“What was the difference in age?” she asked, now stroking his shoulder blades.
“Four years but we were close. We went rambling in the woods, fishing. I treated her as a brother, which maybe was a mistake.”
“No regrets, Alex. If she enjoyed it, then it was her nature. It all sounds idyllic and I wish I’d had siblings.”
“Your father has never remarried?” He played with the black velvet ribbon of her bodice.
“No. I thought he loved my mother too much to remarry, but now I believe it to have been a jealous love. He buried any feelings with her, including those for me, his own daughter. Da would make another wife miserable as sin.”
From the little Mr Beckford had told him, Aideen’s father was a loud-mouthed bully. A daughter might have wilted under such treatment, but his Aideen had grown strong and fearless.
“So, then what happened?” she whispered.
“Whilst in the final year of Oxford, an elder peer approached me. After the French revolt, they required men from the aristocracy to assist. Intelligence work is not normally undertaken by dukes, you realise, but there were whisperings of revolution and treason here within the haut ton, especially with the King’s supposed lunacy, so they asked certain people to…”
“Spy?”
“Yes, in a word. I… I wanted to warn those closest to me, to let them know I was undertaking potentially dangerous work. Father was pleased as he’d always worried I would fall foul of the Rakecombe gambling trait and he thought it would keep me from trouble. Mother was anxious, as all mothers are, and Gwen…” He swallowed. He should have known. But he’d been so deuced young and naive.
“Hmm?” Fingers stroked his forehead, encouraging and sensitive.
“Gwen was excited. She considered it a thrilling adventure. Of secret codes and misty nights. She’d badger me night and day about missions, and I’d try to instil a note of caution but… She always liked to be the boldest and the fiercest and it became worse after Father died. She was the one to ride the largest horse in the stable, the one to rescue the weak pup from the tormenting lads, and I loved that bravery, that verve for life.”
“I think I would have liked her,” Aideen said quietly.
“There was a mission that winter, involving a group of revolutionists. Information came about a meeting in a Seven Dials tavern, and I inveigled myself an invite. Fairly standard job. Keep my mouth shut, eyes open and ears flapping.”
He closed his lids, remembered his jaunty pride. “She pestered me that morning. Beaming and prodding for details, so I thought what the hell and told her about the mission, about the meeting. Where was the harm? She would never encounter these men or repeat my words. In retrospect, maybe I enjoyed playing the hero, swaggering in youthful pride.”
Aideen’s hand brushed his cheek. “To want to share is natural, especially with someone so close as a sister. There is a difference between vanity and candour, my Alex.”
Burying closer, he nodded. “Perhaps. But…another spy came to the house. I was not at home and so he left a note – stupid bastard – as he’d found out more about the group concerned. I didn’t return that day and so my sister read it and…”
He could imagine her excitement, Gwen’s fervent anticipation at aiding her elder brother. There would have been no hesitation on her part. “I believe she thought me in danger. Thought I needed the information, so she sneaked out to waylay me on the way to the tavern and hand me the note.”
“Did she take a weapon?”
“A…a walking stick. One of my old ones. Ordinary.”
Fingers drifted down his back, caressing his skin, then holding tight, and he realised that, although hideously painful to talk of Gwen, he needed Aideen to know, to share his burden, to listen.
“I was almost at the tavern when I heard my name half-spoken, half-whispered. I looked back and…and there was my baby sister standing in the middle of that vile Tower Street, in an expensive velvet cloak and fur-trimmed bonnet. I have never felt so bloody angry and was about to vent my fury when a man grabbed her from behind.”
The image overwhelmed him, and he had a sudden compulsion to flee, to escape this bed and the calming touch he didn’t deserve. An embrace crushed him to soft skin, and fingers laced through his hair, but still he envisaged sweet Gwen’s face as the whoreson held her, skin pallid, her excited eyes shifting to horror, walking stick clattering to the filthy cobbles.
Why did it still damn well hurt so much? He’d seen many a man and comrade die since then.
