After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you are destitute, Miss Sheringham?”

  “Poor as a church mouse,” she replied, chin out-thrust, daring him to offer insult.

  He took the dare. “You must have expensive tastes. I know for a fact Major Sheringham arranged a generous allowance through his brother—”

  “Certainly he did!” she interrupted angrily. “But Cousin Nigel felt no compunction to keep a promise made to a dead man. My aunt and I can no longer live on his meager charity. I must find a living.

  “I thought I could do some good as governess for the twins. I thought you and I would be able to deal with each other civilly, despite … everything. But I see I was wrong,” she finished bitterly. “I will not trouble you further, Your Grace.”

  She had pivoted to leave when he said, “Perhaps we can contrive an arrangement that will meet both our needs.”

  She turned back to him cautiously. “What kind of arrangement?” Her face paled as she thought of one obvious possibility. “You need not offer carte blanche, Your Grace. I will not accept it.”

  “I have no desire to make you my mistress, Miss Sheringham.”

  He watched the flush race up her slender throat and realized she believed he no longer desired her. Foolish woman.

  “Will you hire me as governess, after all?” she asked, her hands laced tightly before her.

  “How badly do you want the job, Miss Sheringham?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is your price?” she asked baldly. “What do you want?”

  “Obviously the children’s situation must be remedied. I need someone to care for them who will not leave at the first sign of trouble. In the event my brother does not return from the dead, I need an heir. So what I want, Miss Sheringham, is a wife.”

  “You must know I despise you,” she whispered. “You must know I could never agree to marry you.”

  “Nevertheless, Miss Sheringham, my price is marriage.”

  He saw from the way her lips had flattened in determination that she intended to refuse him.

  “There are benefits to such an arrangement you may not have contemplated,” he said.

  “Becoming the wife of the Beast of Blackthorne? Becoming a prisoner within these stone walls? I have considered both and desire neither!”

  “Taking my name mends your reputation,” he said in a steely voice. “And an heir for me means a child for you!”

  He saw both reasons appealed to her.

  “You must also realize that as my wife, you would never want for anything. I promise my purse would be open to you.”

  “Promises can be broken.”

  “I will have my solicitor draw up papers that guarantee you an income,” he said cynically. “Will that satisfy you?”

  “Will you let me see your face?”

  “No.” The curt response had come from somewhere deep inside him. “There is no reason for it,” he said more calmly.

  “If I were your wife, I would expect to discuss matters face to face with you.”

  “It is a marriage of convenience, my dear. I do not need you except at night. Any questions you have in the daytime can be asked through Griggs.”

  His words sounded brutal even to his own ears. Carte blanche would have been less humiliating than what he was offering.

  “I must decline your kind offer,” she said, her gravelly voice rasping over his skin.

  “I will be waiting in the chapel after the sun goes down tomorrow with a special license and a vicar to marry us. You have until then to change your mind.”

  “I will not change my mind,” she said, her eyes bleak and brimming with tears. “Goodbye, Your Grace. Please tell the twins I am sorry. I—”

  She pressed a fist to her mouth to keep a sob from escaping, shot him one last angry, defiant—and desolate—look, and ran from the room.

  Marcus slumped into the chair, extended his feet toward the fire, and let his head fall back against the cushion.

  He was exhausted. He should try to sleep.

  But he knew he would not. Not before tomorrow night. Not before he knew for sure whether she was gone forever from his life.

  Julian, I wish you were here. I need a friend right now.

  He wondered if Miss Sheringham would have felt any differently toward him if he had explained how Julian had died. Julian’s revelations would only have hurt her. And what had happened afterward was too gruesome, too macabre, to be repeated in a young lady’s presence. Yet over the past year, he had explained everything to the imaginary Miss Sheringham, the one who lived in his head.

  When he closed his eyes to shut out the memories that haunted him, a picture of Julian’s angry face appeared behind his eyelids.

  “I will not fight beside a coward,” Julian had said, spurring his mount to put distance between them.

