“Lady Alyse…”
“Lord Tillingford…”
The both spoke at the same moment, and stopped, unsure how to go on. He swallowed, and tried again.
“Lady Alyse, might I speak with you?”
Chance had provided him the opportunity he had hoped for, and he would be a fool to cast it aside. She looked at him, glanced at the closed door, and seemed to come to a decision.
“Yes, my Lord, let us speak, for I wish to converse with you, also. Please, do take a seat.”
She waved to the couch beside her, and his heart beat faster, a flutter of ridiculous hope moving in him. he moved forward and sat – so close was she that he could easily reach out and touch her. Her lily of the valley scent surrounded him, and, for a moment, he imagined a world in which he might have the pleasure of simply sitting with her, every day. He was not in any way certain how to begin this conversation, now that he had the opportunity. But the silence was stretching too long – she seemed equally uncertain. So he simply leapt in.
“Lady Alyse, I wanted to apologise.”
“Apologise, Lord Tillingford? For what?”
“For my manner towards you, in the days after that most regrettable incident in the cellars of Tillingford Castle. I realise that I must have seemed most abrupt and aloof – which was rude of me, in the extreme.”
She considered him, her deep brown eyes wide, her fingers tracing the scars on her hand, her lip pulled between her teeth. Suddenly, the room felt too warm.
“Thank you. But – I fear I must join you in apology, for my manner to you was equally distant – which was unforgiveable, after you saved me so heroically.”
“Shall we, then, begin again, as if those days of aloofness had never happened?”
He felt himself smiling, and suspected that his hopes were writ large on his face. He waited for her answer, his heart beating far faster than was comfortable.
“Yes, I believe that would be for the best. I… I wanted a chance to explain. I am glad that you chanced upon me now.”
“My Lady, I do not see that you have anything to explain. But I am happy to hear whatever you may wish to say to me.”
“Thank you. From the moment that I was safely out of the cellars, I found myself more and more confused and disturbed by that madman’s words. The things he said about you…”
Her words brought back every doubt he had ever felt about himself, and made his faint hopefulness seem deeply foolish. He swallowed hard before speaking.
“Ah. As I explained in the conversation immediately after we had come out of the cellars, there is much in what I did during the war that I deeply wish I had not done. Whilst his words may have been distorted by his madness, I fear that, in some ways he was correct.” She looked at him, her eyes wide, and inhaled sharply, as if his words hurt her. He deserved no less. “I have spent much time thinking since that day, and I will understand if you wish to have nothing to do with me, now that you know what I have done, what I am capable of.”
“I… I think that I would like to understand more. For I am not clear about one thing, at least. That madman suggested, if I understood the intent of his words, that you had not only tortured people, as part of your work, but that you had enjoyed doing so.”
Her voice shook as she laid forth her concern.
“He did, indeed, suggest exactly that. One thing that I can assure you of, is that I never took pleasure in my work. Was it torture? That would, I expect, depends on one’s definition of the word. It was certainly interrogation, and the methods could be unpleasant, but I took great pains to avoid outright torture, even though others suggested that I should use those methods. For a man in pain will confess to anything, simply to make it stop. Far more effective is the fear of what might be done to him – for then, he has a chance to consider his options with a clear mind. But… the very idea that, if I have the capability to apply the techniques that break a man’s resistance, then I might also have the capability to, in some way, come to enjoy doing so, haunts me. That I might be capable of becoming that much a monster terrifies me.”
He sat a moment, his words hanging between them, a shape of horror in a place of peace. Her eyes drew him in, as always, and he waited for her reaction.
“I do not believe that the man I know you to be could do such a thing, and take pleasure in it. His words disturbed me, and made me wonder if I had misjudged you, but now that I see you before me, as you speak of it as something you fear so much, I see the sincerity in you, and I see that I was foolish to ever countenance the idea that the madman’s words might hold truth.”
The breath he had been holding, all unawares, left him in a great sigh.
“I have not spoken of this to anyone before – not even to the other Hounds. I apologise for laying so unpleasant a topic before you. I am honoured that you have such faith in me. You have far more than I have in myself!”
“Why should I not have faith in you? I was a fool to even consider otherwise for a moment. I am in awe of your courage, and your dedication to king and country, that you took on such a terrible task during the war, because it needed to be done. And then, in the cellar, you demonstrated your courage again, defeating that madman with only improvised weapons. I am beyond grateful that those terrible war time tasks gave you the knowledge to save me from that device the madman trapped me with.”
“It has, truly, never occurred to me that someone might see my actions in such light. I have been so full of revulsion for myself that I have not considered that I could be seen any other way. You have given me a great gift with your words, as well as with your actions.”
“My actions? I do not understand.”
He flushed, suddenly embarrassed, realising that the only way to explain his words was to admit to looking through her journal, in the parlour of the Inn in Bridgemere. There was nothing for it but to tell her – he owed her honesty in all things, after her ordeal and her courtesy to him.
