man defined by my past, by my choices, by my family.”

  “That’s ridiculous! People don’t define you,” she insisted.

  “But actions do. I killed my own sister, Lizbeth. Now what do you think of me?”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He waited for a response. An eternity passed, the air thick with unspoken words.

  Turning to face her, he saw what he expected to see, fear and pain in her eyes, slivers of hate etched into pupils. “Are you not afraid of me now? Do you not hate me now?”

  He turned back to the window, refusing to watch her slipping away from him. Why couldn’t she leave instead of watching his heart break?

  When she didn’t respond, he snapped, “Why are you still here? Leave me. I’m a murderer, Lizbeth. I’m responsible for the death of both my sister and mother, and the heartache of my father, an ache so strong it caused his heart attack, all because of me. I’m not worth their lives. Leave me before I destroy your life, too.”

  He heard her sobbing quietly behind him.

  “Am I not convincing enough? Do you want the whole story? Is my confession not enough for you? Want all the sordid details? I made a choice that resulted in my sister’s death, and thus my mother’s from heartbreak of losing her beloved little girl. I alone am responsible, and I bear the scars to prove it.”

  Much to his dismay, the first words she spoke after his declaration, words carried on a sigh, asked, “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  “Of course, she’s dead. Why do you think he beat me? He beat me because I made a decision and had to pay the consequence. The scars are proof of her death.”

  Only a week ago he thought he could swallow the pain, ignore his past, push it down to the depths of his soul, but now that would be impossible, not when he had spoken the words aloud, not when she knew what he had always known—he was a monster. All his potential happiness washed away.

  The cotton of her dress brushed against his leg. A wisp of her hair tickled the back of his arm. For a moment, he thought she would reach out to him, but she didn’t.

  “No one deserves those scars.” Lizbeth’s words strained, full of pain and confusion. “What happened? How did she die?”

  He had never told the story to anyone, not even to Drake. What more damage could it do to tell her? He flinched at the betrayal she must feel, at the hate she must harbor now that she knew the truth.

  Gnashing his teeth, he said aloud what he held in his heart for all these years. “Lilith was my sister. My mother doted on her. She was my mother’s little princess. I, too, loved my sister more than anything in this world, even if she did have a knack for getting me into trouble. Every few days, she talked me into sneaking past the nanny to escape to the beach so we could play mermaid and monster or Poseidon and shipwreck or whatever her imagination conjured.”

  He paused, pain welling in his throat, tears stinging his eyes. “I loved going with her but feared getting caught. Even after dusk, she would refuse to leave, daring me to stay longer, risking Father’s wrath. She didn’t know it was I who was punished every time we were caught.”

  Losing himself to the memories, he slipped into the past, watching his sister in his mind’s eye splashing in the water, never caring if father punished them, openly defying him by ruining her dresses, covering herself in wet sand, and arriving well past dusk.

  “One day, she wanted to stay and play. She begged me to stay. My bottom was still sore from the day before, and while she was immune to his anger, I was not. I didn’t want another punishment, so I turned my back and told her I was going home. She begged me to stay, but I left her. I made a selfish choice, and I left my sister alone in the ocean past dark. It was my duty as her brother to protect her, and I willingly abandoned her.”

  He paused, feeling the wetness on his cheek. He could still hear Lilith calling his name.

  His throat scratchy and hoarse, he continued, “I snuck back into the house, relieved not to be caught. The next day, I didn’t see her, but that wasn’t all too strange, as it was a large house, and often Mother spent days alone with her, doing whatever it is mothers and daughters do together. Another day passed, and I still hadn’t seen her. I went to ask Mother, but Father forbade me to go near her, saying she had caught a contagious fever.

  “A week passed, in which time I saw neither my sister nor my mother. I didn’t know if Lilith had caught Mother’s fever, if she had been caught sneaking back in and been punished, or if she were still out there, lost. Childishly, I made plans to rescue her from locked closets, to scout the wilderness and save her with my cunning, to sneak porridge to her if she was sick.

  “Finally, I went to my father, worried beyond reason. Why did I wait a week, you wonder? Because I’m a selfish bastard. Because I feared his wrath. Because I feared the punishment when I confessed I had violated curfew. Because I feared his anger when I confessed I left her alone at the ocean. Because I’m a coward. When I went to him, told him what I had done, said I was sorry and wanted to see my sister and mother, I learned the consequences of a moment’s rash decision.”