  “Coward?” Marcus jeered, spurring his horse to keep up with his friend as they galloped toward the oncoming horde of enemy soldiers.

  “What else do you call someone who runs from trouble,” Julian accused.

  They had to shout to be heard over the thunder of a hundred charging horses. “You did not have to propose to her yourself,” Marcus countered.

  You left me no choice,” Julian said. “I only hope my fiancée will understand why I must marry another woman. There was no time to speak with her before I left. Likely she will break the engagement herself when she hears the gossip.”

  “You promised marriage to Miss Sheringham when you were bound to another lady?” Marcus reined his horse around a rock in his path and angled back to Julian’s side.

  “It was a secret engagement,” Julian snapped back. “Her father forbids the marriage.”

  “How could you—”

  “I did what you made necessary,” Julian interrupted harshly. “More lives will be ruined than you guessed, Marcus. I hope you are happy with your freedom!”

  Marcus was nettled that Julian had not trusted him enough to share his secret. And appalled at the havoc he had wrought by refusing to marry Miss Sheringham.

  The order came to draw sabers. When Julian had his saber in hand he turned to Marcus one last time and shouted, “I have changed my mind, Marcus. I hope you survive the battle, so I may have the pleasure of killing you myself.”

  Julian spurred his mount across the field, leaving Marcus in his dust.

  Marcus should have followed after him. He had made a promise to Miss Sheringham to guard Julian with his life. But he was furious at Julian’s last verbal stab. Why should he protect a man who intended to kill him?

  By the time he realized the danger of hesitation, he was already engaged in combat and unable to breach the distance between himself and Julian on the battlefield. Nevertheless, Marcus tried to keep watch over his friend. He managed to call a warning when a lancer nearly ran Julian through. Julian flashed a thankful grin, before his face sobered with the realization that they were no longer friends.

  Marcus was distracted by the sight of Julian engaging two swordsmen at once, so he never saw the slashing blow that flayed half of his face to the bone. He did not remember feeling any pain, only the annoyance of blood seeping into his left eye and clouding his vision. The Frenchman was an excellent fencer, and it took a great deal of concentration—and luck—for Marcus to run him through.

  By the time Marcus had won free, one of the two French cavalrymen attacking Julian had maneuvered himself to Julian’s left side and was raising his sword to strike a mortal blow. Marcus shouted a frantic warning to Julian, who ducked, keeping his head in place. But the falling sword cleaved Julian’s left leg in two.

  Marcus would never forget the look of shock and surprise on Julian’s face when the stump began to spurt blood. Julian quickly lost his balance and tumbled from his horse, one more body among the dead and wounded that littered the battlefield.

  Marcus spurred his horse, slashing through anyone who got in his way, until he reached the spot where he thought Julian had fallen. He knew his friend would bl
eed to death if he did not get aid quickly.

  The thick smoke from the constant firing of cannons lifted for an instant, and Marcus saw the battle lines had moved, leaving him without an enemy to fight. Nothing lay before him but the dead and dying.

  He dismounted and turned over bodies, searching desperately for Julian. He was sick with what he found. Blood and brains and intestines. Bodies with no legs. No arms. No limbs at all.

  Tears ran down his face. He blamed them on the smoke that burned his eyes and hoarsened his voice. It shifted like fog, making it impossible to see what lay on the ground in front of him. He stumbled over bodies, knelt to see their faces, then rose and walked on.

  Marcus helped the wounded when he could and tore himself from the grasping hands of dying men who begged him to kill them and end their misery.

  So many lay dead, so many more cried out in agony from their wounds, and all the while, the battle raged on. The cacophony of sound drowned out Marcus’s shouts. “Julian! Where are you! Julian! Answer me!”

  He could not find him.

  A cannonball—apparently falling far short of its target—exploded right in front of him. His horse caught most of the shrapnel, saving Marcus’s life, but his left hand, which had been holding the reins, had been ripped to shreds. Marcus knew the surgeons would likely cut it off, so he was in no hurry to seek a hospital, even though the wound was bleeding badly.

