Lightning Unbound: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 1

by Lynne Connolly

Standing in the garden, sheltered by the decorative ash tree, Gerard noticed the woman when she leaned out of the window. He caught his breath. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, glinting from the golden glow of the setting sun, catching the red lights and turning it into a ring of fire around her head. Her worried frown had gone, leaving a serene beauty he’d not seen on her earlier in the day. She almost made him forget about the headache that had smitten him shortly after the interview in his father’s study. He was prone to them, inherited, so his father told him, from his mother, hitting him like a lightning strike. Despite his pounding head his body awoke, and for that reason he turned away from the sight that had taken his breath away.

  She wasn’t for him. He wasn’t for anyone.

  Chapter Three

  “You’re as mad as Stretton!” His Grace, the Duke of Boscobel, spun on his heel to face his son.

  Gerard took a step forward. He’d grappled his headache into manageable form and now it merely pounded, instead of threatening to remove his sight and his senses. He could speak to his father and reason, which was a step forward. “It was unavoidable, sir.”

  The Duke of Boscobel glared at him. “How did you get to hear of Stretton’s predicament?”

  Gerard stared, dumbfounded. How could he tell his father he’d felt such a compulsion to go and rescue the man? Ridiculous. He thought swiftly. “I was with him the night before and his manservant came to tell me of his predicament the next day.” A lie, but a good one.

  “Ha!” Boscobel stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Why you? You hardly know the man.”

  “Because of my position,” Gerard explained smoothly. “I was probably the highest ranking person the servant could think of.”

  “How did he end up in the madhouse?”

  “Stretton got into a brawl and was raving drunk. He attacked the officers who arrested him and Fielding of Bow Street declared him mad and sent him to Bedlam.”

  The mention of Fielding did the trick. The duke had often declared that Fielding was too big for his own boots. “And who is Fielding of Bow Street to say yea or nay? Stretton is a peer of the realm! Has he no relatives to take care of him?”

  Gerard shook his head. “Nary a one.” Despite his father’s belligerent tones, Gerard’s headache began to subside. One of the remedies he’d tried must be working. He could think properly again without pain shooting through his head.

  “Can’t his people look after him?”

  “He was cogent for only a short time last night. He’s incoherent again this morning.”

  A speculative gleam entered the duke’s cold eyes. “His madness is alcohol induced, for certain. Too much Gin Lane rotgut. We can deal with that and when he recovers, he can give us useful support in Parliament to return the favour.” His grace shrugged and turned away, walking towards his desk which was, as usual, covered with neat piles of correspondence, invitations, and assorted papers to do with the running of several large estates. He stopped behind it and remained standing, maintaining his aggressive stare. “So what in heaven’s name made you rescue Fordhouse?” The duke made a noise of disgust. “Ramshackle family at best. The boy’s simple, best left where he was.”

  Gerard couldn’t bear to hear the gentle Lord Fordhouse referred to in that manner. “There’s no harm in him, and if we had left him he would have died inside a month. I couldn’t see that happen. According to his sister, their father is deliberately trying to bring Fordhouse’s life to a premature close.”

  Boscobel’s eyes opened wider. “You’re sure? He wasn’t caring for the boy the best he could?”

  Gerard grimaced. “‘The boy’ is seven and twenty. Fordhouse was in the main Incurables ward, chained to the wall alongside Stretton.”

  His father glared at him in exasperation. “What made you take them? We can’t take in every waif and stray that crosses our path. We can only bring ourselves opprobrium and trouble with those. I want them sent back without delay.”

  Gerard said, “No, Father.”

  His Grace’s eyes flashed anger at his son. “You do not say no to me!”

  Gerard owed his father respect, but not blind obedience. “I beg your pardon, sir, I meant no disrespect. I meant their case isn’t hopeless. He is not mad, he is simple, but he would have been driven to insanity in that place. Anyone would. Placing him there was a deliberate attempt to put a period to his existence. To leave him in that place would have been murder.”

