Her garden.
The infuriating Lady Anstruther.
He’d thought her only a devious social climber, but it was much, much worse than that. She was, in fact, an idealist. A crusader. One of the consecrated few who’d pulled themselves out of the middle classes and wanted to reach into the gutter and pull everyone else up as well.
Curse her bleeding heart.
She couldn’t possibly be so blind, could she? How was it feasible to not realize the risk she was taking, letting criminals and whores into her home? How could she maintain such a misguided faith in humanity? She must have never known cruelty. Or betrayal. She must be a stranger to brutality; the only violence inflicted upon her the errant stick of a hairpin by her lady’s maid.
It occurred to him that she didn’t know better. That she’d not seen the horror that was the primal man. The beast that lived inside, the rot beneath the blood and offal and clay.
He knew. Oh, he knew. He’d seen men rip each other apart for an extra piece of moldy bread. He’d watched the strong prey on the weak in the most sinful of ways. Once man was stripped of all society, civility, and dignity, even the most noble of them became animals. Savages. Beasts.
Monsters.
He knew because he’d been one of them.
Layer by layer, lash by painful lash, he’d been carved away from himself, from his humanity, until nothing but that primitive savage remained. Once he’d been rescued, the struggle to regain his sense of civility became his only imperative. When nightmares played on the backs of his eyelids every time he closed them. When he had episodes like this one, where his body betrayed his dignity, and the beast threatened to overtake the man, demanding he execute or escape. When paranoia stalked his every interaction, and suspicion became his only companion, he grasped onto the one principle he knew to be true.
Every man was an animal.
The only thing that separated them from the beasts was regulation, convention, and order. England was the grandest empire in the world because of the strident social expectations that harnessed the savage creature. That cultivated intellect and logic and tradition, eschewing the base and the prosaic.
This was necessary for the survival of mankind. Of this he was certain.
He’d experienced the alternative, had lost a part of himself to it, a part of his body, a part of his soul. It haunted his every moment, no matter how hard he tried to keep the creature at bay.
Some lived their lives closer to the beast than others, and it was better that they remain where they belonged. Where they could prey upon each other. Breeding and cannibalizing until one of their betters came along and established dominance, order, and thereby distracted the monster. Or at least redirected it.
He wished he could make the misguided Lady Anstruther see this. That he could make them all realize. That they could know what he knew without experiencing it firsthand, as it were.
Some of them might understand. He knew Ravencroft was well acquainted with the ferocity of war. He’d been called the Demon Highlander because he’d been known to unleash his beast upon the battlefield. He’d become an unholy thing. But he was not a demon, that’s what they didn’t comprehend.
He was only a man.
And man was evil enough. He didn’t need the help of the devil.
Case in point, these fits of wrath and unreasonable terror that made Cole want to do unspeakable things. These moments when what he feared the very most was himself. These days he felt nothing but spite and irritation. The slightest noise would set his nerves to singing, and incite his urge to strike. It was a daily battle not to act on every impulse. Not to eat, drink, or smoke too much, to fight or fuck too often.
He was barely keeping himself together. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt peace or pity.
No, that wasn’t true. He could remember. It had been precisely three years ago.
With Ginny.
He knew that was why he pursued her so ardently. Why, despite his convictions, he made himself a hypocrite only for her sake. Because as bitter and cynical as he became, she remained his only hope for exception. She’d been a true diamond in the rough, as they say.
An innocent whore.
What was she now? Where had she gone? He almost feared finding her sometimes, of giving her a chance to prove him right about the whole world. To dash what little hope he possessed. What if he found her, and she betrayed or abandoned him?
Like everyone else had.
Before he’d met her, he hadn’t known he could be broken in so many ways. Now, after all he’d survived, he was pretty certain a woman he’d only known one night could finish him.
For good.
The clip of soft, light footsteps alerted him to the hurried approach of a woman before she burst into the garden much as he had. Only she took the time to turn and latch the doors softly behind her.