“He…he was crazed. I could see it in his slack face. Gin or opium, I know not. He held a blade to her throat. I could see it pressing against her skin, indenting under the bright moon. All I had was a short sword under my cloak, no pistol, and I was inexperienced, and this was supposed to have been a simple mission. I didn’t…”
Arms squeezed, and he buried his face in Aideen’s chest, aware the material of her night-rail was wet. “He screamed for money, and I scrabbled with my signet ring and fob watch, pushing them into his greedy fist. I would have given him my shirt but a shout from down the street distracted him and… I still do not know if he meant to do it, but his hand tightened… I saw blood and then he drew his arm away, the knife slitting her throat.”
Abruptly, he rolled onto his back, dragging Aideen tight to his chest, unyielding.
“She fell like a doll. A puppet let loose of its strings, her face falling in the dirt. The whoreson ran, but I didn’t care.” His gaze flitted to the bed canopy, red, awash with blood. “The sound, Aideen, Christ. She struggled for breath, and I couldn’t…do anything. A prostitute came to my aid, tearing her skirts for linen, even though that was all she had to her name, and we tried. God, we tried…”
He veiled his eyes in Aideen’s hair, aware tears fell but unable to release her to wipe them away.
“One last awful breath and she left me…alone.”
Wetness seeped over his chest as he felt Aideen’s own tears fall against his bare skin. They clasped each other close, unmoving, the sheer futility of a lost life encasing them in silence.
At length, Aideen pulled from his clasp, kissed his lips, his cheeks, hands pushing back his hair and brushing her mouth over his forehead. And although the memories would always remain, he felt some of his hurt dissipated by her compassionate touch. “Alex, my poor Alex. To see your sister die in such a way, I have not the words. I am so very sorry.”
Staring into her wet sable eyes, he continued, “I carried her home with Mary Lane, the prostitute who’d aided me. It felt like forever and yet no time at all, carrying her through the frozen streets. I felt numb. And since then, I’ve always felt so numb. So cold.”
“And the madman that killed her?” she asked, hovering over him and pressing lips to his hair, violets teasing his mind from the raw horror.
“I asked Kelmarsh to find him for me. I was in no state and my hands were full with Mother’s grief and the funeral. A day later, Kelmarsh said he’d found the bastard dead in his hovel, brought me back my signet ring. I often wonder if Kelmarsh…” He shook his head. “It matters not. I didn’t feel vengeance or satisfaction. I felt…nothing.”
She placed her face next to his, so close he could feel her warm breath. “My dear Alex, you have no need to blame yourself for her death.”
“Everyone denies my culpability but I cannot.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand – such fragile skin. “Kelmarsh had chosen to keep silent with those close to him, nearly lost Sophie over it, as you know, but I’d blabbed. If I had never told Gwen about my vocation or about that mission, she never would have come after me.”
“Or she might have gone searching anyway,” Aideen whispered. “Or followed you one night in suspicion. It is a shocking waste and loss of a brave young girl’s life, Alex, but the blame lies with the man who carried out the needless deed. It is he that is the culprit. You were and are a loving brother.”
He began untwisting the tight plait, watched her hai
r unfurl. “I have heard it all, Aideen. From Mother, from Kelmarsh, and my mind heeds their words, but my heart – that believes something else entirely.” He finally freed the knotted mass. “I could not bear it if you came to harm due to my own selfish need to have you a part of my life.” He pulled her close, kissing her, a delicate brush of lips. “I have already hurt you.” And he stroked the fading dark-red mark on her neck.
“Only my feelings, and if you’d kept your bog mouth shut, all would have been well. But I knew, Alex. I knew you were pushing me away for a reason.”
“Is that why you were smothering me with sweetness?”
“Mayhap. Did you like it?”
He fingered the ribbons on her bodice. Exhaustion blanketed him, emotions a deluge, and yet he needed Aideen to banish the shadows and ghosts that haunted him. To clear the blood from his vision. He needed her so very much and in every way.
