The Dark Matters Quartet

by Claire Robyns

  “That’s not an insult, it’s a fact.”

  “The McAllister name is backed by power and credibility,” Greyston said. “Tell me you don’t see the advantages and I’ll drop my case.”

  Less than a heartbeat passed. “I don’t see the advantages.”

  “You’re being purposely dense. When this is all over—if it’s ever over, an annulment from Lord Perth will elevate her status in society.”

  “You already have an affection for Lily. If you marry her, there may not be an annulment.”

  “As per usual, you presume too much,” Greyston pushed out with hurtful vehemence.

  Lily’s spine prickled. They sounded like two men convincing the other to take his place at the hangman’s tree.

  “And how will you feel when she’s my wife?” said Kelan. “Lily will belong to me. That won’t bother you at all?”

  Lily had no desire to hear the answer. Greyston’s arguments were wearing her rather thin and as for Kelan, he was the one who’d suggested this blasted marriage in the first place! She rapped lightly on the door before entering.

  Greyston had the decency to shift uncomfortably in his chair before rising. Kelan just turned a thoughtful look on her from where he stood in front of the bay window.

  “I have to marry Kelan,” she blurted, caught herself searching Greyston’s face for his reaction and quickly averted her eyes. Finding regret there would only make this worse and she was in no mood to tolerate relief.

  “The demon Flavith tracked us in London as soon as Greyston sought me out. Apart, our demon blood is diluted and too weak to be scented.” Her gaze settled on Kelan. “Greyston and I can’t be near each other outside the protection of Cragloden’s shield. The concentration of our combined blood is a red flag.”

  Kelan started forward. “Actually, that’s—”

  “—a valid point we forgot to consider,” Greyston interrupted.

  “There it is,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Unless…” Kelan inclined his head at Greyston. “Unless you have any new information to add insight on this matter?”

  Greyston shook his head. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Nothing whatsoever?”

  The men contemplated each other with the intensity of opponents standing across a field with pistols drawn at dawn.

  “There’s nothing left to snipe over,” she said frostily. “If I’m to move freely in society, it cannot be with Greyston. There is no choice to be had, no decision to be made. It’s over.”

  “So be it,” Kelan said, taking a moment more before turning to her. To his credit, his grin came on slow and contained only the slightest hint of mockery. “I’m sure we’ll deal well with each other.”

  She raised a brow at him. “Not if you refer to me a possession. Married or not, I don’t belong to anyone and certainly not to you.”

  If he realised, as he must, that she’d overheard them quibbling about her, he gave no indication. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Please do.” She intended to sweep from the room without a glance in Greyston’s direction, but faltered at the last moment.

  He’d dropped back into his chair, elbows parked on the armrests and his hands fisted together at his chest. His jaw was locked in a stony grimace, but the gaze beneath that furrowed brow held hers, dark, warm and clouded.

  She lifted her shoulders at him. What? What else could I do? He was still her anchor, the one she’d turn to. Always. Her chest ached with the need to tell him so, but quite honestly, she didn’t think he wanted to hear it. Instead, she gave him a small smile and walked out with her head held high, her dignity intact for this afternoon, at least.

  The ceremony was to be held in a formal receiving room tucked away in the west wing. There were no orchards veined in pale pink, no lace-covered tables with elaborate centrepieces of frosted swans offering marzipan sweets in their unfolding wings. No harpist strumming sweetly to the background of sophisticated chatter, no guests to fall into an awed silence as the bride made her appearance.

  Lily had given up on holding out for love before this loveless marriage. She’d never, however, given up on her carefully chartered dreams of the special day. But she was pleased there was nothing special about this day, none of the usual trappings to give credence to this farce.

  She’d hesitated at dressing for the occasion, for a wedding with all of the legalities and none of the frivolities. In the end, Ana’s logic had guided her toward an evening gown of sky-blue silk with a modestly scooped neckline and full-length white gloves. In lieu of jewellery, a ribbon of the same blue adorned her throat and Ana had pinned her hair into a waterfall of straight, wispy lengths. Lily hadn’t bothered curling her hair in weeks and saw no reason to do so now.