“To explain, I must apologise again, and make an admission. Let me start with that. After Lady Sylvia’s wedding, there was a morning when I was alone in the private parlour at the Inn in Bridgemere. I discovered, by accident, your journal, slipped down between the cushions of the couch. I am ashamed to admit that, wrong though it was of me, I could not resist, and I opened it, and looked at your work.”
She blushed, her mouth opening in a small ‘O’, as she considered what he might have seen.
“But… what has that to do with my actions?”
“I saw the drawings of the things in that room of the cellars, so I knew that you had been there. It shocked me, that you had drawn such things. That you had not fainted on the spot, or run away screaming, as I suspect most young women would, when confronted with such a chamber of horrors, but had stopped and looked at all of those terrible things, simply as things – as objects and shapes and textures, which were interesting enough to draw. It made me realise how differently others might view things. For, when I had found that room myself, it had brought forth the worst of my nightmares, reinforcing my horror at myself. I spent weeks from then trying to understand how it seemed to you.”
“Oh!”
“And then, after we had returned from the cellars, even whilst you were hurt and exhausted, you spoke of how you saw it – as the dusty remnants of something of the past, with no relevance to today, as a symbol of the fact that all things fall to dust in the end. That perspective was a great gift to me.”
“And… have you come to see it differently, as a result?”
“Slowly, yes, although I still dream, and I still wonder if I can trust myself not to be the monster that I imagine I could be.”
Gerry felt oddly light, as if he had shed an enormous weight – simply to speak of these things was freeing. Her deep brown eyes regarded him with a warmth that he had hoped for, longed for, for months. As if unaware of her actions, she reached out and placed her hand on his, her fingers curling around his gently. Heat infused him from her hand, spreading every
where.
“I do not believe you a monster, nor capable of becoming one. I… have always admired you, and found you far more interesting than other gentlemen of my acquaintance.”
She flushed charmingly as she spoke, and the hope bubbled up inside him again, a far headier sensation than any other he had felt.
“I am flattered indeed. But, if I may be truly impertinent, there is one other thing I would ask you, for there is another way in which seeing your drawings affected me. I saw, as I believe you have surmised, drawings that you had made, of me. They shocked me almost as much as the other drawings. For the man you had drawn was not anything like the man I feel myself to be. You drew a man with no darkness in him, a man who could be happy, a man who could laugh. It was like looking at an image of my younger self, before war tarnished everything about me. So I ask – why did you draw me? And why that way?”
Her fingers tightened on his, and she looked away, biting at her lip, as if embarrassed. When she spoke, her voice was soft, hesitant.
“I draw people to understand them. Sometimes, what I draw is a clearer truth of the person than what I perceive by simply looking at them. I draw you because I want to understand you. I have seen, for so long now, that there was a darkness in you – although you denied it when I was fool enough to ask directly.” He was the one to flush with embarrassment now, remembering his boorish response to her question at the time, “and I could not fathom it. So I draw you. My drawings show me many things – but your words today have shown me more.”
“And what is this truth that you have seen in me, in my words?”
“That you are that man I drew, the one who was happy, and caring. That the darkness is a temporary thing, a thing that you can be free from, in time. That I am right to care for you as I do.”
He reached out, greatly daring, stroking his finger gently across her cheek, and used it to turn her face up to him. His breath caught at the look in her eyes. He did not deserve what he saw there, but he wanted it, more than anything he had ever wanted before.
“If that is what you see, then I will do my best to be true to your vision of me, to force the darkness to release me. To be worthy of your care.”
Her lips opened on a shallow breath, her pulse beat in her throat, she nibbled at her lip, and he could resist no longer. His head came down to hers, slowly, a movement which seemed inevitable, yet earthshakingly important. Their lips touched, and she sighed against him. His tongue traced her lower lip, and she released it from her teeth. He deepened the kiss, and a little moan escaped her. Her hand tightened on his, and her other hand came up to cup the back of his head, holding him to her.
He slipped his hand from under her chin to cradle her face, and his other arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer to him. She came into his arms willingly, fitting there as if it was simply where she belonged. He did not think, he was aware of nothing but her soft body against his, her tentative exploration of the kiss.
The reality was far more wonderful than his dreams of her.
Time passed, in which her journal slipped to the floor, unnoticed, and nothing existed for either of them but touch. They might, he suspected, have stayed in that blissful state for hours, had not the mantle clock chimed loudly. They started apart, brought back to the mundane reality of the day.
‘Oh, I…”
Her confusion made her prettier, and he found himself smiling.
“Say nothing more, for no words are needed after that. But – I forgot to tell you – we are all summoned to be dressed for dinner and back in the parlour, a little over half an hour from now. We had best hurry if we are to be ready for the Christmas dinner, or your mother will be most displeased.”