  Life without his hand. He could not imagine it.

  When the smoke cleared, he saw there was not much left in the cannon crater to identify. Nevertheless, he continued his search for Julian … or his remains.

  Marcus did not remember anything after that. He had woken up lying on the grass, with only the sky above him, terribly thirsty and in terrible pain. One eye was covered completely by bandages, but he searched his surroundings with the other. Griggs sat beside him on the ground, his back against the wall of some peasant’s cottage.

  “Where are we?”

  “Field hospital. I found you and brought you here.”

  Griggs’s upper body was swathed in a bloody bandage. His right arm was missing. “Should’ve stayed here with you. Lost this later,” he said, gesturing toward the missing arm.

  Then Marcus remembered. His hand. He lifted his left hand and felt a searing pain. All he could see through his one good eye was a tight ball of bloody bandages. “They cut it off,” he grated past his thirst-swollen throat.

  “No, Captain. I wouldn’t let ’em.” He held a canteen to Marcus’s lips, and Marcus swallowed as much as he could.

  “Hand won’t be much use to you,” Griggs explained. “But it’s there. Figured if the choice was mine, I’d want to keep it. In my case, there was no arm left for the surgeons to saw off. Frenchie got it with a saber.”

  “I’m glad you made it, Griggs.” Marcus realized the cannon had stopped. “Is the battle over?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Did we win?”

  “If you can call it that,” Griggs said sourly. “Never saw so many dead. Never saw so much human slaughter.”

  “Have you heard from Major Sheringham? Or anything about him?”

  “He’s missin’, Captain.”

  Marcus heaved out a breath of air. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek. He closed his unbandaged eye and said, “I should have offered for Miss Sheringham when I had the chance, Griggs.”

  “Aye, Captain. That you should.”

  Marcus opened his eyes and found himself in the Abbey. There was no blue sky overhead, no sunlight warming him. The drawing room was dark. Nothing remained of the fire but a few ash-covered coals.

  Suddenly the fire irons rattled, and the fire leaped to life. “Is that you, Griggs?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “What time is it.”

  “Midnight, I’d say. Figured you might need some coal on the fire.”

  It made a good excuse for Griggs to check on him. Sometimes, when he drank too much, Griggs would help him to bed.

  “I have some business I need you to take care of tonight.”

  “Something to do with Miss Sheringham?” Griggs guessed.

  Marcus nodded, “I want you to ride to London and see my solicitor. Have him arrange for a special license and a vicar to perform a marriage. I need them both in the chapel of Blackthorne Abbey by sundown tomorrow.”

  Griggs whistled long and low. “She said yes?”

  “Not yet, Griggs. I have given Miss Sheringham some additional time to consider my offer. I will have my answer at sundown tomorrow.”

  Chapter 15

  Eliza crept on tiptoe into the room she was sharing with her aunt at the Hundred Hill Inn. She did not want to wake Aunt Lavinia, because she knew there would be questions—for which she did not yet have answers.

  “Have you become the next governess at Blackthorne Abbey?”

  Eliza exhaled gustily. “Why are you still awake?”

  “I could not sleep with you roaming about the countryside in the dark,” Aunt Lavinia grumbled. She rearranged the pillows behind her, so she was sitting up comfortably. “Well, girl? What did the duke say?”

  Eliza was still breathing hard, because she had run almost the whole way back. She had spent the entire two miles trying to control her rage—unsuccessfully. Now it all poured out. “I can be the next governess,” she snarled. “If I marry the Beast of Blackthorne.”

  “By Jericho! He did it! The Beau proposed!”

  “By Jove, Jove, Jove!” Eliza snapped back. “And the Beau did not propose, it was the Beast of Blackthorne!”

  “Stop pacing and sit down,” her aunt said. “You are making me dizzy.”

