A Love So Dark (The Dark Regency Series Book 4) (9 page)

T
here were
things he had to tell her, things that could possibly effect her decision to remain. He dreaded it, outlining their lonely future together for her. But it had to be done. He wouldn’t have her stay on a lie.

Griffin waved the footmen away and helped her to her seat himself. When they were out of earshot, he spoke softly. “I have chosen, for reasons I will not discuss, not to have children. The Griffin line will end with me. The estates and title will pass to a distant cousin. For that reason, I wanted a woman who had given up the notion of children.”

Another servant entered, prepared to serve the soup, and Olympia paused before answering until they’d gone again. Griffin was only too well aware that nothing he said to her within hearing of any of the servants would be private. They strained to take in every word simply to report it to Mrs. Webster or to Lady Florence, depending on how and where their loyalties lay.

When the servants had all retreated, she pressed him again. “It doesn’t bother you that all of what you’ve worked for will just be handed to some distant and possibly undeserving relative?”

Griffin shrugged. It was of little consequence whether it bothered him or not. If she knew the truth, if he was free to tell her the truth, she would understand that the risk of bringing a child into the hell of his life was simply too much. “I question on a daily basis whether or not I am deserving of this… my cousins, John and Alfred, were well prepared to take on the running of this estate. I was content to live in the dower house with my work. I have, for the longest time, focused more on plants than people… to the point I often have no notion of how to get on with them.”

“That is a skill that can be learned. Clearly you have some natural ability in dealing with difficult people as you have not yet murdered Mrs. Webster or sacked her without a reference. I can’t imagine a person any harder to get on with,” she replied cheekily.

Laughing would only encourage her, so he refrained, but his lips quirked with amusement regardless. “She is difficult,” he admitted. “But she has devoted herself to this family and to Darkwood Hall. Under the circumstances, she’s earned a bit of leeway.”

“A bit,” she agreed. “Not enough to be positively rebellious and rude to her employers.”

“I’ve spoken with her. She understands my position… and yours. Things will improve.”

Olympia pressed on. “And if they do not?”

“Then I will speak to her again. Is there some other topic we can discuss? Something less likely to result in bitter disagreement?”

***

How she wanted to press him further, to demand to know what power that woman wielded within the walls of Darkwood Hall! But he’d made it abundantly clear that he found the topic tiresome. If she continued, he’d come to find her tiresome, as well.

Electing to change the subject, she said, “I know you were reluctant for me to go into the village, but my wardrobe is sadly lacking, especially this far north.”

His gaze was shuttered when he replied. “Liverpool would be a better option. The village is very small and very limited, but I won’t be going there again for several weeks.”

He wanted to keep her from the village and whatever gossip might abound there, she could tell. Was it to protect her or was it to protect his own interests? “Limited options are fine so long as they are warm. I only need to obtain fabric. My maid is skilled enough to produce the garments herself. You don’t mind if I go into the village do you? So long as I take a servant with me?” Olympia knew that he would not be able to refuse, since those were the very conditions he’d laid down earlier that day.

His heavy sigh was answer enough. “Certainly, you should go into the village… But I must warn you, they will not be welcoming.”

“But you cannot tell me why?”

His visage grew dark. The spark of anger in his eyes was quick and fierce. “Because they are superstitious fools with small minds and small lives. They’ve nothing better to do than gossip about things they know naught of.”

The remainder of the dinner passed benignly. He talked of the distant history of Darkwood Hall, but did not speak of more recent events. It was very telling. Whatever tragedy or darkness had befallen the house, it had been recent enough that the villagers still spoke of it, and recent enough that the current Lord was uncomfortable with her knowing about it.

When the meal had ended, Olympia rose and he did as well. “Would you join me in the library? There are things we should discuss privately.”

Like the consummation of their marriage
, Olympia realized. Part of her was scandalized and horrifically embarrassed. Another part of her was eager to learn more, to finally have the gaps in her knowledge filled. She wasn’t totally ignorant, after all, but what little she did know couldn’t possibly be all of it. Surely what she’d learned from eavesdropping on the whispered conversations of scullery maids was not all there was to it?

Allowing Griffin to lead her to the room in question, she barely stifled a gasp when she entered the wondrous chamber. Shelves upon shelves were filled to overflowing with leather bound tomes. Her fingers itched to trace the spines of those books, to peruse them at leisure, to lose herself within the pages.

“You are an avid reader, I take it?” he asked.

“I was,” she said, drifting toward one of the bookshelves. Idly, she caressed the books, tracing the intricately tooled leather. It had been ages since she’d had free access to so many books. Her uncle had disapproved of reading for women, thinking their brains too feeble to accommodate such a wealth of information. Olympia shuddered as she recalled the last time he’d caught her in their library. He’d dragged her from the room by her hair, locked her in her chamber for days with naught but bread and water for being defiant. But she wouldn’t tell her husband that. He would ask more questions and then the whole sordid and ugly affair would come out.