  Greyston was already there when she arrived, positioned in front of an unlit hearth with one arm draped casually on the mantelpiece. He looked thoroughly at ease, perhaps even mildly bored. On the other side of the room, Armand stood in conversation with Father McIntyre, identified by his black robes and stiffened white collar.

  Kelan was noticeably absent.

  As soon as his eyes lit upon her, Greyston strode forward. “You look… beautiful.”

  “Where is Kelan?” she asked at the same time, then tagged on a, “Thank you,” just as he replied, “I’m sure he’ll be down shortly.”

  Lily took a breath and started again, her hands fluttering over the simple lines of her gown. “Thank you, Greyston. It feels like forever since I donned anything more elegant than a day dress or a house gown.”

  His gaze settled on her with dark sensuality. “It’s not your attire that makes your beauty.”

  His voice was husky with what she imagined might be longing and desire. His grin came on so reckless and disarming, so painstakingly familiar, her hand reached out to him. This marriage doesn’t have to change the course of our future. It need not signify the end of you and me, of what might one day be. Not necessarily.

  Her lips parted with the words over-spilling from her heart.

  “Forgive my tardiness,” Kelan’s refined baritone usurped from her left. “Shall we?”

  Greyston’s eyes jerked from her. Lily’s reaction was slightly more retarded, finally dragging her gaze to the arm Kelan offered.

  “Have you been introduced to Father McIntyre?” he said.

  “I’ve only just arrived myself.” She curled her fingers around his forearm, noting the scroll of Aether paper he’d brought with him. “What is that?”

  “Oh, right. Hold onto this, will you?” He pushed the scroll into Greyston’s hands. “It’s the intelligence from London we’ve been waiting for.”

  “About the demon?” Lily whispered as she allowed herself to be guided across the room. At his nod, she demanded, “Well? What does it say?”

  “First things first,” he drawled, nudging his chin at the priest who drew apart from Armand to come forward. “This won’t take long.”

  Then and there, she was as nervous as any bride should be. What had they discovered? Who was the demon and how had it managed to masquerade as a member of parliament? Which social circles did it move in and did they intersect with the political spheres of the Harchings family?

  Then Father McIntyre was sandwiching her hand between his, announcing it an honour to meet her. Lily smiled into his kind watery eyes, so pale, almost as silver as his wiry hair, and reciprocated with automated niceties.

  “Should we begin?” he said in a soft voice that nevertheless carried throughout the room.

  If Lily had hoped her wedding would consist of merely signing the relevant papers—and she had—she was sorely mistaken. However brief, the priest was determined to deliver an abbreviated sermon along with the church’s blessing.

  Lily’s mind kept wandering, and when her gaze flickered to where Greyston stood with Armand, she found him paying even less attention than her. He’d actually opened the scroll and appeared to be inconspicuously skimming its contents. A burning
need to know what he read there consumed her.

  In one of her demon glass sessions, she’d heard the housekeeper address the demon as a Mr. Timothkin, a name that hadn’t meant anything to Kelan but he’d passed the information along to his men in London. She hadn’t mentioned the name to Evelyn, hadn’t wanted to stir the pot with dire warnings that might lead Evelyn to jump to conclusions and do anything that would put her at even more risk. Had that been a mistake?

  Her fingers had remained wrapped around Kelan’s arm and now his other hand flattened over hers with a reassuring pressure.

  She blinked to focus, and found the priest had stopped talking. His eyes were wrinkled on her in a somewhat expectant manner.

  “Yes?” she said, wondering what they were waiting upon.

  He smiled and turned to Kelan. “With the power invested in me by the Holy Church, and with much delight, might I add, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Lily’s heart gave a little thud. So, it was done, never mind that she’d missed most of it. Her gaze instinctively shot to Greyston again, but he was rolling up the ream of paper with a thoughtful expression and not looking her way.

