He could wait. Another few months might be frustrating, but would be worth it, for his revenge to be sweet. And if the two of them came to care further for each other by then, well, that would sweeten it even more.
He turned back to the weeds, and ripped them from the ground savagely, tearing each one into small pieces before dropping it into the barrow, imagining tearing something else entirely as he did so. He whistled as he worked, savouring the future for the first time in four years.
~~~~~
As if Lady Alyse’s words had been a command, Gerry felt compelled to continue exploring the Castle, digging into cellars and attics, closed up rooms and cupboards, finding himself noticing far more detail than he had before, as a result of Lady Alyse’s visit. Seeing the place through her eyes had changed his perspective.
He began to take notes, capturing information about parts of the castle that he thought Lady Alyse would enjoy, would wish to draw. Her ability to see beauty in the smallest things, in the construction of the simplest items, had been somewhat of a revelation to him. His life had been very much focussed on the practical – to now see the beauty inherent in those practical things brought him some pleasure in the world – more so than anything had, since his return from the war.
In that, she had given him a great gift.
It was a gift that helped, a little, to balance the effect of the dreams. For he still dreamed, most nights – dreamed of what he had done, saw again the faces of the men he had interrogated, the men he had reduced to terrified wrecks, who gave up their secrets. The fact that those secrets allowed them to save others, sometimes whole battalions, by knowing more of the enemy’s plans, did not change what he had done. The dreams cared nothing for that – they replayed the horror, reminded him how monstrous a man he was, to have been capable of such things. And, worst of all, they tempted him, showing him what it would be like to take pleasure in such things.
He was glad, in an odd way, that he always woke revolted by the idea – the dreams confirmed his monstrous nature – but they also confirmed the fact that he clung to some humanity – he might be capable of doing what was needed, but he had successfully refused to take pleasure in it.
Chapter Seven
A short few weeks later, as they prepared for the trip to London for Raphael’s wedding to Lady Serafine, Alyse found herself, as she had so often of late, thinking of Lord Tillingford. She missed him. Even though he had been so often terse and standoffish, his company had been enjoyable. He was still, of all the men she had met, by far the most interesting. He made her heart race, as no one else ever had.
She hoped, rather desperately, that he would be at Raphael’s wedding – she could not imagine him missing the wedding of one of the other Hounds, although she suspected that he did not enjoy weddings, as he seemed not to enjoy Balls and other social gatherings. The puzzle of why that was so nagged at her.
Still, all she could do was hope. In the end, she had not been brave enough to ask Hunter about him, about what might lie behind his moodiness, and his rather bitter edged view of the world. She could not reveal how much she cared, lest her brother tease her forever after.
Finally the day came, and, as they stood in the church, watching Raphael and Sera wed, Alyse cast her eyes about, looking for Lord Tillingford. He was there! He had slipped in to the church late, as the ceremony began. His face was set, studiedly blank, but some deep emotion played about his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking.
After, back at Porthaven House – Raphael’s new residence, as part of the estates he had received with his ennoblement to Earl – she watched him, always. He stayed close to the other Hounds, or to Baron Setford, his face only truly alive when speaking to them. When he watched Raphael with Sera, he seemed full of sadness – an odd emotion to see at a wedding. Alyse wanted to go to him, to touch him, to wipe the sadness from his face, to give him reason to feel joy. Propriety’s requirement that she stay close by her mother, or Nerissa, chafed.
As the dancing began, the men came towards them, Hunter seeking Nerissa, Lord Barton seeking Sybilla. Lord Tillingford came with them, seeming as if he would far rather escape the room, but trapped by politeness. Alyse watched him as he approached, struck yet again by what a fine figure of a man he was. As Hunter led Nerissa towards the dancing, the Dowager Duchess fixed Lord Tillingford with a steely eye.
“So nice to see you again, Lord Tillingford. You seem to be lacking a partner, as is my daughter. Perhaps you can see your way clear to dance with Lady Alyse?”
Lord Tillingford looked, for a moment, as if he would flee. Alyse understood – that expression on her mother’s face was prone to make people quail.
Then he drew himself up, and, presenting a perfectly acceptable polite smile, bowed over her hand.
“I would be delighted, if it suits Lady Alyse?”
She smiled, meeting his eyes, and was beyond pleased when they widened, and lit with an unmistakable warmth.
“Thank you, Lord Tillingford.”
She placed her hand on his arm, delighting at the feel of strength wrapped in fine tailoring, and allowed him to lead her to the floor. The strains of a waltz began, and she smiled, well pleased as he took her into his arms.
It was as that first waltz, months before – within moments, they were so well attuned that they seemed to float, effortlessly, drifting through the others on the floor, without need of thought. She inhaled the scent of him, and allowed her eyes to meet his. Deep blue drew her in and all else faded from her awareness. There was something, something about this man, that overwhelmed her senses. In the midst of all the happiness that weddings drew forth, he seemed sad. The need to know why nagged at her again, even whilst she gloried in the feel of his arms around her.
