Dauntless

by Lynne Connolly

  “You should practice more.” Oliver’s voice flowed through the space between them, so softly melodic that Dru knew he was forcing it. Did he always talk to his brother in such a quiet, level tone, or was this put on for her? “Your physician says that you could regain the use of your legs with enough practice.

  Charles’s welcoming smile turned into a sneer, his patrician nostrils flaring. “He knows nothing. He is not subject to daily pain—” He broke off suddenly and switched his attention to Dru, giving her the blinding smile she’d seen when she’d come in. “I’m sorry, my dear. I must apologize. It is not usual for me to complain.”

  “Are you in much pain?” she found herself asking, as if he drew the question out of her.

  The smile faded, leaving gravity almost angelic in its perfection. “Yes, but I bear it willingly when I consider the alternative. My physician and my attendants care for me most diligently. I have three, you know—Burnett, Friedlander, and Carter. Burnett has been with me for the longest time. He was my”—he threw an apologetic glance at Oliver—“our groom, but he chose to stay with me after the accident. I have had reason to be grateful to him these many years.”

  That had to make it twenty years, probably a few more. Charles had been fourteen at the time of the accident. “I see. He does everything for you?”

  Charles shuddered delicately. “Everything. I fear my needs have become more elaborate of late. I seem to have developed a few distressing tendencies.” The smile broadened again, in a way Dru was coming to understand. He used that beautiful smile to cover something, and from what he said, most likely the pain he suffered every day. Every hour.

  Why? She knew better than to ask that, of course. Although horror thrummed through her, a panicked reminder of what she had done, she was no longer out of her mind with distress. Would Oliver throw her out of the house now he’d brought her to a realization of what she’d done? Most likely he would. She would bear it. Go to the country, perhaps, although retreat was not in her nature.

  Oliver sat next to her, seething. She could feel it, and it scared her, even though she was not easily frightened.

  Reaching for the table at his elbow, Charles picked up a book. He only lifted his left hand when he needed to support it, and the shape remained, curved in on itself, instead of flattening under the volume. A useless hand. “Have you read this?”

  Slowly, she took her attention from his damaged limb and, as he carefully turned the title page toward her and read the name and the author. “The History and Fortunes of the Prince of Tirolly, by A Lady.”

  Oh, God. No, please. If the building collapsed now, and she died in the rubble, Dru would be happier. “No,” she said, licking her dry lips.

  Charles followed the small gesture with his gaze. He let the book fall into his lap. “I found it amusing, but whoever wrote it knows society through and through. I have not moved out of the house for years, and even I can recognize them. Especially the main characters.” His laugh rippled through the room. “I find the story most diverting, although I would rather have the next two volumes now, not wait two weeks. The last volume is to be published in one month, before the end of the season. Is that not amusing?”

  Dru didn’t know what to say. Oliver remained grimly silent.

  Charles did not appear to notice the ominous silence. “The hero, my dear, is very like me, and the villain is undoubtedly Oliver. Nobody could mistake you, dear brother. Such a shame your face bears more marks from our unfortunate accident rather than mine. Much better if I had remained wizened, a hideous reminder of our transgressions, and you were beautiful and unmarked.” Bitterness tinged his last words, but his face remained perfectly smooth.

  Oliver opened his mouth and drew a breath, but his brother had not yet finished.

  “In this book I get to be the hero and rescue the heroine, but at the end of this volume, he is probably dead. Such a pity we cannot ask the author what are her intentions.”

  “Oh, but we can,” Oliver murmured. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Drusilla. I have to tell you, brother, that Drusilla claims she wrote the book currently taking society by storm.”

  Tears pricked Dru’s eyes. A slow, hot trickle marked where one escaped and tracked its way down the side of her face. “I did not mean it to see daylight, ever. I locked it up. Only my sisters and I knew it existed, and nobody read it except me. I wrote it over many years, and I swear, I destroyed it.”

  “Since it has reached this form, I fail to see how you could have done so,” Oliver said coldly.

  “I did. I swear it.” In her mind’s eye she saw the parcel plummeting into the river.

  “Then how did it reach the publisher? How is it here, for everyone—everyone—to read?”

  He would not let her retreat from this. She would have to humiliate herself. Perhaps that was what he wanted, before he turned his back on her and destroyed her in society’s eyes, too. She had no guarantees, would have to do what she thought was right. Not that taking that course had helped her much so far.

  She would get through this. Today would be the worst, when all her dreams crumbled. Her siblings would be dragged in, and she’d have to tell her cousin Julius that this mess was because of what happened at the ball. Her fault. The least she could do was accept all blame.

  Although she could not face Oliver without fear, she could face what she had done and tell him the truth. At last.

  That was when she realized what must hurt him the most. She had lied to him. Or rather she had not been entirely honest with him. “I meant to tell you.” She clasped her hands together until the knuckles turned white. “I did not know how.”

  “How about, ‘I wrote that book, Oliver.’ Or are you lying now?” His voice rose at the end, as if he wanted her to agree with him.

  She could tell him she was lying, that she had made a bad joke, and he would forget it.

