Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  He walked back to her, binding a small cut he had made on his forearm. “I apologize. I do not wish anything about this to embarrass you.”

  Except that his presence here, doing what he had done, was embarrassing her. She could not answer him. She laid her brush down on the dressing table. Her body and her heart reacted to his presence so near to her, in so intimate a situation. Yet the three feet separating them may as well have been the lake in front of the house. She felt adrift, forsaken. She fought the tears pricking her eyes.

  Then she felt the warmth of his fingers touching her hand. His touch was strong and tender, as she imagined it might be if he had come to her in love rather than this deception for the servants. He cradled her hand between both of his own, and then he raised it to his lips and kissed the back of her wrist. His lips seemed to linger, or perhaps she imagined it because she desired it to be so.

  But then he turned her hand over, and she felt a warm puff of breath just before his lips touched her palm. His mouth seemed to heat her skin like a stream of hot tea, pooling in her hand, running down her fingers and across her forearm.

  And then he dropped her hand. She drew it to her lap, cradling it with the other.

  “Good night, Alethea.”

  “Good night, Dommick.”

  He left, closing the connecting door behind him.

  This, then, was what her marriage was. This was what it would be to love him—this pain, this desiring more but afraid to ask for it, knowing the answer would only slice her deeply.

  The soft Presence as bright and comforting as a candle flame that had sustained her throughout the wedding ceremony, throughout dinner, now flickered out.

  She had never felt so alone.

  Alethea woke with a start. She had not realized she’d fallen asleep. How long had it been since Dommick had left her? She rubbed at one eye while searching the darkness for the fireplace and saw the embers of the coals. Not long, then.

  The low keening carried through the closed door, making her skin prickle. Was that Dommick? What was amiss? Was he injured?

  She was through the door and into the sitting room before she could think further. She hesitated at the closed door to Dommick’s room, but then a hoarse cry from within made her scrabble to open it.

  “No, I am able to fight, I tell you.” The earnest, frustrated voice came from the bed at the far side of the room, lit by the low-burning fireplace. Then he shouted, “David!” with the dragging desperation of a man full of terror.

  She approached the bed. He appeared to be having a nightmare. Should she wake him?

  Then he began to sob, deep, wracking sobs that shook the entire bed. “Champion . . . God, please . . . I can’t . . .”

  She recognized the pain in his voice. It was utter despair, drowning condemnation, arid helplessness. She had felt it the night her brother sold her. Tears filled her eyes at the torment in his voice, in the sight of the curled figure on the bed, shaking with sobs.

  Just as she was reaching to wake him, he spoke again, still sobbing, but this time with a small voice full of fear.

  “Raven, they can’t know about this, about Bedlam . . .”

  Bedlam. What had happened to him to have placed him in that asylum for the insane?

  “I have to do something . . .” He broke into bitter tears. Sounding like a petrified child, he said, “Raven, I don’t want to go mad again.”

  She gasped. She had not credited the rumours, assuming they were designed to inflict hurt by questioning his sanity. But this . . .

  “Oh, Dommick.” She touched his shoulder.

  He jerked upright, striking at her hand. He did not recognize her for a moment, his eyes wide and white in the darkness. He panted, quick and shallow like a dog.

  She knew when he had woken because his breath calmed. “Alethea?”

  Slowly, as though with a wild animal, she reached her hand to him. She touched his cheek in a soft, gentle stroke. His skin was cold and slick with sweat. “I am here. You are safe.”

  His hand covered hers, pressed it to his face. Then he turned his head, and he kissed her palm again, his fingers tightening around hers.

  He remained thus for long minutes, his breath fanning against her skin while his breathing slowed and his skin warmed. Then he looked at her. “You are cold.”

  She had not noticed. She had rushed from her bedchamber without a wrapper, and now she felt the numbness creeping into her bare toes, the shivering in her torso. She saw his dressing gown thrown over the foot of the bed, and she pulled it on. The fabric was cool, but she was warmed by the scent of his musk that wrapped around her throat.