  Eliza dropped onto the narrow servant’s cot that had been set up for her next to the four-poster bed her aunt was settled in. But it was too low to the floor and uncomfortable for sitting. She shoved herself back onto her feet, crossed to the foot of the four-poster, and wrapped her arms around one of the corner posts to anchor her in place.

  “I would like to hear the whole of it,” her aunt said. “If you please.”

  “He is a brute, a bully, a—a—beast!” Eliza huffed furiously.

  “From the beginning,” her aunt cajoled. “Come, tell Aunt Lavinia all about it.”

  It was too comforting an invitation to refuse. Eliza crawled across the bedcovers and laid her head on her aunt’s breast, welcoming Aunt Lavinia’s consoling arms around her.

  “Things are in a dreadful state at the Abbey,” she said. “The children have been living in deplorable circumstances. Reggie has scars on her back from a brutal beating. I cannot bear to think of the excruciating pain she must have endured!”

  “It sounds as if you have come just in time,” her aunt said.

  “I have come much too late!” Eliza cried. “I should have swallowed my pride and taken myself in hand and—”

  “Shh. Shh,” her aunt said. “What is done is done. Tell me what you intend to do now.”

  “I must help Reggie and Becky,” she said. “I cannot abandon them. But that—Beast—has made it impossible for me to do so.”

  “Impossible? What about his proposal of marriage?”

  “He would not even let me see his face!” Eliza raged, pulling herself free of her aunt’s embrace and sitting up to search her aunt’s sightless eyes. “He kept the room so dark—you know how I hate the dark! He said I had no need to see his face.”

  “Perhaps it would frighten you,” Aunt Lavinia suggested.

  “Of course it would frighten me!” Eliza retorted, jumping off the bed and pacing again. “His hand frightened me, and it is covered with a concealing black glove.”

  “Then perhaps he has a good reason to keep his face hidden.”

  “But I would be his wife! How could I lie in bed with him, let him touch me, never knowing whether …”

  “Whether he really is a monster?” her aunt finished for her.

  Eliza shuddered. “What if he is?”

  “Think what it must be like for
him.”

  Trust Aunt Lavinia to arouse her compassion. Eliza was sorry the Beau’s perfect face and form had been destroyed. It was a tragedy for him. The world had lost something precious, as well. The Beau had been nature’s perfect creation. A magnificent collection in one body of all that Society most admired in a man.

  Now he was just a man, like any other, scarred and crippled and no longer perfect. The obvious contrast between having people openly admire him a year ago, and shrinking from him in horror now, made his situation all the more pitiable. But Eliza found it hard to pity him.

  “I cannot forgive his neglect of the twins,” Eliza said. “It is only pride that keeps His Grace entombed in that dark place. Other soldiers have found the courage to live in the world with disfigured bodies. Why not him?”

  “Perhaps because the duke suffers from more than a crippled body,” Aunt Lavinia said.

  “Like what?”

  “A tortured soul.”

  Eliza balled her hands into fists. “The Beast of Blackthorne has no soul!”

  Aunt Lavinia harrumphed. “Well, then. I suppose you cannot marry him. I would like to start early tomorrow for home.” She began arranging her pillows for sleep.

  Eliza saw how her aunt had tricked her. Though the duke was a monster, had no soul, hid his face, and lived in the dark, marriage to him was her only route to the children. If she ran away, Eliza became as responsible for their fate as their uncle was.

  Seeing that Aunt Lavinia did not intend to pursue the conversation, Eliza began to ready herself for bed. But she knew she would not sleep. She had too much thinking to do.

  If only the duke had not offered marriage. If only he had offered something dishonorable she could easily refuse.

  Even so, there was much to dread in the life he had offered her. Never to see his eyes when he made love to her? Never to be kissed again? To lie beneath a faceless stranger who had no use for her except at night, in his bed? It was a monstrous existence.

  But her other life—the life scandal had reaped—was no better. Isolated. Purposeless. Barren. At least if she married the duke, she could help Reggie and Becky. And she might, one day, have a child of her own to love.