“After my parents passed away,” she continued, “And my aunt and uncle took over our home, I was no longer permitted to read. Or if I was, my chores took so much of my time that reading was simply impossible. But alas, my uncle felt that books would lead to impure thoughts,” she replied, her voice soft and reverent.

“Do they?”

She glanced back at him then, dropping her hands from the books she was fondling. “That depends entirely upon the book, now doesn’t it?”

His gaze was direct and impossibly hot. It was also focused on her lips in a way that said only too clearly he was recalling their one kiss. She’d been able to think of little else, herself.

“To be honest and rather blunt,” he finally said, “I am in favor of impure thoughts. In fact, impure thoughts are precisely what I wished to discuss with you.”

Her heart began to race. “You are very bold with such proclamations for a man who never intended to have more than a marriage in name only.”

He leaned against the large desk, crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest. The stance made her aware of just how large he was, how the fabric of his coat strained over the heavy muscles of his arms and the bulging of his thighs brought to mind the way he’d looked when she’d first seen him astride that wicked stallion.

“I am bold… but you are not ready for our marriage to be a true union yet. There are things that I want from you, to do with you, that would shock you, Olympia… and while a little shock can be a good thing, I would rather introduce you to carnal matters more slowly. I want all of this to be a pleasurable experience for you and like so many good things, it’s always sweeter when you’ve waited for it.””

What things?
The question popped unbidden to her mind, but she managed to just refrain from asking it aloud. Surely the answer would make very little sense to her and the embarrassment of the topic was more than she could bear. And the longer they waited, she realized, the more tense and difficult things between them would become. It was as if the Sword of Damocles was hanging over her head, ready to drop at any minute. She’d welcome it just to have the uncertainty at an end.

And she had to admit to far more practical and more mercenary reasons, though it pained her to do so. Until their marriage was consummated, he could still send her away and seek an annulment. Until they were one, her position would remain unsecured and the possibility of returning to her aunt and uncle loomed over her.

Having that thought brought home the uncomfortable reality of just how desperate her situation was. So, she spoke as matter-of-factly as possible and tried to still the telling tremors in her voice.

“I have had more time to accustom myself to the idea of consummating our union than many brides.” Her tone was far more firm than she actually felt. “It wasn’t until I arrived here that I was informed you did not intend for ours to be a true marriage… During the journey here, I had quite a bit of time to consider the matter.”

He grinned. “And what conclusions did you reach, wife?”

Olympia looked away, unable to meet his gaze as she spoke. “That my ignorance is an impediment, and the longer I remain in ignorance the greater my fears and doubts will become.”

“We shall endeavor to resolve your ignorance, but I will not come to your bed tonight,” he said.

Olympia let out a breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding. It was equal parts relief and disappointment. “I don’t understand.”

He shoved away from the desk and stalked toward her, only stopping when they were toe to toe. She was forced to tip her head back to be able to look at him as he spoke.

“When I come to your bed, it will not be about duty, or about submitting to your husband the way a wife should… when I come to your bed, Olympia, it will be because you wish for me to be there—because you need me to be there. It will be because I have done what a man ought to when he means to make a woman his lover.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” she asked.

“I will have awakened you to passion…Slowly, reverently, and with all the skill that I possess. Desire, Olympia, is not something to be rushed, but rather is something to be fed over time, to be tended until it is lush and ripe.”

There was no time to think or even process what he’d just said to her. He swooped in, his lips settling over hers in such a proprietary manner that she could do nothing but submit. And savor.

Heat built within her, slow and steady. A soft languor settled into her body and forced her to simply sink against him. And then came the satisfaction when his arms closed about her, tightening until she was pressed completely against him. There was a strange choreography to what was happening between them, a give and take that allowed her to feel, even in her ignorance, that she was not entirely powerless. Every movement, every sound elicited a response from him. It was a heady feeling.

The hardness of his body was a wonder to her, the firm press of his chest and his granite-like thighs. But there was something else, the hard and insistent ridge of his sex as it pressed against her belly.

Yes, she was innocent, and there was much she did not know. But that was unmistakable. Suddenly she was no longer standing on her own two feet. Instead, he’d born her back against the bookshelves, lifting her until his thighs were nestled between her own. The hardness of him pressed between her thighs, and even through the layers of fabric that separated them, it was insistent, bold, and it beckoned to a part of her she’d never before recognized—an inner wanton that had been silent to that point.