She laughed, a wonderful sound.
“Displeasing my mother is not something I like doing – the result is simply too irritating for everyone. I had best hurry.” She looked around, puzzled. “Where is my… oh.”
Her journal lay on the floor where it had fallen, open to the most recent pages. His face looked back at him. She had captured him, animatedly talking. His eyes were laughing, and he looked relaxed. He looked at it in wonder, and with growing hope and determination. He would become the man she saw, because she wished it.
~~~~~
Alyse slipped from the library, and almost ran up the stairs to her chambers, her journal clutched to her, her heart singing.
He had kissed her!
She did not know what would happen now, if he might not yet retreat into his darkness and aloofness, but, at least this once, she had spoken with him honestly. She was sure of her own heart, and could but hope that he might care as much for her, as she did for him. Surely, he would not have kissed her like that, if he did not truly care?
Throughout the dinner, their eyes met, again and again, and she felt overheated, the memory of the kiss ever present. The next few days, until the snows slowed, and he eventually departed for Tillingford Castle, were little different – they had no further chance to be alone, but their eyes followed each other, and just his presence in the room was enough to leave Alyse feeling giddy and happy, full of hope for the future.
She was determined to write to him, to not lose the chance to build on the connection they had. All she needed now, was an excuse to see him again soon. Surely there would be one… or, perhaps, Hunter might help?
Chapter Sixteen
Only a few weeks later, another wedding invitation was delivered to Tillingford Castle. This time, it was Raphael’s sister, Miss Isabella Morton, who was marrying. And marrying a Duke – that would set the ton on its ear, yet again – the daughter of a merchant, marrying a Duke! He sat with the invitation in hand, examining his feelings. Unlike the last few wedding invitations, his first reaction had not been a rejection of the whole idea. As with the other weddings of the past 12 months, he was glad for those who were to marry. But this time, their happiness did not eat at him like gall.
This time, he was, almost, enthusiastic about the idea of going. It was an odd sensation. The sense that he might never have that happiness for himself was still strong, but hope now battled with bitterness in his thoughts, and the possibility of marriage was now something he could at least think about. But the first thought he’d had, on reading the invitation, was that, if he attended, he would almost certainly see Lady Alyse again. His mouth went dry at just the thought of it. That kiss was branded on his memory.
She had written, once, since then, with news of her family, and enquiries after his health, and the state of Tillingford Castle. It was an ordinary letter – but it was a letter to him, just for the sake of it – that alone was something to treasure. It gave him no real clues as to her feelings, no hint of whether the words she had spoken in the library at Meltonbrook Chase, of caring for him, had truly meant anything – yet it gave him hope that they were, by its very existence.
Buoyed by thoughts of Lady Alyse, he wrote and sent his acceptance of the invitation. Shackleton, handed the letter to send, considered his master’s smiling face with interest, and wondered what had happened, to finally make the man look happy.
~~~~~
The wedding was spectacular, an absolute crush, with the huge ballroom of Hartswood House filled by people of all stations, celebrating Bella’s wedding. As Gerry walked into the room, his eyes scanned the crowd for Lady Alyse. At the church, she had looked, to him, more beautiful than the bride, her soft gold hair lit by the wintry sun, and her gown the perfect colour for her. He had not been able to speak to her then, so crowded was the space, but he had simply watched her, glad to be near her.
Now, in this crowded ballroom, he wondered if he would have any chance to speak to her at all. He was determined to achieve that, somehow. And, if he could, to dance with her – what had once been something to avoid had become something to desire.
He made his way through the crowd, greeting people as he went, looking for the Dowager Duchess – she was sure to be somewhere near Lady Alyse, much of the time, and was also, he suspected, qui
te certain to manoeuvre him into dancing with her. This time, he would be happy to be manipulated.
~~~~~
Alyse was standing with Nerissa, Sybilla, and the other Hounds’ wives and friends, who were excitedly discovering that they were all increasing – at the same time. They were so happy, and it left Alyse feeling a little out of sorts. She wanted the kind of happiness they had. Whilst she listened to them talk, she scanned the room, looking for Lord Tillingford. He had not written, not even in response to her own letter, since leaving Meltonbrook Chase just after Christmas. Which left her feeling most unsure of his feelings.
At the church, he had instantly caught her eye, handsome as always, but something about him had changed. He looked, she thought, almost happy – which was startling, after so long seeing him always looking sad and withdrawn. It made him even more attractive. There had, however, been no possible way for her to speak to him there. She’d had to be content with looking. Now, she was awaiting his arrival eagerly. Surely, here, she would have the excuse to speak to him, perhaps even to dance with him. The memory of their other dances rose in her mind, bittersweet, each having been both wonderful and difficult.
Bella came and joined the conversation for a short while, and Alyse, watching her glowing joy, felt a deep stab of envy – to be so sure of someone’s love!
Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11) Page 14