Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  So, that was why the housekeeper was on edge; as Donovan’s wife, her presence here was a portend change and change was not always welcomed with open arms. Smiling at the woman’s reflection, Elizabeth said, “Please tell to Mr. O’Donovan I look forward to meeting him and I hope that he and I shall become very good friends.”

  *******

  Elizabeth awoke to candlelight and the fragrant aroma of earth and foliage coming in from the opened balcony doors. She rose and walked out on to the balcony. The stunning hues of the sunset took her breath away. She leaned against the balustrade and watched the red orange sun melt into the golden sea. Crickets chirped in the darkness. An owl hooted from a nearby tree.

  “A perfect end to a new day, oui, ma petite?”

  She whirled about to find Donovan lurking behind her outside the door, still in that awful black costume. The glow of a cheroot was in his hand. He lifted his cigar to his lips. The red glow revealed that his face was unsheathed.

  The stench of ale and more potent beverages wafted about her as he stood. He tossed his cheroot over the side of the veranda and ran an unsteady hand through his wild hair. “I was just about to join you in that great bed.” As he advanced she noted his gait was unsteady. His arms wound about her possessively as he bent to capture her mouth. He’d been drinking. She could taste it on his lips. She turned her head away.

  “You smell so sweet, and you taste so damned good, Lizzie.” His mouth left wet, clumsy kisses across her cheek as it searched for her lips.

  “You smell like an alehouse.” Elizabeth replied, as she tried, unsuccessfully, to push him away. “I want separate rooms, Donovan, just as you promised.”

  “Oh, I intend to keep you much closer than that, my sweet. I’ve come to enjoy crawling into a bed warmed by your succulent flesh.” Large hands moved over her hips to cup her bottom and pull her against his hardened manhood.

  “So all of that rot about waiting for me, not pushing me beyond what I was able to give was a lie?” She argued, trying to reach the kind man inside this groping oaf as she pushed and wriggled and tried to escape his cloying arms. “I believed you. I trusted you. And now I know you’re no different than those disgusting men who kidnapped me!”

  “I’m not like them! But I am your husband and I have a right to touch you, damn it.”

  His words chilled her. Elizabeth slapped him hard across the face. The sound of her stinging blow echoed in the night air. “Stop groping me like a piece of meat. Let me go!”

  His hands circled her shoulders roughly, as if he intended to shake her. “You didn’t mind my attention last night. In fact, you gave me an open ended invitation, as I recall.”

  Oh, he would have to bring that up, wouldn’t he? Damn the man. Last night, she’d been frightened out of her wits, desperate to keep him with her. Last night, he turned her down. He was tender and considerate, gallant to a fault. Tonight he was drunk and demanding his rights like a vulgar sailor expecting service from a strumpet in a back alley he’d paid to mount.

  And yet, he was her husband. No matter how she justified her refusal, she could not escape that fact.

  “I’ll endure your pawing and rutting if I must, but I’ll not give you the pleasure of my screams. And just so we’re straight, Mr. O’Rourke, The Lord of Darkness or whoever you are, I’ll hate you forever if you force yourself on me. I’ll hate you! You promised—you promised!” She stopped, aware she was near hysterics as she heard the shrill edge to her voice.

  His hands dropped from her shoulders. “I do not require screams from you or endurance, for that matter. I am a gentle—“

  “--Stay away from me, you arrogant coxcomb!” She threatened. Her fist raised and coiled, ready to clout him if he persisted.

  “Oh, I’ll stay well away, Madame. I’ll have nothing more to do with you until you come to your senses.” The count stalked through the room to the hall door. He made his exit with a defining thud, leaving her standing on the veranda in his shirt to savor this hollow victory.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Elizabeth came downstairs the next morning she was greeted by the housekeeper and even given the ghost of a smile. “We didn’t expect you up and about so early, Madame. Fritz wishes to know what time and where you wish breakfast served.”

  “Where is his lordship?” She asked, feeling it be best to consult Donovan’s wishes, since he’d undoubtedly have an opinion in the matter.