  The duke frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve known it happen before. Unsuitable heirs allowed to die or quietly done away with.”

  “Exactly.”

  The duke looked into his son’s deliberately cool, calm eyes and understanding passed between them. “The boy needs a friend.” Gerard nodded. “So what’s to be done?”

  Gerard couldn’t appeal to his father’s charitable nature. He had none. He decided to appeal to his highly developed ambition instead. “Fordhouse is over the age of consent. If he can show he is competent, he may live independently of his father. His sister can care for him.” The way Gerard said it made it sound possible, the only right thing to do. Gerard waited.

  “He’s not mad?” Gerard saw the last of his father’s anger melt into speculation. The search for power obsessed the Duke of Boscobel, and he was currently urging a law through Parliament. The vote would be very close, and Boscobel needed all the support he could muster.

  This opening was what Gerard needed. He had no compunction in offering the bait of Lord Fordhouse as ally, as the proposed law seemed reasonable to him. “We could befriend them, not antagonize them.”

  Boscobel put his hand to his chin, frowning. “Someone will have to give the boy guidance.”

  “Indubitably.”

  Gerard deliberately kept his face blank but pleasant, and waited for his father, wishing, not for the first time, that his father was susceptible to his brand of mental persuasion.

  “Very well,” Boscobel said eventually. “You may allow them to stay, but keep me informed of any developments in their situation.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The duke motioned to a chair. Gerard knew this wasn’t a concern for his comfort, but a desire to set him at a disadvantage. Sure enough, the duke stayed on his feet while Gerard sank into the comfortably upholstered chair by the fire, fighting the lethargy creeping over him now his headache was leaving him. The damned lethargy that seemed to be increasing recently, sapping his strength with each attack.

  The duke regarded his son with a sad air. Gerard knew what was coming. As if he needed reminding. “You feel some attraction to Lady Bradley, do you not?”

  “She’s an attractive woman and she hasn’t had an easy life. She appeals to my protective instincts as well as—well.” Then he shrugged, trying to appear careless, to conceal the deep hurt that never left him. The duke wasn’t above using any weakness to keep him under control.

  Boscobel fixed him with a basilisk stare. “You cannot. You know you cannot. Especially if you care anything for her.”

  “I know.” The last thing Gerard needed was the constant reminder of the death sentence that hung over him. Sometimes he could see the scythe of Death bearing down on him. He’d wake up, sweating and panting for breath. And the death he could bring to anyone he married.

  His father stared at him for a long, drawn out moment, his pale eyes unfixing, unblinking. Gerard mentally shook himself free of the thrall. They had played this game before and Gerard knew better than to win. He broke the contact, as though discomfited, but he was only going through the moves he knew his father wanted. Subservience from everyone.

  He had to go soon, to lie down and rest until the attack eased.

  “Very well,” his father said. “Befriend the woman, but keep me informed. The boy may be able to help us with the new law. His title is a courtesy one, so he can sit in the Commons. I could find him a pocket borough. I know of a few that are vacant. The woman may prove some use to us. I want to know anything we can use, anything we can—
” He broke off and lifted his disconcerting gaze to his son’s once more. “Anything that will give us the upper hand. I will investigate the matter. In the meantime, they may stay here as our guests.”

  He strolled to his desk and turned over a few papers. “I have a woman in mind for you to marry. A Howard. I’ve long wanted to ally myself to that family.”

  “I will not marry when I could transmit what I have.”

  The duke glanced up, and a fresh shard of pain shot through Gerard’s brain. “But any child of yours should be free of your illness. My son, sometimes we have to think dynastically. Of the family and influence. We have a great inheritance to administer. I pray that you live long enough to take some of the responsibilities I have reared you to shoulder, but should you not, then you must think of providing an heir before it’s too late.”

  How could he think it, when any wife of his would suffer as he was suffering? “You had plans for marrying my sister to someone.”