She passed the wall by where he sat, and hastily navigated the path to the fountain. Her dress, the exact bewildering color of the sunset, brushed at a multitude of flowers, snagging on some of them, but she didn’t seem to care.
Lady Anstruther didn’t stop until she’d reached the water, plunging her hands beneath the satyr’s cold stream and splashing her face with it. Then she pressed damp fingers to her flushed neck. Her breath was elevated, her manner agitated as she paced the wide stone base of the fountain, visibly attempting to compose herself.
She fidgeted while she walked, her hands smoothing the intricate coils of her hair, pressing against where her corset bound her lungs, then lifting to her forehead. She tilted her face to the sky and sought the moon. Once she found it, she stilled and breathed easier, as though the soft light it bathed her in had conveyed some mystical secret.
For a moment, it was as though the moonlight had become sunlight. Her hair shone more brilliantly than it ought. A large flower ornament glittering with center gems winked from the coiffure as though held there by magic and a prayer. In the ballroom he’d thought her gown too garish, a silly ocherous flower among precious jewel tones.
But here in the garden she belonged. She … bloomed.
Cole hadn’t realized that his mouth had dropped open until his pipe clattered to the stones, spilling ashes and cinders at his feet.
She started at the sound, turning to peer into the darkness. “W-who’s there?” she asked in a tremulous whisper. “Jeremy, is that you?”
Something vicious twisted inside him. Jeremy? Why did that name sound familiar? Who was he to the sainted Lady Anstruther? A lover, perhaps? It surprised him how little he liked that possible development.
Instead of answering, he bent to retrieve his pipe, stamping out the smoldering coal beneath his boot heel.
And instead of fleeing, like many a frightened damsel would, she ventured closer to him, her voluminous skirts swishing softly against the stones and overgrown plants.
“Oh,” she said finally when she’d drawn close enough. “It’s you.”
Cole could decipher little to no affect in her tone, so he remained silent, finding that his heart answered each step she took with alarming acceleration. Damn her, he’d barely calmed the excitable organ down. Though, apparently, it wasn’t the only organ that seemed to react to her nearness. Adjusting his position to alleviate a disturbing tightness in his trousers, he slid deeper into the darkness toward the far side of the bench.
The daft woman mistook it as an invitation to sit next to him.
“Worry not, I didn’t plan to linger.” He lifted his pipe. “This seemed like the place to seek refuge from the insufferable crowd and indulge in a smoke before taking my leave.”
“It seems we had similar instincts, Your Grace.” She glanced around, and Cole wondered if she used the colorful flora as an excuse not to look at him. “I’m exceedingly fond of this garden. It makes an excellent refuge.”
He chose not to reveal that he knew just exactly how often she made use of this sanctuary. That he could spy upon her from his study window and he’d seen
more of her than she’d ever intended.
“Though I confess, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She seemed nervous. In the moonlight, he could make out the intensity with which she clasped her hands together in her lap.
“Obviously.” He should have been chagrined to be discovered lingering on her property. “Expecting someone else, were we?” He set his pipe next to him to itch at the straps of his prosthetic. “Some clandestine rendezvous? Tell me, as a merry widow, do your tastes lean toward the gallant lord, or do you keep to the groundskeeper for a more familiar territory?”
“The groundskeeper? Hercules?” She let out a faintly amused sound, leaving the merry-widow comment alone. “Not likely, he’s a rather hairy Greek man who’s sixty if he’s a day.”
“He’s younger than your first husband,” he challenged.
He expected her to slap him, or at least demand an apology for his ghastly behavior. But to his utter astonishment, she tossed her head and laughed, the sound full of moonlight and merriment.
“Touché,” she acquiesced, a light glinting in her eyes like she’d absorbed some of the shine from the stars. “Not only does my groundskeeper speak very little English, but the dear man eats nothing but garlic. Also, I’m quite certain he bathes in olive oil, which I’ll admit does stir my appetite upon a warm day when he is particularly fragrant, but only for Mediterranean fare. Nothing else, I assure you.”