“I did, but perhaps, after the other night, I should show you gentleness. How desperately slow I can love.”
“I enjoyed the corridor,” she whispered, stretching to his touch.
He thought about the list he’d meant to talk to her about, but that could wait until tomorrow, as for now he needed the peace that only Aideen could provide.
And he began to show his wife how very sweet he himself could be.
Chapter Twenty-one
Rules are made to be broken.
In a thoroughly agreeable mood, Aideen wandered down the principal staircase to the sound of voices from the breakfast room. Alex and his mother if she wasn’t mistaken.
Yawning, she stretched in a most un-duchess-like manner and groaned lightly. Certain areas of her body ached this morning, but she wouldn’t change it for all the whisky in Ireland.
Her husband had been true to his word last night and loved her gentle until she’d been driven mad with pleasure.
Understanding his past explained so much. He shied from intimacy like a beaten hound, snarling from the corner after a harrowing experience. But quite honestly, she didn’t want him to change – she adored his cold glances and brusque demeanour, his teasing taunts and malevolent smiles.
There might be something awry within her character for liking such conduct, but then there weren’t many gentlemen who would enjoy her own pert retorts or lack of reserve either.
How odd, but they matched – despite station in life and their squabbles, they matched.
And she loved him. Completely and deeply.
Meghan’s raised voice could now be heard from the hallway, and Aideen paused to listen. They were arguing, and it didn’t sound good.
“Really! I’ve never seen anything quite so ridiculous,” the dowager duchess stated, with the tone of a governess to their ill-behaved charge. “She is no senseless young miss!”
Staying her entrance, Aideen wondered who they were talking about.
“Of course not,” Alex replied smoothly, “and hence I am sure she will not be offended by some…guidance. Aideen understands my worry.”
Oh.
“Number one – Do not speak to strangers!” the ever-elegant dowager duchess screeched at full pelt. “Breadcrumbs and fishhooks, Alex, you’d lock her in a box if you could.”
Oh dear.
“Strangers could be undercover spies or assassins.”
“And strangers could also be nothing like.” There followed a raft of Celtic babbling.
“Mother, I do understand Welsh and that is not anatomically possible.”
“That is rather the point, twpsyn.”
Aideen couldn’t bear mother and son to be so at odds, especially over her, thus she pushed open the door.
Her husband was sitting at the breakfast table, a hunk of bacon stuffed between thick bread paused at his mouth whilst the dowager duchess paced the blue Aubusson rug.
“Good morning, Meghan, Alex.”
They both nodded, Meghan with features tight, but the duke…
Although fully starched and wearing an even deeper black, if that was possible, he appeared slightly more…relaxed was going too far, but certainly more at ease.
Meghan grabbed her reticule from the sideboard and dashed over. “I must go or I shall cosh that thick jolter-head with my coffee cup.” She bussed Aideen’s cheek. “I’ll never know how I raised such a dogged numbskull, and if you can’t bear it, dear, then come and stay at my house and we can peruse maps of Egypt. Once Napoleon has been seen to again, I’ve a particular fancy to go hunting the lost emerald mine of Cleopatra.”
Nodding as Meghan breezed through the door, Aideen shifted from foot to foot, now a little unsure. She may feel at peace with the world this morning, but Alex had a bad habit of blowing hot and cold for inexplicable reasons known only to himself and God… And even God was probably somewhat perplexed at times.
“Egypt?” He rose from the table, eyebrow raised, lips twitching at the edges, and her insides burbled their delight. She chastened them severely.
“Your mother wishes to visit Egypt and has said that if you annoy me enough, I can join her.”
He came to stand close, looming over her with masculine intent. Placing his hands on her shoulders and bending down, he gave her the most searing, deep kiss that surely anyone had ever experienced before nine in the morning.
“Do I annoy you?” he whispered against her lips.
“Yes, but I rather like it.”
