Here. He would bring her here, once he had her. There could be no more perfect setting for the completion of his revenge. His patience had been rewarded, far better than he could ever have imagined.
~~~~~
Although he resolved not to do so, somehow, at Lady Sybilla’s wedding, Gerry ended up dancing with Lady Alyse again, as a result of some careful manipulation by her family. Again, it was a waltz. He was beginning to suspect that they planned this, trapping him into these moments with intent.
As before, it was perfection. Dancing with her was like dancing with no other woman he had known. She smiled at him, even when he scowled, and spoke gently, her words sliding past his bitter coldness and somehow drawing him out.
“My Lord, those weeks at Tillingford Castle seem so long ago now! Churlish as it is of me to say so, I am most glad that my sister’s wedding is now done. Perhaps Mother will settle for a while, and we may all draw breath again. But perhaps I am an optimist – it is, I expect, far more likely that she will turn her attention to me again, and push me to find a husband.”
At her words, Gerry’s heart clenched, an odd ache running through him at the thought of Lady Alyse with another man. It was the height of foolishness to feel so, for he could never have her – he had no right to judge what should happen in her life. Still, to think of such a thing, whilst she moved in his arms… It was almost beyond his ability to bear.
“You speak of what your mother might wish for you. But tell me, Lady Alyse – what is it that you wish?”
She met his eyes, hers full of something he did not understand, and chewed on her lip, in that way which sent heat to every part of him.
“What do I wish for myself? Certainly not what my mother wishes for me. I have found all of the men she has suggested to be utterly unsuitable – mostly boorish and boring.” A sensation unaccountably like relief coursed through him. “I believe that I would wish a man with whom I could converse honestly – as I always have with you. And a man who could accept my rather idiosyncratic interests in drawing. A man who can dance well, a man who has strength, and power, yet is not arrogant. Perhaps I will never find a man who meets my standards. Mother informs me that I am far too picky.”
As she spoke, her eyes stayed locked on his, both of them dancing entirely by instinct. Her eyes said far more than her words. What her eyes said terrified him, as did his own reaction to it.
For her eyes said that the man she wanted was him. And he could not permit it. But every fibre of his soul wanted it – wanted her, as he could no longer deny having wanted her for months. He tried to speak, but the odd lump in his throat prevented it. Finally, he forced words out.
“I applaud your determination to not settle for less than what you truly want. Especially in the face of your mother’s… force of personality.”
She laughed, delighted by his understanding, and his wording.
“And you, Lord Tillingford – what do you wish for yourself?”
For a moment, he lost the ability to breathe. How could he answer that? What did he wish? ‘My life to be different, the war never to have happened, you in my arms every day.’ He thought it all, and could not say any of it.
“I… am not sure that I know what I want, if I am completely honest.” Which you are not being, and cannot be, said the small voice in his head. “I must, eventually, marry and produce an heir, for titles come with that responsibility. Yet I cannot imagine doing so. After the war… perhaps I am not a man well suited to marriage, anymore.”
It was as close as he could drive himself towards truth, especially at such a place and time. Her voice was soft, and her fingers moved within his, gently squeezing.
“My Lord, I am quite utterly certain that you are a man well suited to marriage… to the right woman. One who accepts you for who you are, no matter what stain the war may have left upon your soul.”
Her eyes spoke to him again, and he felt his heart beat erratically, his breath come short. Her words touched too closely upon the core of his problems, and what they suggested… But he could not believe such a thing possible.
No decent woman could accept one as monstrous as he. He had no way to answer her, and simply lost himself in her eyes. She seemed not to mind his silence, and within a few minutes, the music wound to a close, rescuing him from further conversation.
He returned her to her mother, bowed himself away politely, and escaped to walk in the gardens. He had to push her away. He could not allow her to continue to grow to care for him, as she seemed to be doing – what he wanted did not matter – not tying her to a monster for life was far more important. The moon lit the garden paths to silver, making the world cold, black and white – far simpler than life.
~~~~~
Every time she saw him, every time she danced with him, Alyse was more certain that he was the man she wanted. It did not matter that he tried to push her away, for whatever reason, it did not matter that a darkness dwelled in him, stealing his joy in life for much of the time. He was who he was, and he affected her as no other man ever had, or, she suspected, ever could.
Dancing with him, as, all around them, people celebrated Sybilla’s wedding to Lord Barton, she was struck, again, with how perfectly they fitted together, how perfectly they danced together, how perfectly, it seemed to her, they could do anything they chose together. Yet he pushed her away. She was sure of it. One moment the warmth in his eyes was undeniable, the next, he had hidden it behind a cold veil. She was not deceived, even if everyone else was. She would persist.
~~~~~
Back at Tillingford Castle, Gerry felt suspended in a waking nightmare – for nothing had changed – the dreams made good sleep impossible, and he was, finally, beginning to run out of parts of the house to explore – parts that were not cellars, at least.
The days loomed large and long ahead of him, empty of brightness, empty of meaning. Even focusing on restoring the Tillingford Castle gardens, and improving the farms could not break through his gloom. Everything seemed dull and uninspiring.
