He felt, at her words, a surprising relief. An emotion which he did not consider too closely, for fear of what he might see. They swirled on, her delicate scent surrounding him.
“I rather think that your mother will manage to bear the disappointment. No matter how she may push, from what I have seen, the happiness of all of her children is, in the end, her primary concern.”
She was silent. Happiness, he thought – what did he know of that? He was not sure any more – he knew satisfaction, and even pride, at times, but happiness? That was something he had left behind in France, when he had made the choice to do what was necessary.
~~~~~
Alyse revelled in the delightful sensation of dancing with a man who could dance well. The fact that it was this particular man made it all the more wonderful. She suspected that, after this, no other man would ever feel good enough. In the moment, she did not care.
They spoke, and the warmth of his voice caressed her. His obvious concern for what she felt, what she wanted, enchanted her. The absolute contrast to men like Lord Saltwitch was not lost on her at all. And, with respect to her mother, she thought that he was probably right.
“Yes, that is true. My mother may have ambitions for us all, but she will not force us to anything that we truly do not wish. Perhaps my problem is simply that I do not know, myself, exactly what it is that I wish.”
Liar! She thought, internally, the smile never leaving her face. What I wish is holding me in his arms right now.
“You are just nineteen – there is time yet to discover your true desires.”
“Perhaps you are right. You seem very wise to me.”
Something odd passed over his face, an expression she might have interpreted as pain. But that was silly of her. She allowed the conversation to drop, when he did not respond, and gave herself over to the joy of the dance, the feel of his arms around her, and the clean fresh scent of him, so different from the dandified fops she had danced with earlier.
The music came to an end, and she sighed, feeling suddenly lost, when he escorted her back to her mother. He took his leave, all politeness, and her eyes followed him across the room. There was simply something about him, that eclipsed all of the other men she had met.
She turned back to find her brother watching her, his eyes alight with all too clever curiosity.
Chapter Two
Gerry woke with a start, confused for a moment, the blue painted walls around him a far cry from the broken stone of the French farmhouse that had surrounded him in the dream. His pulse settled. He was at Tillingford Castle and the, oh so vivid, events of the dream were in the past. But the dream had left him queasy, the memory one he would prefer not to relive. The man had been a traitor – what choice had there been? None. Yet he desperately wished there had been.
No matter that the man had turned, to intentionally break a man’s will, with fear and physical hurt, had never been easy to accept as a necessity, and to have to do it to a man who had been one of their own had been abhorrent. Yet he had done it.
And when the man had broken, had begged for mercy, a deal had been struck – the information the man had provided had saved thousands, by allowing them to capture a ring of French infiltrators. But the deal had been less than honourable. They had agreed to pardon him – but had not told him he would be imprisoned until the war ended, as surety.
It had not sat well with Gerry, yet he’d had no choice but to follow orders. And the man had cursed him, when he was told the way of it. Had sworn that he would live to see them suffer as he had suffered, damning the aristocracy for all his woes. No matter that Gerry had not, at that point, held any title – he had been damned by association, and his actions.
It haunted him. But the war was nearly two years gone, and the man had been released, as promised, in late 1815. But every time he relived that day, in dreams, Gerry woke with a sense of doom hanging over him, and a revulsion at himself, at what he had done, at what he was capable of. It was all the reminder he ever needed that he was a monster to the core.
~~~~~
Three weeks of Balls and soirees later, Alyse’s opinion of the available gentlemen of the ton had not changed. Lord Tillingford had not been seen at any of those Balls. And the memory of her waltz with him remained the highlight of Alyse’s Season. Not that she would admit such a thing to her mother.
Alyse had been wondering how she might convince the Dowager Duchess to abandon London and return to Meltonbrook Chase, when circumstances had solved that problem for her.
For once, her sister had managed to surprise her. It seemed that not only had she actually finished writing her novel, but also that she had succeeded in becoming betrothed. Alyse approved. (And not simply because her mother’s immediate excitement at having a wedding to arrange had rescued her from what had become a tedium of Balls)
She had always liked Lord Barton, as she liked most of her brother’s friends.
She stared out the carriage window at the busy streets. Her mother’s voice droned on, not requiring an answer, discussing what would need to be done for Sybilla’s wedding. Hunter had fallen asleep, propped into the corner of the seat, and Nerissa leant against him, held in the curve of his arm, near sleep herself. Alyse was not sorry to see the last edges of London fall away, to be replaced by the passing countryside. Meltonbrook Chase had never seemed like such an appealing prospect.
~~~~~
A week later, her opinion on that matter had changed. At that point, absolutely everyone, except Sybilla and the Dowager Duchess, would have been delighted to never hear the word ‘wedding’ again. To think that this would go on for months! Not only was there much planning to do, but to add to the chaos, Raphael Morton, now the Earl of Porthaven, another of Hunter’s close friends, had also just announced that he was to marry, soon – before Sybilla’s wedding.
It was late afternoon, and Alyse, Charles, Hunter and Nerissa were sitting in Hunter’s study – a choice based on an unspoken communal intent to escape the wedding planning.