Struck dumb, Cole could only stare at her with agitated bemusement. Why the devil was she being so civil? He’d been a rote bastard to her, shamed and insulted her in front of her guests. And here she was dallying with him in her garden managing to be entertaining.
Christ preserve him, it was both unsettling and alluring. Too intriguing. And bloody hell, were these straps on his prosthetic made of glass shards and wool? He couldn’t take his eyes off her brilliant smile as he grappled at it with his one good hand. He wanted to be rid of not only the offending object, but his clothing had begun to likewise chafe. He wished to cast it all off, and hers as well, to be clad in nothing but the night air and moonlight.
“Your Grace.” She regarded him with the most absorbed expression, part assessment, and part concern. As though she truly saw him. As though she knew him. “Is there anything amiss? Are you … all right?”
The breathy quality to her unceasingly feminine voice scratched at a door in his mind that remained stubbornly closed. He’d come across a few of those doors since returning from Constantinople, and knew it best that they remained locked. Most especially when he was like this. Raw, agitated …
Aroused.
He held up the base of his prosthetic, strategically placing it between them as a reminder of his damage. “It’s this fucking prosthesis. I’ve outgrown it somehow. The damned buckles are impossible and I can’t get them adjusted for another week. One of the bloody straps is stuck.”
She didn’t so much as twitch at his profanity, startling him again by reaching for him. “Allow me to try,” she offered.
He pulled it behind him, belatedly realizing the movement made him appear childish. “Don’t bother,” he clipped. “It’s not for a lady to—”
“You’ve made it abundantly clear how certain you are that I am not a lady,” she wryly reminded him. “Perhaps you could make allowances. I was a nurse, after all.”
It was unlike Cole to be self-conscious, and yet he couldn’t comprehend why the thought of her gazing upon his mangled arm incited a new bout of hesitance. “Handling an amputated limb is entirely different than fluffing the pillows of the elderly.” He tossed her a severe look, warning her away.
She returned it with that steady, mysterious gaze of hers. “I know. I dealt with you and your limb from the moment you entered St. Margaret’s. You threw a teacup at me.”
Heat suffused his face. “That was you?”
“You don’t recognize me?”
He could summon a vague recollection of a frail, freckled woman in a black uniform, but that was all. “I was just coming out of a delirious fever and opiates,” he pointed out. “I barely recognized myself.” He still couldn’t claim to, he thought bitterly.
“Nevertheless, I was the one who discovered the infection in your limb, I was there for the surgery, and I saw to your recovery. Aside from Dr. Longhurst, I’m the person most familiar with your case, so give it over.”
Cole’s brows drew down at the brusque hint of authority in her voice as she opened her palm and gestured for him to comply. He wasn’t used to following orders, but had somehow placed his smarting forearm in her grasp before his pride decided against it.
Then the enormity of her words slammed into him with all the force of a frigate at full speed. She’d been the nurse who’d correctly diagnosed him with septicemia rather than typhus. It was because of her that he’d survived.
He owed this woman his life.
Did that mean anything to him? Did it to her? She certainly hadn’t mentioned it before now. Not that he’d given her the chance to. Not that he’d been particularly grateful. She’d given him his life back. This lonely existence full of waking nightmares and rage. That was why he’d thrown the teacup, because before he’d regained consciousness, Ginny had been holding him, soothing him.
When he woke, there had been only pain.
Without any decorum, Lady Anstruther rested his arm in her lap and slowly, gently pushed his suit coat and shirtsleeve up to the elbow.