  She sat on his bed and tucked her cold feet under her. “You were dreaming of war,” she said.

  He stared toward the fireplace. His eyes had become dead. “Of Corunna.”

  She had read about the retreat in the newspapers, and the casualties. “Captain Enlow was there with you?”

  “He saved my life.” He began to rub his shoulder, although he did not seem conscious of it. “I had been injured during the retreat and lost a great deal of blood. David helped me to the port and onto a rowboat to the medical transport ship.”

  His other hand, resting on the covers, suddenly clenched the bedclothes, and the pain of his memories seemed almost like a physical blow to him. His eyes squeezed shut and he bowed his head.

  She touched his cheek and stroked his fisted hand, caressing him until he had calmed again. “What happened?” she whispered.

  “The retreat had been . . . blood and bodies and chaos. When we finally reached Corunna, the majority of the transport ships hadn’t arrived. They ordered us to kill our horses . . .” His voice hitched. He couldn’t continue for a few minutes, but when he did, his voice was broken. “I couldn’t do it. When I was on that rowboat, Champion plunged into the water after me. He swam alongside . . .” She felt hot tears flowing down her fingers. His voice thick, he said, “Even as the transport ship was leaving the bay, he swam after us. He was trying to follow me . . .” He could no longer speak.

  Neither could she. She cried with him, for his guilt and remorse, for the loyalty and bravery of an animal who did not understand why his master was leaving without him.

  When his tears had run their course, she wiped them from his face with her fingers, smoothed his hair back from his forehead. He enfolded her hands in his, their skin wet with tears.

  “I awoke in a London hospital crying out for him. I didn’t understand I was no longer in Spain. The battle was before my eyes as if it were happening again. I thought I was there.”

  “What did the doctors do?”

  “They sent me home. I hadn’t known until then that my father had died while I was recovering in London. The nightmares—the ones at night and the waking ones during the day—frightened my mother and my betrothed. They sent me to Bedlam.”

  She tightened her hands around his.

  “I don’t remember my time there, except that it was horrible. Then Raven came and took me away.”

  Thank God. What would have happened if Ravenhurst had not saved him? She remembered Dommick’s anguished cry, I don’t want to go mad again. She now understood fully the panic behind those words. “You will never go back there. I give you my word.”

  Even in the dim firelight, she saw his sadness, the vulnerability . . . and the tenderness. “I don’t want to frighten you if it happens again. The waking nightmares.”

  “They will pass. They will become less frequent, and then they will become less powerful, and you will be able to break their hold over you more quickly.”

  He shook his head. “It has been over a year.”

  “It may take longer, I suppose. But I do think it will pass.” She hesitated, then said in a whisper, “I had them.”

  His brows drew low over his eyes. “Why did you have them?”

  For an instant, she smelled the smoking tallow from her brother’s study, but then the warmth and scent of Dommick’s dressing gown brought her
back to the firelight. “My brother had gaming debts. He had a friend who needed to marry for some reason—he never told me. They signed a betrothal agreement—I would marry his friend, and my brother would receive half of my dowry.”

  There was a grim, taut line at the edges of Dommick’s mouth as he heard this.

  “I refused,” Alethea said. “So my brother sought to . . . coerce me.” She swallowed, and her left hand began to throb, faster with her increasing heartbeat. “He broke two fingers of my left hand.”

  Dommick jerked in surprise, then he looked down and touched her hand. His fingertips gently massaged the two knuckles obviously more swollen than the others.

  “He locked me in my room until he could procure a special license and force me to marry his friend, but I ran away. I don’t know what I thought it would accomplish, for I had no funds. My brother chased after me, but he had always been a reckless driver. His high-perch phaeton tipped over and he was thrown. He broke his neck and died instantly.”

  Dommick looked astounded. “I heard about his carriage accident.”