  The duke made a shooing motion. “A contingency plan only. If we have to, the Crown will award her husband the dukedom, but it would be of the second creation. Unsatisfactory, but if we have to consider it, we will. I’ve already received assurance that they will seriously consider such a step, which means that they will do it for sure, should we both die without further issue.”

  “You could marry again,” Gerard said.

  “I’m waiting for the right woman.”

  If he waited too long, there wouldn’t be one. Gerard had had enough of fighting the same ground over again and his headache was returning. If he got to his room and lay down for an hour, he’d recover soon enough, he was sure. His father was the spider in the center of a particularly complex web. Enough to make anyone’s head ache.

  Gerard rose to his feet in one powerful, smooth movement, fighting his disability with every breath he had. He bowed. “If you will excuse me, sir.”

  He didn’t pause, as if he hadn’t heard when his father said, “Don’t tell them what we are about. Be discreet, my son.”

  Gerard closed the door and took a couple of deep breaths before walking steadily to the end of the corridor. He needed some time to recover his equilibrium, to allow the fierce temper rising inside him to subside once more and to fight the lethargy that would eventually defeat him. After an hour in his room, he headed for the garden.

  Faith saw the large, dark figure striding purposefully along the path but doubted if he had seen her. She was dressed in a borrowed green gown that blended with the colour of the bushes behind the bench where she sat. Although early in the year, the day was fine, sunshine bathing the garden in bright light, and after the long winter and her weeks of worry, Faith was delighted to spend an hour relaxing in the sunshine.

  When she had first seen him, her instinct was to shrink back and let him pass, but it wasn’t to be. He stopped in front of her and bowed, his sheer physical presence making her draw her breath in a quick gasp. “May I join you?”

  “Of course.” She moved her cloak to make room for him and felt the planks under her bow when he sat. He was no lightweight, but at a few inches over six feet, he carried the weight well, muscular rather than flabby. Faith allowed her gaze to linger, admiring his broad shoulders and the strong legs that pressed against his breeches, every muscle delineated against the fine cloth. He carried an air of reassurance, a steady presence she appreciated. He would be so easy to lean on, she thought with a pang of longing unusual to her. Faith never wished for what she could not have.

  He gave her a smile that heated the most intimate parts of her body. “How is your brother?”

  “Better.” She glanced away, saw the new shoots pushing through the earth, lured by the early sunshine. They would die with the next frost, but it was good to see them anyway. “He is having bad dreams, but that’s hardly surprising, given the nature of that place.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “Too long.” The answer came instantly, without conscious thought. She amended her statement. “About a month too long. That’s the time it took me to find him. Fool that I am, I thought my father would lock George away somewhere private and I wasted time searching, but then I realized Father wanted witnesses to George’s death. When the turnkey found him, my father could arrive and express his grief publicly, then everything would continue as he wanted. No wrinkles, no complications. Except for me.”

  “You’re a complication?”

  He was prompting her, interrogating her, but she would have told him anyway. She owed him that. She owed him more than that. But for him she would be in Vinegar Yard, trying to amass enough money for a decent bribe and George would still be in that place, his mind slowly disintegrating. “I refused to treat George like a thing. Father married me off, but my husband allowed George to stay with us. It caused a breach between them.” She paused and bit her lip. He might as well know the whole truth. “My husband and my father vied for influence over George. At least my husband tried to do it with kindness.”

  “Forgive me, but was he an old man? I took the liberty of looking him up in one of the books in the library, and the only Lord Bradley I could find was much older than you.”

  Faith stared at her hands, resting on her lap, remembering, despite all her efforts to forget. “He was seventy when I married him. My father gave me little choice.” She swallowed, still finding it so hard to tell her story, because to recount it was to relive it. “William was kind to my brother and me, although stern. He fell ill and died a year after we married.” She repressed her shudder when she remembered William’s efforts in bed. He’d been seventy just before their wedding day, and he was delighted with the luscious morsel he now owned through marriage. She’d done her best to please him, knowing he had George’s future in his hands, and he’d been kind to them both. It wasn’t his fault that he’d repulsed her physically, and occasionally she felt shame that she couldn’t respond to him as he’d wished her to.