He smiled and backed away to return to his bacon. “I am grateful to you for the vast improvement in cuisine. It’s superb. Did you dismiss the last fellow?”
Wandering over to that superb selection, Aideen debated telling him the whole story, but she could imagine her haughty duke not being best pleased with charlatan staff. “We have an Irish chef now. Very talented.”
“Well, my duchess, I am indebted.”
She loaded her plate with a piece of everything and took Meghan’s vacated seat. It felt odd taking breakfast with her husband when they were in accord. A mite…unnerving.
“What were you and Meghan discussing and why are you a numbskull?” Perhaps a light bicker would settle those nerves.
“Ah. Hmm. Yes.”
Having never heard Alex hum and haw, Aideen glanced up from a perfect fluffy egg, solid in all the right places. “Is it so bad?”
“No. Well, I didn’t think so, but Mother…” He perused the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling before straightening his serviette. “As you know, I worry greatly about your safety.”
Slathering butter onto the thick yeasty bread, Aideen nodded. Nothing wrong with that. She equally worried about his, despite knowing he was fully able to protect himself with sword, fist or boot.
“So, I have compiled a list I would like you to…observe. In order to keep safe.”
That didn’t sound too bad, but…
“Can I see it?”
A sheet of paper with an inordinate amount of script was nudged across the polished table. It was numbered from one to…twenty-three.
Oh, Saint Tuda’s relics, what was it about men and their lists of rules?
She scanned the paper. Some were eminently sensible:
Number twelve – Take two footmen on all outings. Practical, as they could carry hat boxes.
Number twenty-one – Always take the enclosed ducal carriage. Useful for inclement weather.
Number sixteen – Wear that garter knife AT ALL TIMES. Tolerable, but was that solely for her benefit?
Other rules were not:
Number five – Do not go out after dark unless accompanied by myself or Lord Winterbourne. Dusk arrived at the hour of three on a winter’s afternoon. She’d never leave the house.
Number eleven – Take one footman INTO the modiste. Madame Chevrolet would be rightly outraged.
Number eight – Learn how to swim. What?
“I…” she began and then stopped. Her temper wanted to assert its irritation. Tell her husband he was being absurd, but her reason cautioned because at the base of it all sat Alex’s anxious fears.
He worried for her. He didn’t want to lose her. He…cared for her.
But equally what he didn’t do was trust her.
Gwen had been eighteen and, by his own admission, a headstrong girl. Aideen was no schoolroom fledgling and although bold, she understood caution.
Despite Alex’s regrets over confiding in Gwen, Aideen did believe forewarned was forearmed, and after being kidnapped last year, she never travelled anywhere without certain…accessories.
She also knew how to shoot a pistol and how to whack a man in at least five extremely painful places – perhaps she should make a list.
“Erm. I can swim. I learned in the River Suir.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed. “Ah, you can cross that off then.”
“So, the list is…adaptable?”
The shoulders stiffened, his narrowed eyes as dark as ivy this morning. She could tell he wanted to say no, but it seemed they were both seeking to foster the trait of patience. “It depends,” he finally bit out.
“So, if I cross out those which I think are” – absurd, outrageous, suffocating – “not applicable, and then give it back for your perusal, maybe we could…compromise?”
The unpleasant word stuck in her throat and she had to slosh it down with tea.
“There are not many I would…compromise on,” he said tightly, also gulping chocolate, she observed.
“I see there is no rule about learning to defend myself.”
“Unnecessary if you are not placed in a potentially hazardous situation. Which this list precludes.”
“But, Alex, what this list doesn’t take into account is that I can shoot. I can also wield a knife and over winter, Uncle Seamus taught me how to defend myself if need be.”
He stiffened further. “My wife shouldn’t need to–”
“Too late. You have a wife that can. Your mother was right, this list is for a schoolgirl. I wouldn’t even give it to Cordelia.” She mentally apologised to her friend. “Some are sensible, but… Number fifteen – Don’t stand by windows?”
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 18