  “I had managed to get to Bath and Lucy, and then discovered my brother was dead. Two weeks later Wilfred forced me to leave my home and move to Bath, and the nightmares followed me.”

  “Your Aunt Ebena knows about them?”

  “Oh, yes. She ignored them and let me be, gave me time and space. And . . . she rented a pianoforte for me.” At the time, Alethea had not truly appreciated her aunt’s gesture, but a year later, with a broader perspective, she saw her aunt’s wisdom. “Then she began taking me out into society, forcing me to exert control over myself. She did not give me opportunity to be afraid.”

  “And they went away?”

  “Mostly. My last nightmare was this summer.”

  He shook his head again, and frustration grated in his voice. “It’s been over a year . . .”

  “You have friends and family around you. My family, your family, your friends and neighbors—they have changed me. They have made me stronger and brought me closer to God. They will help you heal.”

  She released one of his hands to stroke his hair, his cheek, his jaw. It felt comforting to touch him, to press her fingertip to the pulse at his throat and feel the life coursing through him.

  Then his hand was touching her hair, her cheek, her jaw. But his palm against her neck was far from comforting—his touch was strong and sure, different from hers, and his skin felt hot and rough against hers. Her breathing became shallow gasps, her heartbeat throbbed harder in her chest. She became acutely aware of the darkness broken only by the firelight, the unfamiliar intimacy of his bedchamber, the feel of his dressing gown around her, and the sight of his own pulse rapidly beating at the base of his exposed throat.

  When he leaned forward to kiss her, she felt complete and then filled to overflowing. There was a roaring in her ears. Her hand on his throat felt the vibrations as he murmured her name. She tasted the remnants of his fear and doubt, and she sought to wash them away with the strength of her promise to never allow anyone to harm him. She would keep him safe, even from his fears of himself. She sought to convey that to him as his lips softly pressed against hers, gentle movements that at once revealed his strength and his vulnerability.

  He drew back far enough to rest his forehead against hers, his hands cupping her cheeks. “Alethea, you have made a bad bargain.”

  “I was about to say the same for you.”

  When he laughed, she felt the rounding of his cheeks, the warmth of his breath, the shaking of his shoulders. Then he said, so softly it was almost like a thought, “I am still afraid.”

  “I will protect you, Dommick.”

  “Stay with me.”

  Without hesitation, she let the heavy dressing gown fall to the floor and climbed under his covers beside her husband. She wrapped her arms around him.

  “I want you to call me Bayard.” His voice rumbled next to her cheek.

  The way they had addressed each other had been a topsy-turvy business, a mix of embarrassment and deception. But this request was more intimate than anything else that had passed between them. “Bayard,” she whispered.

  His arms tightened around her.

  “Bayard, I will keep the nightmares away.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  For the first time since returning from Corunna, he had slept without fear. He had felt protected and cherished. He had been vulnerable, but he had been held like a precious treasure. And when he had awoken, the anxiety of his madness that had been like a millstone around his neck seemed a lighter burden.

  He awoke alone, but the knowledge that she was close, that she was in his house, that she was his wife, was an assurance like a salve over his raw soul. She had done more than she realized in listening to him, in her sympathy and empathy, her lack of fear. His mother had been afraid, his friends had been wary. Alethea had been beside him, supporting him, accepting him. He knew that even were he to be mad the rest of his life, she would be there with him.

  However, the reality of Lady Trittonstone’s threat reared its head the very next day. Bayard had just finished with his steward, and the man was leaving his study when his mother burst in, handkerchief aflutter, followed closely by Clare.

  Bayard stood. “What is amiss? Is Alethea well?”

  Clare paused and gave him a speculative look. “Alethea is well.”

  “I am here.” Alethea entered the study carrying a full tea tray.

  “You should not be doing that,” Lady Morrish said, scandalized. “You are Lady Dommick now.”