  “You have no independence of your own? No money?”

  Someone in her position should be financially independent, but she was not. “I gave it to my father for George. I signed my widow’s portion over to him on the understanding that he would use it to provide for George’s care. He demanded I return home when my husband died. Now he’s trying to find another husband for me.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet Lord Ellesmere’s eyes. They were filled with compassion. The disastrous decision she’d been forced into looked foolish, but there was a reason for it.

  She couldn’t bear his lordship’s pity. She hated him to feel sorry for her. Her mouth firmed. “I can look after myself. It’s George I fear for. I would have taken him when I was newly widowed and taken care of him, but Father threatened to commit him. George is of age, but he’s under my father’s jurisdiction. Father had witnesses, people he’d paid to say they’d seen George raving. The most foolish thing I did was to hand over the money. I never stop blaming myself for that.” She looked away when she felt her eyes fill with self-pitying tears, and blinked them back. A cool breeze caressed her cheek, drying the single tear that had escaped.

  “You need a protector. A husband who will help you care for Fordhouse.”

  She grimaced. “My late husband did his best. He saw no point in cruelty, knowing people can be wooed much more effectively with kindness. Since his death, my father has tried to separate George and me by marrying me off again. None of the men my father presented me with would have given a tuppenny damn for George. With his death, everything slots neatly into place for our father.”

  “What of your other brother? The younger one?”

  “Simon? He objected to Father’s plans too. Father sent him abroad on the Grand Tour for that reason. His tutors are also his jailors. He’s only eighteen, but he will give us an effective weapon once he comes of age. He will not to fall in with Father’s schemes.” She gripped her hands together in her lap. “We have to go, sir, leave this house. Father probably knows by now where we are, and he’ll be here for
us in a day or two.”

  “No.” His voice hardened. “It’s time you tried another tactic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He leaned back against the arm of the garden chair and regarded her thoughtfully. His eyes, a light grey, glinted silver. “You may stay here in relative safety. We have enough loyal servants here to prevent your father spiriting you or your brother away. You can face him and have done with it.”

  She frowned, her fingers moving restlessly in her lap. “How can I do that?” She paused, taking a moment to regain her rigid self-control. “I’m sorry, sir, I should not be so intemperate with someone who has been so kind to us. My father will compel our return; there is no question of it.”

  He reached out, then allowed his hand to fall back into his lap, as though he had changed his mind. “You have, I guess, been running so long it will be hard for you to stop. Think, ma’am. You and your brother are both of age. Nothing compels you to stay with your father.”

  “Except financial necessity and the law.” It had driven her to Vinegar Yard. She could smell the filth even now, so powerful it infested everything, even what she ate. “I suppose I could find a position as a companion or a governess, but I need to keep George safe.”

  She got to her feet and walked to the front of the summerhouse, allowing the sun to warm her. She lifted her face and felt rather than heard him stand. The hair on the back of her neck prickled when he approached her. He settled his hands on her shoulders gently, and a sense of warmth and comfort enclosed her. She longed to lean back against him, let someone else take the burden from her, but she could not. George was her brother and no one loved him but Simon and herself. She could never pass that responsibility on to anyone else. She stood still.

  He moved his hands gently, easing away her tension. So good, so seductive. “I regret having to ask you this, but I need to get matters clear. How bad is your brother? What can he do and what can he not do?”

  She looked down, frowning at the new shoots in the flowerbeds that had given her pleasure earlier, his hands gently rubbing away her pain. She should not allow it, but she couldn’t ask him to stop. The sensation was too delicious. “George is a child. He can write his name and he enjoys being read to, although he cannot read much for himself. He can answer cogently and coherently when asked a simple question. He is a loving brother, and it hurts him greatly to see me support him and suffer for it.” She turned her head to meet Ellesmere’s compassionate gaze, not concealing her distress. “What else can I do? I was always driven to help the needy, but this is my own brother. I would die for him.”