  Except she could not. “I wrote that book, Oliver.” Saying it drove her closer to breaking down, but she couldn’t afford that luxury. She’d do it another time, when she didn’t have to face people. “I wrote it as amusement and consigned it to the kitchen fire.”

  “Except that you did not. You gave it to a publisher instead. I trust, my lady, that you know how to make a bargain and you got a good price.”

  “I didn’t get a penny.” She should not have said that. It implied she had given it to Wilkins. “I didn’t give it—”

  He held up a hand imperiously. “Do not try to explain.”

  A sound she had not expected broke into the tension that crackled between them. A tinkling laugh from Charles. “Oh, dear, Oliver. Have you read it? It’s an amusing bagatelle, no more. A short and sweet distraction. Show them you are upset, and you will play into their hands. They’ll be avid for more.”

  Oliver turned to face his brother, his expression softening as he gazed at him. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a frivolous story. With all due respect”—he nodded to her and then returned his attention to his brother—“this is no Pamela. It is no Robinson Crusoe. It will not last. A plethora of books have come out since those, and very few have held the public’s attention for long. Wait for the newest sensation. Something that will take over from this one.” He spread his good hand out. “Leave it alone. It will pass. We must, of course, stop the gossip, and there is a way.” He met his brother’s gaze.

  Oliver raised his brows.

  He changed the expansive gesture to one of mock obeisance to Dru. She flinched. “My dear, I enjoyed meeting you. I regret we will not meet again, but maybe we can write.”

  So that was what he meant. They were to separate. Although she had herself come to that conclusion, Dru’s heart plummeted to the bottom of her silver-buckled shoes.

  Oliver got to his feet. “I have not yet decided.” Striding toward her, he held out his hand. “My lady.”

  As if l
eading her into a dance, except she had never seen his face this stony, never felt so cold in his presence. She took his hand and went with him to the door.

  A strangled cry came from behind him, as if an animal had come into the room and bayed a warning. A choking, grinding sound, terrible in its mindless pain.

  Oliver spun around, and Dru came to her feet, pushing her problems into the background.

  Charles sat in his chair, his blue eyes wide saucers of agony. Foam seethed from his mouth, through his clamped teeth. His legs stretched out before him, and his back jerked up, as if he a demon puppet master controlled him with an invisible set of strings.

  Oliver leaped across the room, scooped his brother up, and laid him on the floor. “Call his attendant,” he snapped.

  Dru didn’t need to be told twice. As Oliver straddled Charles, spreading his legs and kneeling between them, holding his brother’s jaw steady with one hand, she scooped up her skirts and raced to the door. She had no idea who to call for, but in the event she didn’t have to scream “Help!” into the void.

  A plainly dressed man stood outside, and when she ripped open the door, he pushed past her and raced inside. “Sir, sir!” he cried, his distress evident in every line on his anguished face.

  “Close that door!” Oliver commanded.

  Dru did as she was told and waited for more orders. She would do whatever was necessary. She had never seen a man have a fit before, and she never wanted to see it again. Terrified, she watched. Was she seeing the death of Oliver’s brother? She stood, helplessly, as the two men restrained Lord Charles Fitzhugh, preventing him from inflicting damage on himself. Charles strained and pulled up, his back arching in an inhuman effort to fight his way out of his bonds. Oliver tore at his brother’s neck, dragging his neckcloth free, tossing it carelessly aside.

  Surging forward, she swept a small table out of the way to prevent the thrashing man from destroying it with his uncoordinated movements. His body jerked, his head went back, rapping hard against the floor. Dru winced for him. The poor man, to have to undergo such terrible torture. What could help him?

  He jerked and convulsed endlessly, that handsome face set in a fierce grimace, marred with saliva and sweat. His elegant coat tore and twisted around him. Dru didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred, and she had to swipe at her eyes to clear them. Her starched lace ruffle scraped her neck.

  What could she do? Feeling angry and helpless, she watched the agony of the man and the struggles of the two holding him for what seemed like forever. A delicate chime tinkled at a higher level than Charles’s wordless growls, catching her attention. The clock on the mantel was striking the hour, as if nothing unusual were happening.

  Charles had fallen into his fit ten minutes ago. Ten measly minutes had reduced him to the snarling animal on the floor. Oliver and the attendant were holding fast. Eventually, with a whimper, Charles slumped back, boneless and unconscious.

  Oliver got to his feet while the attendant arranged his master’s arms and legs back into a semblance of normality.

  * * * *

  Oliver glanced back, surprised to find his betrothed still here. “You didn’t flee in terror?” He hardened his heart against her, despite her bedraggled appearance and her expression of utter dread. Before her confession, he would have gone to her, treated her with all the tenderness in his heart. No more. “Open that door. We need to carry him into bed.” He jerked his head toward the inner door.

  “That was a bad one, sir,” Burnett murmured. “It lasted five minutes longer than the last.”

  Oliver nodded. Guilt washed over him, as it always did when he saw Charles, especially when Charles demonstrated the more distressing parts of his illness. He’d have rather Dru left, but she had seen it now. When he’d told her to close the door, he’d wanted her to shut it on her way out. Had he not made himself clear? He would take care to remedy that.