  “I have been Lady Alethea all my life. June has a sore wrist and nearly dropped it, so I told her I would bring it to Bayard.” She looked at him as she said it, and he noted the change in her voice as she said his name.

  “Mama, do stop being so high in the instep,” Clare said. “Since when is it a crime to be kind to the maids?”

  “Since our reputation is in shreds!” Lady Morrish dropped into a chair before the desk, and her face crumpled like her handkerchief.

  “It is not so bad as all that,” Clare said, but Bayard heard the note of uncertainty in her voice.

  “Yes, it is,” she moaned.

  “Which is the reason I asked cook to prepare tea.” Alethea set it on a clear corner of his desk and began pouring. She handed Lady Morrish her teacup first.

  “Will someone please tell me what has happened?” Bayard asked.

  “You have been with your steward, so you are unaware Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Wyatt called?” Clare said.

  “I sent the announcement to the papers only this morning,” Bayard said.

  “They did not call about our marriage, although they offer their sincere congratulations,” Alethea said.

  “They met at the rectory this morning with Mrs. Amsden,” Clare said. “The three of them are organizing the church bazaar this year. Mrs. Amsden’s good friend, Lady Trittonstone, arrived last night with the most scandalous stories about me.”

  Bayard slammed his hand down on his desk, rattling the china. “That poisonous woman.”

  “First of all is the story that my lady’s maid is the Earl of Trittonstone’s natural daughter and a . . . er, prostitute.” Clare coloured at the scandalous word. “She has apparently corrupted my moral character.”

  “You will recall, when I first came into the neighborhood, people noted that Lucy and I look alike, and we both resemble our father,” Alethea said.

  “I’m sure I don’t know how she would assume an illegitimate daughter would be a . . . that sort of woman,” Lady Morrish said.

  Unfortunately, since many illegitimate children were born in poverty, Bayard could easily see the connection. “What else?”

  “Under the influence of my maid, I have been engaging in scandalous evening activities and have often been seen returning in the wee hours of morning with my gown mussed. Obviously a liberal retelling of my kidnapping.”

  “How did she know about it?” Lady Morrish wailed.

 
“If Lady Whittlesby’s groom saw Clare returning with Lucy that evening, another servant might have also spied them,” Bayard said grimly.

  “If that were the case, the story would have been widely spread long before this, for Mona would not have been the first to whom the servant told it,” Alethea said.

  “I think that Lady Trittonstone heard the rumours regarding my maid and simply embellished them,” Clare said. “She couldn’t know she would touch upon a thread of truth.”

  “Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Wyatt were quick to show their disapprobation,” Lady Morrish said, “and they assure me they will do all they can to show that the rumours are unfounded. But to whom else will Lady Trittonstone speak?”

  “Mama, the rumours are patently ridiculous,” Clare said.

  “It matters not how ridiculous they are. It will be ruinous for your season. Especially after . . .” She stopped with a conscious look at Bayard.

  Alethea quickly turned the conversation. “More than ever, we must uncover the truth about the violin and win Lady Whittlesby’s concert.”

  Now it was Bayard’s turn to feel self-conscious. He had done the right thing in refusing the concert, but with the specter of Lady Trittonstone’s malicious influence already hovering over the coming spring, Bayard felt squeezed, as though a heavy rock lay over him, holding him down. “I have sent out inquiries to Mr. Kinnier. I cannot think that his betrothal was anything but an attempt at the violin.”

  “Was it he who arranged Clare’s kidnapping?” Lady Morrish pressed her handkerchief to her throat.

  “Clare is in no danger, my lady,” Alethea said. “The kidnapping targeted me, and they will not make the same mistake again.”

  “They will simply ruin Clare’s season.” Lady Morrish gave a great sob.

  “Mama, your tears are distressing Bayard.” Clare removed her teacup from her hand and took her by the shoulders. “Let us go upstairs and I shall put some lavender water on your temples.” Behind her mother’s back, Clare shot Bayard a look that clearly said, Do something. His sister walked their mother out of the room.