Worst of all, the room he had seen in the cellars, for those fleeting seconds before his revulsion had sent him running, haunted his daytime thoughts, as well as his dreams. In a horrifying way, it called to him. Which was the most terrifying thing of all. But it drew him, and he was tempted, every day, to return, to see in better light what he had only glimpsed. He refused to succumb to that temptation.
But he felt utterly alone, unable to confide in anyone, now separated from the other Hounds by their state of happy matrimony. A state that he would not tarnish by speaking to them of his horrors. He knew, also, that if he did speak with them, they would, eventually, ask him, probably jokingly, when he was going to find a wife. He was not sure that he could bear it.
Everywhere he went, he passed parts of the house that Lady Alyse had been captivated by, had drawn, with that absolute focus that overcame her when she had pencil in hand. The constant reminders kept her in his thoughts, his memories of their conversations, their dances, torturing him, and helping him stay sane at the same time.
He remembered his thoughts at Lady Sybilla’s wedding – that he wished his life might be different, and that he might hold Lady Alyse in his arms every day. If anything, his wish was even stronger now. He could not imagine anything more wonderful than spending his life with her, which made the impossibility of that even more painful. How had he become so involved? How had he allowed his heart to become engaged – for it surely was? He did not know – all he knew was the ache of her absence – an ache that would never end.
Even if she returned here, with her family, to capture more of the Castle in drawings, he would have to stay completely aloof.
The world had become a narrow and bitter place.
Chapter Ten
The days passed, and turned into weeks, then months, and exhaustion had become the only way that Gerry slept. He ate less, and drove himself harder, seeking to escape his demons that way, yet, if anything, the dreams were worse. In t
he dreams, every person he had interrogated during the war paraded past him, accusing, until he was quite certain that, had he the skill, he could have drawn a faithful likeness of each of them, so clear were they in his mind, no matter how he wished he might forget.
Late in the autumn, a message came, inviting him to yet another wedding. This time, it was Charlton’s mother who was marrying. Gerry, whilst tortured all over again by the thought of another wedding, was happy for her. Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm, another of the Hounds, had come back from war to find his widowed mother distraught, and a terrible scandalous mess left to him by his now deceased older brother. The Dowager Lady Pendholm was a wonderful woman, and deserved happiness.
There was nothing for it – he would have to attend.
~~~~~
Cunningham’s frustration grew, with every day that passed. He had expected that the girl and her family would have visited again, by now. His hunger for revenge grew, eating away at his sanity like a canker, and his impatience made him less careful at times, and more likely to snap at people. He was reprimanded for his attitude, twice, and it took all the control that remained to him to look repentant and to turn his behaviour back towards the invisibility he needed, until the day came.
He spent his days and nights dreaming of what he might do to her, of the look he would see on Otford’s face, of how sweet that revenge would taste. The more days that passed, the more elaborate his imaginings became.
Worry also began to assail him – what if the girl did not return? How then would he have his revenge for the destruction of his life? How would he punish Otford for having the temerity to be titled and wealthy, when he, Cunningham, had nothing left? Perhaps he needed a new plan. But… the plan to use the girl was so perfect, that he did not want to give it up. He forced himself to patience.
~~~~~
Somehow, Gerry pulled himself together enough to attend and, as he had expected, the wedding of the Dowager Lady Pendholm to Julian Stafford, Duke of Windemere, was another occasion of unalloyed joy.
Gerry gritted his teeth, smiled at everyone, and tried very hard not to snap tersely in conversation. So many weddings in the year, in combination with the dreams, had worn his façade of unconcerned content with his life very thin.
He feared it no longer convinced anyone.
As was natural, when everyone gathered at Windemere Towers for the wedding breakfast, and the long afternoon of celebration that followed, Gerry gravitated to the other Hounds, their families and friends. Far better to have company, and some conversation, than to stand alone and morose. Yet it was still difficult – they were all, universally, so very happy in their lives.
It was also difficult because, inevitably in that group of people, was Lady Alyse. He found himself looking for her when he entered the room, unable to stop himself. When he saw her, standing with Hunter and with her mother, his breath caught, and his mouth went dry.
The afternoon sun through the ballroom windows lit her soft gold hair to a glow that surrounded her like a halo, and the pale blue of her gown suited her perfectly, emphasising her unspoiled beauty, and her slim elegant shape. His desire for her, his need for her company, even if he could only allow himself one afternoon of such indulgence, struck him like the blow of a sword.
He walked towards her, lost to all other considerations.
“Good day, Lord Tillingford, such a happy occasion, is it not? Five weddings in one year! And now all of your friends are wed – will you be making it six weddings this year, perchance?”
He was pulled from his distraction when the Dowager Duchess spoke, beaming at him, her words going instantly to the heart of his personal pain.
“I expect not, Your Grace. I do not, currently, have any plans in that direction.”
His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, and, whilst he bowed over the Dowager’s hand in greeting, his eyes barely left Lady Alyse. She was watching him, her brown eyes deep pools into which he could fall, and drown.