  Drusilla hurried across the room and opened the door to the bedroom. Bending, Oliver scooped his brother into his arms. Charles was no lightweight, despite his illness. His body was muscular for a man who spent his life in a chair. But Charles had always been a fighter. He would not be here if he had not fought everything that opposed him. He would most likely angry when he came to himself.

  Burnett pulled the brocade coverlet on the bed out of the way, allowing Oliver to lay his brother gently on the soft blanket beneath.

  As he straightened, Charles blinked. His eyes opened, fixed on Oliver, and he cracked a heartbreaking grin. “That was a good one. How long?”

  “Ten minutes,” Oliver said softly. Charles usually had a moment of clarity until his headache struck. “You’re back now. Let me help you sit.”

  The sickly stink of laudanum filled the air as Burnett prepared Charles’s usual tincture. As Oliver packed pillows behind him, his brother’s attention went to where Dru stood by the window. She still looked like an angel.

  Only now Oliver knew how little she resembled one. Her mischief-making had led to this, and Oliver was determined that she would pay. He kept Charles stress-free for just this reason, but somehow Charles had a copy of the book in his possession. How typical of him to laugh the business away, when he was a victim of Dru’s meddling. Oliver would ensure she paid.

  How could he let her walk away scot-free after this? No, he refused to do that. Time the spoiled brat learned to face the consequences of her actions. She came from a family of privilege. Let her have a taste of real life.

  Deeply aware of the hypocrisy of what he was thinking, he knew he was right. That accident had jolted the happy family group into another place, forced to face realities none of them wanted.

  Charles glared at Dru. Oliver knew exactly why, but he didn’t choose to enlighten her. Not yet. With savage fury, he looked forward to what was to come. His agony he kept to himself, as always. As he watched, Charles’s gaze softened.

  “Welcome to the family,” he said to her.

  When Burnett brought the mixture over, Oliver helped Charles hold the glass as he gulped the noxious stuff down and then wiped his mouth for him.

  Charles slumped back with a sigh. “I hate that tincture.”

  “We could try something else,” Oliver said casually.

  “Nothing else works.” Already Charles’s eyes were drooping. Exhaustion from his fit plus the drug would serve to put him to sleep very soon.

  “Let’s get you settled, my lord.” Burnett had a clean nightshirt draped over his arm.

  Drusilla stood as if frozen. Time to talk.

  Oliver placed a gentle kiss on his brother’s forehead and received a tired smile and a word of thanks. It broke his heart that his brother, in such pain, remembered to thank him. No doubt he would thank Burnett too before he subsided into the slumber that would last for the rest of the day.

  With a bitter smile, he strode forward and took her by the elbow. “Come.”

  She stumbled as she turned, but he didn’t stop to help her. Let her find her feet on her own. She would have to do that rather a lot in the days to come. He pulled her out of Oliver’s apartment and along the corridor toward his own.

  Inside, every item of furniture was strewn with feminine garments. Only then did Oliver recall that her maid was coming to arrange Drusilla’s trousseau in the dressing room set aside for her. His mother wanted him to move downstairs to the ducal suite, but he refused the honor. He preferred to be close to Charles, in case his brother needed him. He would remedy that omission. The main suite would be in use soon.

  The maid came into the room, something silky draped over her arm. Blushing fiercely, she dropped a deep curtsy and stood, waiting.

  “You may go,” Oliver said. What was the woman’s name? Damned if he could remember.

  “Forde,” Drusilla added dully.

  Forde shook her head. “Her ladyship—”

  “Go, Forde,
” Drusilla repeated.

  Oliver turned. Whatever the maid saw on his features made her scuttle back into the dressing room, the lappets of her linen cap fluttering behind her. Oliver waited until he heard the outer door close. “Does she eavesdrop?” he demanded.

  Drusilla blinked. “I don’t think so. She used to run to my mother, but I put a stop to that.”

  Oliver gave a grim smile. “Good. Because I doubt you wish anyone to overhear what I have to say to you.”

  All the blood drained from Drusilla’s face, leaving her pale and wan. She clasped her hands before her in a gesture Oliver knew well now. She was trying to stop her trembling. Well might she tremble. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you think will happen now?” Oliver leashed his temper tightly. He’d lost it a long time ago. If he’d spoken to Drusilla then, he’d have blasted her out of the room, the house, and his life, but he had thought better of his decision. If she was to pay, he wanted to see her do it.

  She had brought devastation to this house, to his brother, and even more to himself. How could he have imagined he could fall in love with her? Deceit never sat well on his broad shoulders, even less so now. “Go on,” he urged. Let her decree her own fate.

  “I imagine you want to…talk to me about your brother,” she said. “Then you will send me away. In a few days we will say that we did not suit.” Bleakness filled her eyes. Either she did not want to hide her distress or she could not.

  “What else?”

  “You and your family will not speak to mine again. I take all the blame, Oliver. I will inform my family of that. You will receive no repercussions. I swear it.”

  He curled his lip. “Do you think I care for that? Your family, the Shaws in particular, have danced along the line of respectability for years. Your brother married his steward’s daughter, and your sister led her husband-to-be on a merry chase around London before he finally caught her and tamed her.”