She dared not ask him. His eyes held hers, the music swept them along, and she wished to suspend time in that moment, forever.
~~~~~
“Your mother would make a good General.”
As he said the words, he wondered if they went too far, but she looked up at him, laughing.
“She would. Hunter has remarked on it before. When she determines to do something, swaying her from that path can be very difficult. Of us all, Sybilla has the most success.”
“At least, from what I have seen, most of her decisions are sound, and well intentioned.”
“That is very true. From the way that you say that, it seems you have experienced rather different intent, somewhere.”
He felt himself stiffen, and forced himself to relax – she could not know anything of his life – surely Hunter had not spoken to her of his family, or of his experiences at war? With her, it was too easy to relax, to say things that led, inevitably, to questions he would rather not answer. Holding her was a delight. Dancing with her was far more pleasant than with any other woman he had ever danced with – it took no effort, it simply seemed to happen without thought required. Her lily of the valley scent wrapped around him and the warmth of her body close against his drew him, tempted him utterly.
“A little. Let me just say that my family is far less… unconstrained… with each other than yours. And I have always been the one most likely to be the point of contention.”
He was, obviously, quite mad – he was actually revealing things about himself, to a woman – to this woman in particular – when he had sworn to hold aloof from her. But her deep brown eyes pulled him in, the gold flecks in their depths lit with pleasure in the moment, and the words slipped out. The room was filled with happy people, and his sense of loneliness was intensified by it.
The bitterness of his empty future threatened to swallow him, here where everything that he could not have surrounded him. Her hand on his shoulder was warm, her back beneath his hand warmer still. He felt as if she were a lifeline, the need to hold her, to converse with her, keeping him from drowning in the sea of unattainable joy.
“I am sorry to hear such a thing – my family may be, at times, infuriating, yet they are the people I love most, and al
ways support me, even when I want to do things that they heartily disapprove of. I cannot imagine what it would be like, if that were not so.”
“You are blessed.”
He could hear the yearning in his own voice.
She looked at him, her head tipped slightly to the side. Unconscious of what she did, she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at it as she considered him. Heat rushed through him, and the temptation to tip his head down to hers, to kiss that lip where she worried at it. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that they were in a crowded ballroom. And the fact that he should not begin something he could never finish. He had to remember that he could never have the love of a woman like this, could never marry.
But she tempted him almost beyond his will to resist. He pushed all thought of happiness aside, and reached for the bitterness which had sustained him these past two years. It was far safer that way. As he did so, a look of hurt appeared on her face, as if she could see the change in him.
But surely, she could not – he was adept at keeping most people unaware of his thoughts.
The dance carried them on, in silence, but their eyes clung to each other, full of things unsaid and questions unanswered.
~~~~~
Once Raphael’s wedding was over, with barely a month until Sybilla and Bart’s wedding, the Dowager Duchess swept them all back to Meltonbrook Chase, and into a maelstrom of organisation.
Alyse watched it all, wondering how a wedding could become such a mammoth enterprise. She shuddered to think what it would be like, when her turn came. That thought brought only one man to mind, and she stared out the window, tuning out her mother’s listing of tasks, picturing Lord Tillingford’s handsome face in her mind’s eye.
She missed him. The more time she spent away from him, the more she missed him. That one waltz at Raphael’s wedding had made the sensation even stronger. She did not know what made him sad, what had made him pull back into his bitter aloofness, when their conversation had seemed so innocuous to her. But whilst his conversation had ceased, and his manner had stiffened, his eyes had told a different story. She clung to the memory, determined to find a way past his reserve.
~~~~~
After the wedding, the world seemed darker than before. Gerry threw himself into exploring more of his home, not admitting to himself that he did it only with the thought of showing what he found to Lady Alyse.
Chapter Eight
The cellars of the Castle had continued to produce an odd collection of items of interest – some old furniture, paintings and decorative items worthy of restoration, some intriguing pieces of old carving on the walls and stairs below, and occasionally, the potential treasure of long stored wine, in casks or bottles. Always, he tried to see it as Lady Alyse would – as an endless supply of intriguing and delightful detail, which provided clues to the past, and to how people had lived and thought.
There came a day when he decided to look into the oldest cellars, those beneath the central Keep tower. They ran two, perhaps three layers deep, and had barely been used for decades. Shackleton informed him that, once, they had been used to store root vegetables through the winter, on racks and racks of re-arrangeable shelves, adjusted each year based on what needed to be stored. As a boy, Shackleton remembered helping the then Cook collect supplies from in the dark depths. Now, only a few large barrels of very aged port were stored there.
The sky overhead was grey, and Gerry’s mood matched it. A deep dark place, full of the sad sense of ages past, seemed like an option well suited to his mood. He took the lantern, and opened the weathered door to descend into the darkness.
~~~~~
Cunningham, as always, watched Otford. Whenever he could, he arranged his tasks to allow him to hover around the edges of Otford’s day. Shackleton and the other staff left him much to his own devices – so long as the wood for the kitchen fire was there, the coal scuttles filled for the upper rooms, the waste removed to the compost pits or the current midden, everyone was happy – for he did the tasks that no-one else wanted to do.