  Lizbeth’s fingers brushed his arm during this pause. He winced, flinching away from her.

  “Father stood from his chair, walked to the fireplace, and heated the poker. It was then he told me my sister drowned because of my irresponsibility as a brother, because I failed at my duties as a man. He told me to face the consequences of my decision. And then the fatal blow—my mother died that morning o
f a feverish fit over Lilith’s death and the knowledge her son was to blame. My father taught me in that moment the meaning of consequences, the meaning of remorse. He taught me the cost of my selfishness with not only the fire poker, but the stark reality that the two people I loved most in the world were dead because of my selfishness.

  “I was never allowed to speak Lilith’s name. Every foul mood, every spilt teacup, every loud noise, he reminded me of what I did, of the pain I brought to the household. He recovered from their death and went quite mad. I might as well have killed them all with my bare hands. All dead because of a single choice I made.”

  Having spoken the truth aloud after all these years, he thought he might find some relief, but instead his heart pounded in his ears. So lost in the memory of it all, the nightmare of it all, he had almost forgotten Lizbeth standing behind him.

  She didn’t make a sound.

  A life filled with fear, and now he was afraid to turn around, afraid to face the woman he loved, afraid she would look at him as his father had done. He wanted to hold her, wanted to love her. Why couldn’t he have had more time with her before the truth was told? Now, he just wanted her to leave him alone to self-loath.

  A whisper reached through the fog of his pain. “You told me you were only seven when your mother died.”

  “And so I was.”

  “But you were only a little boy, Sebastian.”

  He let silence stretch and watched the waves crest the rocks as the looming storm clouds gave way to a luminescent sun reflected on the waves.

  “I’m a monster. Please, leave me. I want to be alone.” Even as he said it, he hoped she wouldn’t listen, hoped she would wrap her arms around him.

  “You can’t be responsible for anyone’s death. You were a child,” Lizbeth insisted. “But are you sure your sister died? She wasn’t sent away?”

  The fire poker rose before his mind’s eye, blurred by the vision of every beating to follow over the next decade. He howled with pain and rage, his back searing from memory alone, his knuckles on fire from fighting off his father.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted, pounding fists against the stone wall. “Don’t touch me! Leave me be!”

  It took mere moments to reorient himself, to realize he wasn’t shouting at his father, wasn’t fighting against the man, but rather was punching the library wall, his knuckles sore and bleeding.

  He squeezed his eyes closed and waited to feel Lizbeth’s protective arms. Instead, he heard the soft thud of the library door closing.

  Chapter 33

  A maelstrom of emotion whirled in Lizbeth as she entered the carriage less than an hour later, a small bag packed at her side.

  Rage at his father. Anger that Sebastian blamed himself for something he hadn’t done. Sadness that he bottled it all these years, torturing himself. Helplessness that she didn’t know the words to help him see he wasn’t responsible. And Love for the man she married.

  This man had held misplaced guilt in his heart all his life. She wanted to hold him in her arms and kiss away the pain, but this wasn’t her battle. She couldn’t alleviate his internal conflict any more than she could sit idly by and watch him rack himself, seeing himself as a murderous beast, which she knew perfectly well he was not.

  Despite her belief in his innocence, she felt utterly helpless. Even if everything happened exactly as he had described, which she doubted given he would have been too young to exact details, his father had no right to blame him. If Tobias Lancaster weren’t already in his grave, Lizbeth would be tempted to put him there herself.

  She suspected Sebastian felt as helpless as she did, but unlike him, she could ask for help on his behalf. She could swallow her pride, humble herself, and seek guidance from those who knew him best. Without their help, she wasn’t at all sure what to do, as he certainly wouldn’t listen to her, wouldn’t believe her when she told him he wasn’t responsible. Somehow, she needed proof that he wasn’t responsible, solid evidence.

  All this time, she had wanted nothing more than him to open to her. Never had she dreamt he hid so much guilt and pain. She only wanted them to be closer, no more secrets. The confession now seemed such an empty victory. She couldn’t battle what his father had done to him. She couldn’t battle a ghost.

  The carriage bumped and weaved along the path to Lyonn Manor. She didn’t know how she would do it, but she had to get her husband back before he drove himself insane. Her life disintegrated before her eyes when he unleashed his burdens, but not because of what he said, only that she realized if she couldn’t help him fight his father’s memory, she would lose him forever.