  “He left hours ago to inspect the cane fields. He’s sent word to the port city with Captain Rawlings yesterday that you will be hiring a full staff. He wants you to be prepared to interview them after luncheon today. And he’s decided I’m to stay on as the housekeeper.” There was no mistaking the triumphant gleam in Tabby’s eye. “What is my lady’s wish regarding breakfast?”

  So, the old woman talked to Donovan before she could address the issue with him. “I’ll eat in the dining room today, but send breakfast to my room from now on, when I ring for it.” Elizabeth said, embracing her role as mistress of her new home with vigor. “Tell the cook I will discuss the menus with him at a later time. Today I want tea, toast and fresh fruit.”

  The housekeeper nodded and left her at the entry to the dining room.

  Elizabeth surveyed the room. The shutters were opened and the sashes pushed up to evict the stale air. The curtains were faded and moth eaten, they would need replacing. The dust covers had been removed from the chairs and folded in a stack near the door. She stroked the bare wood of the table, a rich, dark cherry that would gleam with an enthusiastic application of polish. Cobwebs clung to the chandelier above her head. The walls needed fresh paint. Dreary paintings graced them, masculine hunting scenes she did not care for. She wondered if her husband would mind if she swapped them for more appealing florals from another room.

  The thought of Donovan brought a hot flush to her face. How was she to face him after last night’s nasty exchange? In the light of day she realized she insulted him by comparing him to the smugglers. Well, he’d been boorish and demanding, so he deserved it.

  Tabby appeared with her breakfast. “You need to drink plenty of water, my lady.” She remarked, noting the color in Elizabeth’s cheeks. “You’ll become ill in the heat if you don’t.”

  After breakfast, Tabby gave her a tour of the house. They inspected the first floor rooms and discussed which ones should be cleaned and aired first based on their practical use. The second floor was composed of bedrooms for family and guests. There were six bedchambers aside from the adjoining suites for the master and mistress, making a total of eight. One was occupied by her husband’s uncle. Another was set aside for Donovan’s mother, leaving four empty guest bedrooms. Elizabeth made a mental note to assign one for Michael’s use.

  The third floor made up the servant’s quarters, the nursery and a suite for the governess.

  Elizabeth felt an invisible hand tug her toward a room at the end of the hall.

  Tabby thinned her lips into a disapproving line when Elizabeth asked for the key to the room. “I don’t think this is a room you’re supposed to see, mum.”

  “I am the mistress of this house.” Elizabeth reminded her archly.

  “Suit yourself.” The older woman muttered. Elizabeth didn’t miss the amusement twisting the woman’s thin lips as she unlocked the door. “This was Gareth’s mother’s room.”

  Elizabeth stepped inside. Faded coral pink silk curtains hung from windows that were not shuttered as the rest of the household had been. The curtains were parted, revealing bars on the outside; a curious arrangement as the room was three stories from the ground. A matching rose bedspread covered the four poster bed. There was a small white marble fireplace, a blue chaise lounge beside it and dried flowers in a vase on the mantle, skeletal remains of ancient blooms that would dissolve to dust if touched by a human hand.

  It was a luxurious suite, not a plain room intended for a servant. It was also a gilded cage.

  A wicker cradle stood in one corner. Elizabeth wa
lked to it and peeked inside. A silver rattle lay in the dusty lace coverlet. She stepped away from the cradle and considered the barred windows. An oppressive hopelessness whirled about her, the desire to be free to walk outside, to feel the sunlight on her skin and the wind in her hair. Free of bondage to a man she did not love.

  “Run away, hide! He’ll keep you locked in here forever, awaiting his pleasure.”

  Elizabeth stood very still, listening to that frightened whisper. It was the same voice that warned her yesterday in the count’s room. Vowing to return alone so she might discern why the poor woman’s spirit remained trapped in this house, even in death, Elizabeth turned to the older woman. “How did Gareth’s mother die?”

  “I wasn’t here at the time. They say it was complications of childbirth, the fever. Gareth was two months old. The O’Donovan cleaned up the body himself and forbade any to come up here after she died. He loved her. He told me that, many times.”

  “She was his prisoner.” Elizabeth countered with disbelief. “That isn’t love, Tabby.”