“A pity! I do so enjoy a good wedding. Well then, as an unattached man, it is obviously your duty to dance with all of the young ladies.”
She waved her hand gently in the direction of Lady Alyse, who blushed prettily at her mother’s outright manipulation. He was, he realised, yet again, trapped. He could not, now, be so rude as to avoid dancing with her – and if truth be told, he did not wish to. He wanted to hold her in his arms again, no matter how painful that was. He wanted to taste, for the short span of a dance, that which he could never have for longer. He bowed to her, and offered his arm, as the orchestra struck up for the next set.
As it always seemed to be for them, it was a waltz. He began to suspect Lady Alyse’s mother of having some sixth sense, some intuitive knowledge of exactly when a waltz was to be played, no matter what event she was attending.
She smiled, and placed her hand on his offered arm. So brilliant was that smile that he almost stumbled as it took his breath away. Somehow, he managed to walk, to lead her to the dance floor.
She turned into his arms, and they began to move. He was, again, struck by how perfectly they flowed together, by how right it felt to hold her, how easy it was to dance with her, how different from any other woman he had ever held.
“I do apologise for my mother. I assure you, it is not just you – she does that to any gentleman she can – she is quite certain that, without her intervention, I would never dance at all.”
He discovered that the very thought of Lady Alyse dancing with a plethora of other men made him angry. His arms tightened around her, and she met his eyes, a curious expression crossing her face.
“I believe that I have seen Her Grace applying her… social skills… often enough now to know when I have been subject to her favourite manoeuvre. But you need not apologise – there is no need of such manipulation to convince me to dance with you. You are, by far, my favourite person to dance with – you dance so well that it is like floating – delightful.”
A madness had taken hold of him – he was allowing his feelings to show, at least a little – somehow, in her presence, no matter what he had resolved, he could not help himself. She blushed, her eyes holding his, and he swallowed, trying to remind himself that he should be aloof, that she could never be his. That damnable lock of his hair chose that moment to escape its styling, and fell, encouraged by the movement of the dance, to drop across his forehead, and almost into his eyes. Her eyes followed it, and her hand, where it rested on his shoulder, twitched, as if she wanted to reach up and brush it aside. Perhaps she did. The thought of her doing so heated him from head to toe.
Desperately, he reached for the bitterness, reminding himself of what a monster he was, forcing himself to draw back from the warmth of her gaze. Somehow, she detected the change, for she gave a little frown, a tiny shake of her head, and drew her lip between her teeth, biting at it. His head swam – how was he supposed to resist such a sight?
After a moment, she seemed to come to some decision.
“I know that something troubles you, always. Each time I see you, the black stain of that worry sits deeper in you, dimming your natural brightness. Will you not tell me about it?”
Her words were forthright, beyond what polite society would normally allow, they stripped him of any easy, casual avoidance of her question, any instant denial. Her eyes held his, waiting for his answer. The music swept them on, and he struggled, internally. With this woman, his instinct was simply to answer her – yet to do so would reveal the terrible truth, and he could not, had sworn not to. What could he say? In the end, there was only one choice.
“I fear that you have an overactive imagination, Lady Alyse. Whilst I am flattered that you perceive me to have a natural brightness, I must assert that the idea of a deep stain of darkness upon me is not at all flattering. I cannot see where you might derive that idea from at all.”
He made his voice light, a little condescending, a little mocking. His heart hurt, with every word. Yet he could see that he was achi
eving his purpose – she drew back, a little, in his arms, obviously hurt by his rebuff, the pain clear in her eyes. His success tasted bitter - like the rest of his life.
“I see.”
Her soft voice was full of sadness – he wanted to take back his words, to do anything to not have hurt her. But he could not. Far better this hurt, than to ever see horror on her face, when she understood how much of a monster he was. They danced on in silence, all of the joy of the moment gone, until the end of the music released them.
Once Lady Alyse was returned to her mother, Gerry went seeking other conversation, which he found with Baron Setford, who looked at him with raised eyebrow, but did not ask, instead allowing him to carry on an inane conversation about Tillingford Castle and estate management.
~~~~~
Alyse had been watching Lord Tillingford all day, from the moment that she had spotted him outside the church in Bridgemere village, as they all waited for the ceremony to begin. She simply could not drag her eyes away from him. He seemed, mostly, rather withdrawn, watching the joyful events of the day with a less than joyful expression.
Whatever it was that troubled him, she saw it more clearly every time they met. He was, even whilst conversing with those around him, somehow withdrawn, holding himself back. She wished that she knew why. For the few moments that he relaxed, and allowed his natural brightness to shine, he was breath-taking – then he would shutter that brightness, and draw aloofness about him like a cloak. It made her heart ache, made her want to somehow drive that pervading darkness away. But she did not know what caused it, and, truly, she had no right to intrude.
But she wanted to. No-one else seemed to notice it, how they missed it, she was not at all sure, so obvious it was to her. When her mother, yet again, manipulated him into dancing with her, unable to politely decline, she was elated. She had dreamed, for months, of his arms around her – she would take any chance she had to feel that in real life.
Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11) Page 7