He had become accustomed to Otford’s habit of exploring the cellars of the Castle, and dogging his steps suited Cunningham’s purpose well – in those cellars, he hoped, eventually, to find the perfect place to exact his revenge. Somewhere deep and dark enough that a scream would go unnoticed above.
Once Otford had descended into the cellars of the old Keep, Cunningham looked around, and, satisfied that no one was in sight, he propped his broom against the wall, and followed. He needed no lantern – his night sight had developed well, from years in a darkened prison, and from nights creeping about on Gypsy business that was best left unmentioned.
The stairs were steep, and he moved cautiously, listening to the echo of steps below.
Slipping steadily down, he was pleased when Otford continued past the first doors, deeper into the cellars, and even more pleased when the stairs turned – if there was no straight path, sound would not carry so far. His mind was full of feverish images, his imagination running wild with what he would do to the girl, with how Otford’s face would look, when he was forced to watch, and unable to do anything about it.
He reached the bottom, and watched from the last turn of the passage as Otford opened an old door, and stepped through, leaving it open. The light of his lantern cast huge shadows across the far wall, illuminating stacked wine casks, a scatter of fallen timbers, and a dark opening. Otford disappeared into it.
Nodding to himself, Cunningham turned and hurried back up the stairs. He would come back, and explore further – this was a most promising cellar indeed. But for now, he needed to get back to his broom, and his appearance of being an innocent, and rather slow witted, worker.
~~~~~
The chill of the deep cellars wrapped around him, the further down Gerry went. He could see why these cellars were used for the type of storage that Shackleton had spoken of. Their temperature would vary little, all year round. At the bottom of the steep stairs, the passage wound along, ending in a wooden door, banded in iron. He pushed it, and the hinges creaked a little, as it opened.
He studied the room before him.
It seemed he had found the wine casks. They loomed, huge against the wall, and he wondered how many decades the port had been maturing in them. They were, he suspected, if the wine was good, now rather valuable. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. A scatter of planking and blocks lay tumbled to one side – the remains of the shelving that Shackleton had mentioned, he suspected. It looked, from the way that it lay, and the uneven distribution of dust, as if it had recently been disturbed – but who would have been down here?
No doubt he imagined it, deceived by the flickering lantern light. Behind the edge of the pile, an opening in the wall lay in deep shadow, seeming somehow ominous. He stepped forward, skirting the fallen planks, and held the lantern into the crevice. It was a passageway, turning, and continuing to one side. It seemed to have far rougher walls and floor than most of the cellar rooms.
Intrigued, he stepped into it, and followed the passage cautiously. After some distance, he came to an ancient iron bound door, so heavy it appeared better suited to a fortress than a cellar. When he pushed on it, it opened slowly, its weight making it ponderous. The rusted hinges squealed like tormented souls, echoing through the passage. He flinched at the sound, then stepped through the door.
Time stopped. The flickering lantern light revealed the stuff of his worst dreams. He stood in a torture chamber, equipped with a far more devilish collection of instruments than he had ever seen. It was too much to face. Retching, he spun on the spot, and ran, not stopping until he reached the empty courtyard above.
Chapter Nine
For weeks, Gerry went nowhere near the cellars. He turned his explorations to the attics, and the long unused wings of the house, doing his best to ignore what he had seen below. But it would not be expunged from his memory.
The dreams were worse, far worse – in them, he became
, fully, the monster with no soul, and took pleasure in what he did to the helpless – in the dreams, everything he feared to be, he became. And the helpless, as presented by the dreams, wore the faces of everyone he cared about, especially Lady Alyse.
He did not rest, almost afraid to sleep, and feverishly engaged in working with his farmers to implement Charles’ suggestions, preparing the fields for winter, with a plan for the following spring. The days blurred together, and he considered inviting Hunter and his family to return, for there were things he was unsure of, with respect to the new farming methods.
But how could he ask them? How could he let them see the wreck that he had become?
The date of Lady Sybilla’s wedding to Bart fast approached, and Gerry tried to prepare himself to attend. Once this wedding was done, he would be the last of the Hounds unwed. And it would remain so. The aching void of loneliness loomed ahead of him, but he was even more certain than before that he could not marry – how could he even consider exposing a woman to the nightmare he was, to the dreams, and the monstrous truth of him? He could not. He would not. As he thought the denial, still, his mind brought back the memory of Lady Alyse in his arms, taunting him with what he could not have.
Quite how he would manage to get through another wedding celebration without snapping at everyone, he did not know. But he would. He owed it to those who cared more for him than his own family.
~~~~~
Cunningham, delighted when Otford stopped delving into the cellars, took the chance to extend his own explorations. When he discovered what lay beyond the room with the wine casks, he stood there and laughed – a sound of madness, which would have chilled the soul of any who heard it. But the cellars swallowed the sound into their silence, muffling it in the dust of ages.
Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11) Page 6