The kiss deepened, his tongue delving between her lips, sliding against hers in a way that shocked her. She had not thought to like it, but more than that, she was not prepared for the immediate craving for more. The taste of him was intoxicating. The feelings he invoked in her were beyond anything she’d ever experienced—heady, volatile. She felt reckless and bold. It was that which prompted her to kiss him back, to meet his questing tongue stroke for maddening stroke.

Kissing, she soon realized, involved more than just the meeting of lips. It was the soft, slow stroke of his tongue, the sting of his teeth as he bit her lower lip. And there was a rhythm to it. Slow and easy would give way to fast and consuming. Soft touches would be replaced with demanding ones only to recede into gentleness again. She felt dizzy from it all, swept away into a realm where little mattered beyond the touch of his mouth to hers, the weight of his body against her, and the pressure of his hands as they tightened on her hips, drawing her even closer.

Abruptly, he pulled back from her. His breath was a harsh rasp against her ear. He pressed his forehead to hers, apparently reluctant to let her go entirely.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, bereft at the sudden loss.

“No. You did everything right… but I meant what I said, Olympia. This will not be rushed, and if I were to allow this to continue right now, I would not be able to help myself.”

She wanted to ask him to stay, to ask him to continue, to tell him that she wanted him to join her in her bed, but her earlier boldness had fled. He settled her back on the floor and turned away. Before she could even speak to call him back, he was gone. She stood alone in the library, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps as they echoed the hammering of her own heart.

G
riffin had left
Olympia in the library more than an hour ago, retreating to his work room in the conservatory to produce more of the elixir he'd developed for Cassandra. He'd made some slight changes to the formula, small adjustments to the amount of lavender and verbena, while adding chamomile for its soothing effect. He struggled to put his bride from his mind as he bypassed the door to his own chamber and strode toward the end of the corridor. When it forked, he turned to his left and toward the locked door that held all of Darkwood Hall’s secrets at bay. There were only two keys to the door. He held one and Mrs. Webster held the other.

Slipping it from the pocket of his waistcoat, he fitted it into the lock and turned it slowly. The sound of metal grating against metal was impossibly loud in the darkened hall, but there was no one about to hear it. The servants were abed, as was Olympia.

The door swung inward and he stepped inside, closing it quickly behind him and relocking it. There was a small table just inside the door that bore a candle and tinderbox. Lighting the candle quickly, he moved on, traversing the corridor with an ease that came only from frequency. Near the end was another flight of stairs. He took them up and into the small turret room.

It held nothing but a simple mattress in the middle of the room. The windows were covered with bars. A girl sat on the floor before them, looking up at the moon that shone through as she wailed softly.

“Cassandra,” he said softly. “It’s me. Griffin. Can you hear me?”

There was no response. He’d been speaking to her thus, every night, for more than a decade. She had yet to respond intelligibly. There were some nights, such as the present, where she simply ignored him altogether. No, he thought. Not ignored. That implied she was choosing not to speak to him. In her present state, she had not awareness that he was even present. She was locked so deeply in her own mind that nothing outside of her own insanity even existed.

But there were other nights, nights where she was vicious and cruel. Nights that, if she could have reached him, she would have torn his throat out with her bare hands.

As he often did, Griffin sat on the floor. She moved then, rocking slightly. And the leather straps at her ankles and wrists, fastened with metal rings that would attach to chains to bind her when she was too violent to be free, clinked loudly in the nearly silent room. They were a necessary evil at times. Without them, she would have killed Mrs. Webster, or him, or herself. For the time being, she was free to roam the confines of her room if she chose, but only to a point. She was restrained with a heavily padded belt looped with a chain that allowed for a safe zone so to speak, where they could enter the room and be out of her reach, where they could safely observe her.

“You were very sad last night,” he remarked. “I could hear you crying. So could Olympia.”

She cocked her head then, intrigued by the sound of a new word. Her lips moved, almost as if she were trying to repeat the string of syllables. But she had not spoken in years.

“I’ve married her,” he said. “She’s lovely. I wish you could know her… and that she could know you. One day, Cassie, you will be well. Whatever has happened to destroy your mind will be reversed and you will be free of all this.”

She looked at him then, turning back to glance over her shoulder as she hunched forward. It was not the posture of a woman. It was the posture of a wild animal—a threatened one. It was also the only warning he had. She launched herself at him, teeth and claws. One of her hands connected with his cheek, scoring his flesh.

He backed away slowly as she screeched, tugging at her bonds as she tried to reach him with hands already bloodied from her incessant scratching of the floor. That he was just out of reach only infuriated her more. She began to tug at her hair, pulling at it so viciously that it began to come out in her hands.

Griffin stepped forward then, ducking until he could grab her from behind. Wrestling her to the floor, his arms locked about her, he held her as tightly as he could without injuring her further. And then he rocked her gently, lulling her.