  The cloud-touching spires came into view at last. She couldn’t believe she was taking her sister’s advice and intentionally seeking out Annick. She didn’t even know what Annick could tell her that she didn’t already know, but surely, he would have insights to Sebastian, especially given he would have known Sebastian’s father. Could she convince Annick to take her to Roddam Hall? Maybe there was evidence at the manor that would exonerate Sebastian of his guilt, more letters to or from his father, something, anything.

  The correspondences with the orphanage seemed key to finding out what happened. Had Sebastian’s sister been sent away? Had she died before they sent her? Had she died on the way? It was possible Lilith had drowned, but that wouldn’t be the fault of Sebastian, only a child at the time. It was also possible Lilith contracted a fever and died from that. Lizbeth had no way of knowing if the mother died of fever or heartbreak or something far more sinister. Sorting truth from a madman’s words to a child was impossible.

  Jolting to a stop, the carriage parked in front of the gothic estate. The coachman opened Liz’s door and helped her down the steps. After running to the door as dignified as she could manage given her panic-stricken heart, she struck the door knocker persistently, forcefully.

  If not for the weight of the situation, she could have laughed. Annick had become a glimmer of hope in the darkness of her world.

  The butler answered, scowling before admitting her. He helped her out of her coat and bonnet and took her bag.

  “I shall ascertain if the duchess is receiving, madam,” he said as he walked towards the far end of the gallery.

  “Wait. No. I’m not here to see my sister. I’m here to see His Grace.”

  Two eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Please. It is a matter of some urgency.” She hadn’t meant to speak so loudly, but her voice echoed in the hall.

  “His Grace is from home. I will take your card and tell him you called.”

  “No. No, no, no. He must be home. It’s an urgent and delicate matter. I must speak with him immediately,” she pleaded with the stoic man.

  A stern voice called from the parlor door. “What is this about? Why do you so urgently need to see my son?”

  The dowager duchess stood in the doorway, the cane gripped tightly in her white-knuckled hand.

  “It is a matter I wish only to discuss with Annick.” The last person she wanted to see was Sebastian’s aunt.

  She needed Annick to tell her what to do, how to get through to Sebastian. This woman knew nothing of her nephew and was wasting her time.

  “Come. Join me,” commanded Catherine.

  “No, I—”

  “That wasn’t an invitation, Lady Roddam. That was a command. Come. Now.” Without waiting for another protest, Catherine returned to the parlor.

  Liz followed reluctantly.

  Captain Henry’s tree stood empty today, likely with Charlotte exploring the conservatory. Lizbeth perched herself on the edge of a pink chair, her spine straightened by an invisible string. The dowager sat in her favorite chair and faced Lizbeth, hot coals staring from under thin black eyebrows.

  “Something has happened?” Catherine surmised.

  “Yes. How did you know?” Liz shifted uncomfortably under the d
uchess’ stare.

  “It isn’t every day madwomen approach my door with battering rams demanding to speak with my son. Did my nephew strike you?” The question accompanied a casual tone as though they were discussing the latest additions to the flower garden.

  “Strike me? Heavens no! He would never do such thing!” What an appalling thing to ask, Lizbeth thought. Sebastian wasn’t like his father.

  “Then tell me why you are here. Do not feign ignorance. Do not stare at the floor. Do not stutter. I have no wish to wheedle information from you; however, since you are here, and I suspect from your urgency this pertains to my nephew, you may tell me, and I will attempt to aid you.” Catherine thumped the cane on the floor. “Know you may seek asylum here if he has hit you. He has the right to do so, but I am a powerful woman and will shield you if you should ask.”

  Liz’s words tumbling out before she could stop them, desirous to defend her husband and get to the point of why she came. “Sebastian is tormented by the memory of his sister.”

  “What sister? He has no sister.”

  “Lilith? He doesn’t have a sister named Lilith?” For a fleeting moment, Liz questioned if her husband really was mad.

  “Oh,” Catherine harrumphed, waving her hand dismissively. “That bastard girl. Yes, if you consider an illegitimate offspring a sister. But that’s not the point. The point is he couldn’t possibly remember her. He was far too young.”

  “He does remember her, and he’s torturing himself. It’s destroying him and our marriage. I feel so helpless. I can’t convince him he isn’t responsible, and I don’t know how to convince him that I love him regardless. I’m at a loss, Your Grace. He feels responsible but that’s preposterous because he was only a child.”

  “You’re rambling. Responsible for what?”

  Lizbeth looked incredulously at the duchess. “Her death, of course.”