  “She was a Darkie.” The housekeeper said, as if that made all the difference. “I don’t know what they teach delicate girls like you in England about these things, but here a black man cuts the master’s cane in the fields and the Negro girls, the pretty ones, end up in his bed.”

  Elizabeth flushed scarlet, appalled by the woman’s coarse remark. No housekeeper in England would dare speak to her mistress in an abrasive manner, not if she wished to retain her position. Alas, since arriving here she was constantly being reminded that she was no longer in that polite, civilized country, despite her husband’s assertion that these islands were ruled by King George.

  “In England, in polite society, slavery is considered a barbaric and outdated institution that needs to be abolished. It allows evil men to prey upon the less fortunate.” She replied in a condescending tone, wearied by the housekeeper’s insulting mien.

  The housekeeper’s lips tightened into a thin, puckered line. “Richard O’Donovan was a good man. He bought Marissa from a brothel in Martinique and brought her here to be his mistress. She was better off here, the darling of one man instead of a whore to all.” Tabby’s features softened. “He could be so charming, a girl could hardly resist him.”

  “Being locked in here would make it rather difficult.” Elizabeth countered.

  “He had no choice, she’d run off otherwise.” Tabby defended the man. “Marissa was a fool. Richard was everything a girl could wish for in a protector; rich, handsome and uncommonly tender. Oh, he liked his games of dominance and submission. If she’d have just played along, why, he’d have given her the world.” Tabby looked like a lovesick girl ready to swoon as she gazed longingly at the bed.

  Elizabeth scoffed aloud, mortified by Tabby’s eagerness to defend the man’s perfidy against a member of their sex. Marissa was a fool for not wanting to be someone’s private whore? For wanting to be free? She marched out of the disturbing room, past the impertinent housekeeper, too flustered to reprimand the cheeky woman as she ought. She returned to first floor via the servant’s stairs, with Tabby trailing behind her.

  As she marched down the long hall of the east wing, toward the center of the house, Elizabeth paused, realizing there was a room she had not been shown earlier, by design.

  “That’s his lordship’s laboratory.” Tabby informed her dismissively.

  “I wish to see it.” Elizabeth insisted.

  “His lordship doesn’t allow anyone in there, Madame.” When Elizabeth held her impervious gaze, Tabby added, “I suppose you’re the exception. But mark, me, you must never to go into the surgery, Madame.”

  “Why?” The housekeeper’s forbidding tone made Elizabeth ask.

  “Sometimes there’s a corpse there, awaiting dissection.”

  Elizabeth gasped and then recovered her shock. The woman was obviously making sport of her. “I’m sure my husband does nothing of the sort.”

  “Well, I’m not making it up.” Tabby insisted, challenging Elizabeth to say otherwise with her insolent gaze. “After a hanging in the port city, if no one claims the body, the count has a standing arrangement with the hangman to send it here. I know, as I’m the one who pays the delivery men. I’m only warning you so you don’t go in there and give yourself a fright, mum.”

  *******

  Elizabeth sat in a chair in housekeeper’s parlor just off the kitchens after nearly swooning at the news that her spouse hacked up corpses as a hobby. She sipped a glass of lime water.

  The count was an anatomist, Tabby had been quick to explain as she escorted her wilting mistress down the hall with a steadying arm about Elizabeth’s waist. As a scientist, he studied the organs of the human body to order to understand disease and to thus preserve life.

  The distinction did little to improve Elizabeth’s opinion of the man at present.

  She patted her neck with a handkerchief for the third time in mere minutes. Noting her discomfort, Tabby refilled her glass and glowered at her until she sipped it. Pearl appeared briefly and handed her a folded note. Elizabeth opened it. It was not an apology but rather a command for her to come to the laboratory at four o’clock today. She stared at the signature, a large letter D, and feared her world was shifting too quickly beneath her feet.

  After luncheon the applicants began to arrive. Elizabeth made her selections for maids and footmen quickly, based on her impression of each candidate. She spent more time interviewing those applying to be her personal maid and settled upon a Spanish woman named Miss Chloe Ramirez whose father had been the steward here years ago. Those laughing brown eyes and her warm smile promised Elizabeth she would be great fun, while the other women vying for the position seemed to have taken vinegar in their tea instead of sugar.