“I am sure that there must be one of the estates needing my attention. I just need to decide which one.”
“Good idea, Charles. And, obviously, it’s high time, that I, as Duke, visited my estate too – whichever one it is that you have in mind.”
Nerissa and Alyse exchanged a look.
“Oh no you don’t – not unless I can come with you!”
Nerissa’s tone was sharp, although her eyes sparkled with amusement. Alyse added her own plea to the discussion.
“If you are all going to escape, I am most definitely coming with you. I refuse to be left here to bear the brunt of mother’s enthusiasm – I’ve had enough of that this year already!”
They paused a moment and laughed, before Hunter stilled, staring out the window for a moment before he spoke.
“Actually, we have the perfect excuse to disappear for a few weeks. Given that Gerry asked for our assistance with the gardens and farms of the Tillingford estate, it’s only right that we should assist him as soon as possible. We shall simply have to go and spend a week or two with him – I can’t imagine us providing adequate assistance in any shorter time.”
Nerissa clapped her hands together in delight.
“Brilliant! How soon can we arrange it?”
“I’ll send him a message today – we’ll know in a few days’ time.”
Alyse looked at Hunter, her brow creased with concern.
“But how will we convince mother that I should go?”
Nerissa smiled, and reached across to pat her hand.
“Well, Gerry requested my help, and Charles’, and it’s logical that Hunter must come, as Gerry is his friend. I will simply insist that I need your company, so that I will have another woman to talk to. Your mother will surely not deny me that support.”
Alyse nodded, smiling again, and relaxed – this might actually work! The idea excited her – the very thought of spending a week or more at Lord Tillingford’s home made her heart beat f
aster – surely, in that much time, she could manage to capture his attention, to converse with him, to make him see her as something more than just Hunter’s sister. She wondered how Sybilla had managed to get Lord Barton to look at her as more than that – perhaps she should ask.
As much as being in his presence each day appealed, she was also thrilled by the prospect of the visit for another reason. Tillingford Castle was more than 800 years old – a jumble of architectural styles, in an accretion of building around the original keep of the earliest part of the Castle. She wanted to see it, wanted to draw it – not just the landscape views of the building expected of a young lady who painted or drew, but the far more interesting detail – for there were sure to be odd carvings all over the place, and points where the texture of stone met the texture of polished panelling.
She had always drawn things, since she had first grasped a pencil, and none of her mother’s attempts to encourage her in the direction of ladylike watercolour painting or traditional ladies’ subjects like flowers and scenery had met with success. She drew things that interested her – things with intricate detail and structure.
Her mother had sighed dramatically, and accepted that drawings of dress designs and intricate beading were as close to more ‘normal’ ladylike subjects as Alyse was going to get. But, after a Season in London, Alyse had drawn enough dresses to last some years. And Meltonbrook Chase was far too new to provide fascinating oddities of detail.
At less than 300 years old, it paled in comparison to a place like Tillingford Castle.
Alyse watched as Hunter wrote the letter, sanded and sealed it, and called for a footman to send it on its way. The next few days would be torture, as they waited for an answer.
~~~~~
Gerry was sitting in his study, staring rather blankly out of the window, his attention turned inward. The view was spectacular – or would be if nearly twenty years of almost neglect had not let the gardens run riot.
The structure was there, and the design led the eye past garden beds and avenues of trees to an expanse of lake in the middle distance – but everything needed trimming, and the summer blooms grew haphazardly, spilling colour in abundance with no thought to form or pattern.
He was barely aware of it. He was tired. Last night had been filled with the worst kind of dreams – the ones where he was back there, in the war, doing terrible things – and finding pleasure in it.
A pleasure he had never felt in real life, but which invaded his dreams, leaving him to wake feeling only revulsion for himself, and horror at what he was seemingly capable of.
Those nights were not restful – he might as well not have slept. Around him, the world was full of spring growth, and happy people, yet he felt more bitterly alone every day. He knew that feeling was simply an aftereffect of the dream – but knowing did not change the bitterness.
To make matters worse, in the last weeks, he had received confirmation that, within two months, both Raphael and Barton would be married.
He was happy for them, knowing that all of his companions at war were good men, who deserved a good life – but he envied them, deeply. He had done what was necessary, and he did not regret doing so in defence of his country, but he did bitterly resent that war had ever come upon them, to make it necessary in the first place.
He was startled from his grim thoughts by a knock on the door. At his call, Shackleton entered, the correspondence tray proffered in front of him.
“A letter, my Lord.”
Gerry looked at it, almost puzzled. It was not his mother’s writing, nor anyone else in his family. Few people had reason to write to him. He picked it up, turning it to see the seal. Hunter – he should have recognised Hunter’s writing – obviously, the damn dreams had left him even more disturbed than he had realised.
“Thank you, Shackleton. I will ring if I need to send a reply.”
“Very good, my Lord.”
Shackleton turned and left, as calm and unhurried as always. Gerry broke the seal, and unfolded the letter.