  “Lily?”

  She glanced up at Kelan, looked into his icy-blue, relentlessly intense gaze, and the reality floored her.

  With the power invested in me by the Holy Church...

  She felt the blood draining from her head, the life draining from her soul. What had she done?

  She’d stood before God and lied.

  She couldn’t remember what all she’d promised, but she knew enough about the marriage rites to know there’d have been plenty about honouring and obeying, not to mention the part about ‘until death us do part.’ God had blessed this union and she—they—had every intention of tossing it out like dirty dishwater as soon as it had passed its usefulness.

  She didn’t just feel dirty. She felt as if she’d sullied her soul and no amount of scrubbing, no amount of demon-cleansing or world-saving, would ever get it clean.

  “Lily, it’s okay,” Kelan murmured, leaning in. “There’s more than one way to kiss the bride.”

  He raised her hand in his and brushed his lips over her gloved fingers, his eyes never once leaving her.

  A rush of tears clogged her throat. Silly emotion.

  When Father McIntyre shepherded everyone over to a table for the signing of the register, Kelan held Lily back.

  “I know this isn’t perfect, but neither is it as devastating as your tears suggest,” he said. “This marriage is a solution, Lily, nothing more and nothing less. Nothing has really changed and nor will it.”

  She glanced away from his scrutiny. Father McIntyre had busied himself opening the register to the correct page and Armand was sent off for an inkwell and quill. Greyston was almost determinedly avoiding eye contact with her.

  “Talk to me, Lily.” Kelan still held her hand, the one he’d kissed, and his grip tightened. “What has suddenly changed?”

  Blast the man. She turned back to him with every intention of disregarding his unwanted perception.

  But the harsh lines of his jaw, the duty and honour that traced those angles in steel, the careless determination stamped on his brow to avenge the right and damn the rest at any costs…she knew this too. A different type of familiarity to that of Greyston, but still familiar.

  “This is more than I was prepared for. The sermon, the vows, the promises before God.” She sighed. “It’s more real than I expected and I can’t—I don’t…”

  “In this instance,” he said, “I think God will understand.”

  Apparently, Kelan’s inner arguments had gone better than hers.

  “There’s nothing else to be done, I realise. I just…” She bit down on her lower lip, grimacing at him. “I feel terrible about making a vow before God that I intend to break.”

  A minute passed as he looked at her, some of the ice melting from his gaze. “Then we don’t break it.”

  She gave another sigh, one founded on pure irritation. “How don’t we break it? You didn’t want to marry me.” Any more than I wanted to marry you!

  “That’s not entirely true,” he said.

  “That’s not what it sounded like to me,” she retorted. “Each and every time you and Greyston argued over it.”

  “My objections were all on your behalf,” he said with a candour she couldn’t refute. “I thought you’d prefer Greyston.”

  She stared at him. Well, that was certainly the truth of it. Then again, she wasn’t sure she liked the ring of pity in his admission.

  “This marriage is no hardship to me, Lily, not by any means,” he elaborated, possibly mistaking her silence for disbelief. “It’s an arrangement. I don’t foresee much of anything changing, except to the public eye.”

  She straightened her shoulders, which seemed to have caved in during this conversation. “And that’s precisely why we can’t stay married forever.”

  “Forever is rarely as long as one might think or wish for,” Kelan said softly, pressing a hand to the small of her back and urging her forward to where the priest and witnesses waited by the register. “And who knows, there may well be nothing for God to forgive.”

  The sworn oath hung on those last words murmured beneath his breath. He didn’t ask her to trust him. He made no promises. And yet, she heard both in his voice and she did trust him. Enough to feel reassured for some odd reason.

  Perhaps it was simply that when it came to a man like Kelan, it wasn’t altogether impossible imagining God might be persuaded to bend the rules a little.