  The housekeeper gestured to Elizabeth for a private word. “You must not hire her. She passes herself off as Spanish with her light skin but she’s a quadroon, she has darkie blood.”

  Elizabeth knew what it was like to be the subject of open disdain. Her stepfather frequently disparaged her for her Irish heritage, calling it a taint in the blood as if she were diseased and inferior to those of pure English descent. “Her parentage is not my concern.”

  “Madame, her grandmother was a voodoo priestess.” Tabby argued. “Old Suki used to shake a dried chicken’s foot at your husband’s grandfather, cursing her master. Choose one of the others. They’re good English girls. Please, for your children, mum. The girl might poison them, or you.”

  “Well, then, we should get on famously.” Elizabeth had had enough of the housekeeper’s opinions. “My grandmother was a witch.”

  It was the housekeeper’s turn to appear scandalized.

  Elizabeth left Tabby to deal with her new staff. She meandered down the long corridor to the west wing of the manor house to explore her new home unhindered by the older woman’s dour presence.

  “Madame Beaumont?”

  Elizabeth turned to find a tall fellow with a dark complexion deliberately tracking her. She looked about the empty corridor with unease, wondering if he had followed her from the servant’s hall without her being aware of it. “I’m sorry. The interviews are over, sir.”

  Too late, she noted his gentlemanly attire. “Mr. O’Donovan—I beg your pardon!” She said, fearing she’d offended her husband’s uncle by mistaking him for a hireling. “I meant no offense.”

  He held up a gloved hand. “It is you who must forgive me. My nephew cautioned me that you are reticent where men are concerned. I should have waited for a proper introduction.”

  “My lord exaggerates the issue, sir.” How dare Donovan imply she was a shrinking mouse afraid of her own shadow!

  Like Donovan, his uncle had a high brow, chiseled cheekbones, an elegant nose and a firm jaw. Mr. O’Donovan’s eyes were slate gray, not pale blue. His dark complexion was tempered by a subtle golden hue that complimented the aura of warmth surrounding him.

  “Nevertheless, I am a stranger to you, my lady.�
�� He said in a pleasing baritone and made an elegant leg before her. As he did so, thick serpentine twists of hair moved about his shoulders as if they were alive. “Gareth O’Donovan at your service, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Please call me Elizabeth.” She smiled warmly at the man. She didn’t know what to expect regarding her husband’s uncle after being presented with this sorry, neglected estate and even sorrier excuse for a housekeeper. She didn’t expect to find such a charming, engaging gentleman.

  “Elizabeth it shall be. I was just about to take a ride about the island. Care to join me?”

  The offer was a burst of sunshine in an otherwise dismal day. “I don’t ride. My lord has promised to tutor me. Perhaps at a later date, sir?”

  “I look forward to it.” Gareth O’Donovan bowed and took his leave.

  She wandered along the west wing, determined to find a room to establish as her own. She passed over the opened pristine ‘pink’ room with its fussy ivory satin furnishings, dainty rose tea setting and fragile glass figurines. Elizabeth assumed it was a room the count’s mother favored and was loathe to take it over and cause resentment from her new mother-in-law. She moved past room after gloomy, shuttered room along the corridor, finding none to fit her taste.

  The room she finally settled upon was the library. The rows of books and oak paneling reminded Elizabeth of her grandfather’s study at his estate in Devonshire, in her beloved England. She’d spent many a happy hour there as a girl during the summer months, when her mother took Elizabeth and Michael to the country and left Fletcher in London to pursue his vices. That had been years ago, before Mama and Grandfather Wentworth had quarreled.

  She would add a serene landscape to replace the portrait of that nasty old bloke with bushy eyebrows glaring down at her. A vase of fresh flowers from the gardens would do nicely on the mantel . . . and then she remembered the sad state of the gardens.

  Elizabeth sank into a chair with a compelling urge to cry. Crying won’t mend a leaky roof, her grandmother would be quick to say. She took a deep, steadying breath and gathered her resolve. Nor would crying make this mess she’d been presented with into a proper home. Hard work was the answer, not useless tears.