Until this moment, he’d allowed no one but Dr. Longhurst and the prosthetic engineer anywhere near his arm. He’d thought such an intimacy impossible with someone he rather liked, let alone someone he—he … Somehow, he couldn’t seem to identify a word that would properly express his ever more opaque feelings for the indomitable woman. He owed that bit of witlessness partly to the proximity of his arm to her thighs. His wrist rested on the crest of her leg, the outline tantalizing through her petticoats and skirts. His prosthesis, however, dipped into the delightful crevice between. Yet another reason to lament the loss of his hand, he realized. Had he fingers that worked, that still registered sensation, they’d perhaps be close enough to feel the intimate heat between her thighs.
However, had he fingers, he’d likely not get them half so close as they were.
Cole didn’t care to see the expression on her face, so he watched the veins in his own arm struggle to pulse blood past the tightly strapped prosthesis. His jaw clenched so forcefully, it ached.
The moment was surreal enough to be a dream. The woman he’d deemed his nemesis ran slim, elegant fingers across the fine hairs of his tense forearm, learning the mechanisms of the prosthetic structure. He felt the ripples of that brush of flesh blossom over the entirety of his being.
“How ingenious,” she marveled to herself, as though he weren’t even present. “These straps are interwoven to incorporate a harness.” Deftly, she undid the buckle he’d struggled with, drawing a frown from him.
“I’m aware of that,” he said dryly. “I designed the piece, myself.”
“Did you?” she mused. “Well, that’s impressive. Why the harnesses?”
“I had it fashioned in New York by an engineer,” he explained. “I’d been invited on a spelunking expedition to South America, and needed a way to secure the hook I planned to use should I require it to support my weight. The harness is buckled here, and then is secured around my torso and opposite shoulder.”
“How marvelous.” She peered at his chest, as though trying to see through his clothing to the topography beneath. Was it only clinical curiosity knitting her brow? “And then I assume you have different attachments you fasten to the metal base here?” She gestured to the currently empty, flat steel apparatus at the end of his wrist and the dip into which his several attachments threaded securely.
“Don’t touch that,” he ordered as she flirted with the release lever of his hidden blade. “Lest it stab you.”
“How clever,” she remarked, but left it alone.
His head buzzed and his mouth felt as
dry as grit. Certainly an effect of his smoking, and not at all the intoxicating scent of the woman who’d somehow slid closer to him. Christ, did she always smell like this? Like lavender and lilacs? Probably not. They were in a garden after all; the fragrance of night-blooming buds shamelessly baring themselves to the moon like beckoning wantons was enough to smother a fellow. And yet he couldn’t deny the pleasantness of it. The … peaceful quality of it all.
“I was glad to hear that you became quite the adventurer after your recovery,” she said conversationally, returning to work on the buckle of the second strap. “I read about your hunting grizzly bear in the American West, and climbing the Tetons. Then you navigated the Amazon, didn’t you? Working with that cartographer, what was his name? Morton … Morgan something? Is that where you went spelunking, in South America?”
“Callum Monahan,” he recalled. “A fearless man.” He regarded her intently. “Have you been following my travels, Lady Anstruther?” He’d almost forgotten that she was about to uncover his stump, focused only on the fact that his arm crept ever higher on her thigh.
She glanced up sharply. “Not at all, though my husband did. Dear Edward thought so very highly of you, and he had me read the articles of your many exploits. He said you were a particular favorite of his late wife.”
“Lady Sarah Millburn,” he said fondly. “I fell in love with her when I was but seven years old. No offense to your husband, but I used to wish a rather tragic and early end for him as a boy of ten or so, fantasizing that his wife would seek solace in my open and ready arms. She was the only female of warm disposition I’d met until…” He stopped himself, not wanting nostalgia to heat the current moment. To make more of it than it was.
Not wanting to think of Ginny just now.
Odd, that. Odder still that he revealed so much. She was neither confidant nor confessor. She was the real Lady Anstruther’s inadequate shadow. A grasping pretender. A usurper. He had to remember that.
She had to be his enemy, lest he start desiring her to be something else.
The Duke Page 14