  TWELVE

  No sooner had Kelan retired to his rooms for the night, when a knock came at the door. He’d already discarded his jacket and now tugged his cravat loose as he strode from his bedroom and through the adjacent sitting area. A split second before he opened the door, it struck him that he’d acquired a wife this evening. A wife who was conceivably knocking on Greyston’s door this very instant.

  His hand crushed his cravat. This wasn’t going to work. No matter how temporary or farcical this arrangement, he’d not be a cuckolded husband. He’d been too hasty in his reassurances to Lily that nothing would change. Between her and Greyston, at least one change was in order and if Greyston had any issues with that, well, he should have married Lily himself.

  Flinging the crushed cravat aside, he opened the door to find Armand, bearing champagne and a pair of crystal flutes.

  Kelan took one look at the dust-covered bottle and stated, “I can’t abide that stuff.”

  “Your father’s orders.” Armand pushed past him and made himself comfortable in an armchair. “I took the liberty of messaging him with the celebratory news.”

  “You informed my parents of my marriage?”

  “Actually, you did,” Armand said bluntly. “Being a dutiful son and all, of course you’d inform them before the topic of your nuptials takes London by storm. The world has become very small since the advancement of Aether Messaging.”

  Kelan dropped into the chair opposite, suddenly weary. “Did I at least explain the circumstances to them?”

  “You thought it prudent to wait before declaring your hand.” Armand shrugged. “Who knows what the future may hold?”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Kelan muttered, suddenly in need of a drink. Even champagne.

  Armand had never been interested in the affairs of his heart before and it was a fool’s cause. The deal with Saloese was done. The dues would be paid with or without Armand’s interference. And as far as Kelan was concerned, the demon would be doing him a favour if it turned his heart to stone.

  He reached over and grabbed the bottle from Armand’s hands. One generous sip later, an unexpected—and welcome—burn hit his throat. He cocked a brow at the man.

  Armand grinned. “Ah, your father wanted you to pop the cork of our best bottle of champagne to toast your bride on his behalf.” He took back the bottle, pouring a measure of whiskey into their glasses. “I popp
ed the cork. He made no specific mention of not substituting the contents of the bottle along the way.” He passed Kelan’s whiskey over and raised his glass. “To Lady Perth.”

  “To Lily,” Kelan murmured as their glasses touched.

  He supposed this was where he should contemplate the merits of his beautiful, stubborn, enigma of a wife. But that would only lead to thoughts of a kiss that had unexpectedly heated his blood and he’d rather take his cue from Lily.

  Once they’d partaken of a light supper and the priest had left, she’d turned her mind to the latest update from London to the exclusion of all else, including her wedding woes.

  Mr. Timothkin represented the parliamentary constituency of Clitheroe, a small town in Lancashire. About a year and a half ago, the glassworks factory that supported the town and surrounding area had burned to the ground. Mr. Timothkin, by all reports a ruddy Northerner of stalwart origins and somewhat lesser known means, had arrived as the answer to all their prayers. He’d immediately put the unemployed to work, rebuilding the factory and setting himself up as the town’s sole benefactor.

  “It’s no mystery how Timothkin got elected,” Kelan continued his thoughts aloud. “But did the demon grab a ready-made opportunity or manufacture it?”

  “You think Timothkin was responsible for the glassworks fire?” queried Armand.

  “I don’t know,” Kelan said. “I don’t know if we’re dealing with rogue demons running rampant or a league of the bastards with a single, damned extensive plan.” He’d speculated himself in circles and now he was only interested in answers. “I’m going to take a look around Clitheroe to see if the lads missed something and I’d like you to do the same in Glasgow. When I go head-to-head with Timothkin, I intend to do so with the upper hand.”

  Armand, who’d never been partial to London, readily agreed to depart for Glasgow at first light.

  Lily, as he discovered the following morning, proved less amenable to the change in their itinerary.

  “You’re welcome to travel direct to Lancashire,” she told him at breakfast. “You can meet up with me in London at your leisure.”