Hunter’s rather scrawled writing covered the page, informal as always with his friends. But what need had Hunter to write to him?
He scanned the letter quickly, then sat back, his mouth suddenly dry, and his heart beating faster than before.
Gerry,
At the Welmanns’ Ball, you requested my family’s assistance with some matters. If it suits you, we are free to visit you in this next few weeks, to address the matter of the gardens and the farms.
The party will comprise myself, Nerissa, Charles and Alyse, if you can see fit to put us up for a week or two, whilst we look to your estates.
Please let me know by return if this suits, and we will arrive on your doorstep at your earliest convenience.
Hunter.
Alyse. Lady Alyse would be coming with Hunter. How would he cope?
He wanted the gardens restored – their riotous growth demonstrated how much potential they held. He wanted the farms productivity improved, for his own and his tenants’ benefit. He wanted to spend time with Hunter, just to talk. But Alyse… he wanted to see her – he could not deny that. Yet it was a foolish thing to want. He could offer her nothing, beyond conversation.
No matter how much he liked her, she was not for a man like him.
He was not sure how long he sat, staring at the paper in his hands, facing the bitter truth of his isolation again. His fingers ached from the tightness of their grip on the paper. His dark blond hair fell forward over his forehead, escaping its styling as always, and he flicked it back, assailed by memory. Once, there had been laughter, once there had been a queue of young women who wanted to spend time with him, simply because they liked him. Once, he had thought that, one day, he would marry one of them, and live a happy life.
But that was before the war. He was no longer that man. He had forfeited his right to such thoughts. To spend a week or two with Lady Alyse here would be the worst kind of torture – yet he could not refuse. He needed the Barringtons’ help with the estates, and, if the price of that was to spend time with Lady Alyse, whilst being distant and polite, so be it. It would be good practice for the rest of his life.
Uncurling his stiff fingers, he dropped Hunter’s letter onto the desk, and drew out a sheet of paper. His reply was even less formal than Hunter’s letter – a simple note bidding them come as soon as they wished. He sealed it with the Tillingford crest, still finding it odd that he possessed such a thing, and rang for Shackleton to send it forth.
The days before their arrival flew by, but left him exhausted – the dreams were still there, but tangled with dreams in which those he hurt transformed beneath his hands into those long-ago girls from his village, or Lady Alyse. From those dreams he woke retching, full of bone deep horror at the man he had become.
~~~~~
“You want to what!??”
“I want to hold the wedding at Dartworth Abbey. The newly restored ballroom is beautiful, and the whole district is full of people I want to invite. The Marquess has already said that he is happy for us to do so.”
“And what is wrong with holding it here, at Meltonbrook Chase?”
Alyse sat quietly in the corner of the parlour, watching Sybilla and her mother progress towards a full scale argument.
“Nothing. Except that I want to hold it at Dartworth Abbey. Do stop being so negative Mother – you haven’t even seen it. At least visit and look at the place before you fly into a fit about it.”
“You have that stubborn look on your face. I know that look – you will simply keep saying that until I do see the place, won’t you.” This was accompanied by a large and dramatised sigh, as the Dowager Duchess tried to look put upon. Sybilla simply looked determined and waited. “Well, if you insist, by all means let us go there. Although… that will mean me staying at Greyscar Keep, won’t it? I have always hated that place.”
“Mother, you will be surprised. Greyscar Keep is much improved from when you last saw it.”
�
�Well. If I must suffer this, I insist upon having company. You must all come with us.”
The Dowager Duchess waved an arm, indicating everyone else in the room.
Hunter smiled, and Alyse took a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable reaction to the words that Hunter was about to utter.
“I am afraid, Mother, that we will not be able to accompany you. Sybilla will have to suffice, for we have all accepted an invitation to stay with Lord Tillingford for a few weeks, to discuss improvements to his estates.”
The Dowager Duchess simply stared at them for a moment, her mouth open in surprise. Then she snapped it shut, and fixed her son with a steely glare.
“All of you? Why, pray tell, are you all required?”
“All of us. Nerissa to advise on the gardens, Charles to advise on the farms, myself as one of his oldest friends to assist, and Alyse so that Nerissa will have female company in a house full of men. We have already accepted his invitation – it would be unpardonably rude to cry off at this point.”
“Well…” the glare now included them all, “Then I will make do. But, as you have chosen to absent yourselves from this planning, you will just have to accept whatever tasks I allocate to you, with respect to this wedding.”
She huffed ostentatiously, and turned to march out of the parlour, annoyance in every stride.
They managed to remain silent until her footsteps had faded down the hallway. Then they all collapsed into laughter.
Chapter Three
Alyse sat in the library at Meltonbrook Chase, the large blank paged journal, in which she sketched, open on her lap. On one page there was a half-finished study of a section of the bookshelf before her – the different textures and shapes of the spines of the books, the way that the shadow fell from one book to the next, the embossed gold titles on some books, the raised lines of tooled leather bindings – all faithfully reproduced. But that was not the page she was working on.
Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11) Page 2