Mrs. Webster entered the room. She spoke softly, as she only ever did in Cassandra’s presence. “The whole house is awake now. The new footmen are whispering about banshees.”

“I’d rather it were banshees,” he admitted gruffly.

“It isn’t because of you,” the woman offered brusquely. “It’s because of all
he
did to her. Tormented the wee thing till her poor mind just broke under the strain.”

“I don’t wish to discuss it,” he said sharply.

“Whether we discuss it or not, it’s still the truth! And you’ve brought a young and lovely bride into this house. How long before you’re on her the same way he was on every woman who crossed this threshold?”

Fury welled within him. “I am not my uncle.”

“And your father?” Mrs. Webster asked. “He wasn’t so much better, now was he? Knowing what this family is, the curse that follows it, put two children in your mother’s belly and then a bullet in his own head!”

“Enough!” Griffin shouted so loudly that the room nearly shook with it. Dust drifted down from the rafters. In his arms, Cassandra screamed louder. “Do not speak of my parents again. And you will not mention my uncle in this room ever. Are we clear?”

Mrs. Webster nodded. “Very well, my lord. But you shouldn’t come in here alone. She fears men, you see. Even those that would do her no harm. If you must come to see her, wait until I can come with you.”

The truth of that burned to his very soul. Cassandra did fear him. Slowly, being as gentle with her as possible, he lowered her to the floor and rose. He walked away from her slowly, reluctantly and filled with the same guilt and regret that always consumed him. He had failed to protect her and she was paying the ultimate price for it. Trapped in her own mind, in a world where unspeakable things were visited on her over and over again, there was no reprieve.

“I thought to comfort her when I heard her cries,” he said softly. “But it appears you are right and I have only made it worse.”

“Sometimes, I think your presence is a comfort to her. On her good days, that is. But on her bad days, when she wails and carries on in the daytime, too, when not a soul has spoken to her, it is not. Yet you come here every night, you talk to her, and then you blame yourself when she does this.”

“I think I’m making her worse,” he admitted.

“No. But you’re not making her better… and maybe it’s time to accept that there won’t
be
a better for her. Some things, once broken, cannot be put back together.”

Cassandra had ceased her rocking back and forth, but she was still on alert, her eyes wide and shifting quickly between them. “You’re in a shockingly charitable mood tonight, Mrs. Webster. Almost comforting even.”

The housekeeper shrugged. “I’m not without feeling, my lord. But that doesn’t mean I approve of how you’ve handled things. There are hospitals for people like Cassandra. And I think it’s high time you looked into one.”

“I can’t do that,” he said firmly.

“Why not?”

He glanced at her. “Because it’s my fault she’s here… like this. And it’s my responsibility to care for her.”

“She was broken when she was born, my lord, and because she was broken, she was an easy target for those that would harm her. It turned something inside her… made her vicious and cruel—savage. I remember how your mother cried when she killed that little dog… when she lashed out at the servants. You did not see it because you were away at school.”

“And while I was away at school, laughing and playing with my friends, she was at his mercy!” he said stiffly. He looked back at Cassandra, crouched on the floor, her hair in wild disarray and her eyes wide with a kind of fear he had never known. “I failed her once, Mrs. Webster. Whatever it takes, I will not fail her again,” he said emphatically. “Bring me the new mixture. We’ll get enough of it in her that she will sleep tonight.”

The woman approached cautiously, keeping a wary eye on the young woman in his arms. Together they forced her mouth open and poured a small amount of the sedative in her. Mrs. Webster rubbed her throat to coax her to swallow.

The housekeeper sat down with her then, taking the half wild young woman into her arms and rocking her like an infant. It never ceased to amaze him that a woman so cold and vicious to others could be so tender with his sister. Still puzzling over that fact, Griffin left the room, but couldn’t shake the heavy yoke of guilt that seemed to be growing heavier by the day.

***

In her room, Olympia had poured over the contents of the letters. They were difficult to read, the ink faded with time and often smeared from what she assumed were tears. With what Griffin had said to her in the library and with certain things explained in graphic detail in those letters, she now had a better idea of what he meant. It did shock her, but it also excited her. But it was the journal that proved more interesting reading.

She was nearly halfway through the book before she realized precisely who Patrice Landon was. The woman who’d been written to so passionately and who had clearly been so well loved was Griffin’s mother. As she neared the end of the journal, with Patrice outlining the discovery of her pregnancy, Olympia wondered if the unborn child she spoke of was actually Griffin.

As the night wore on, the crying began. Olympia closed the book and listened to the wailing that reverberated down the darkened halls. He’d made promises, offered reassurances that nothing untoward was occurring in the house. But the sounds she’d heard made that nearly impossible to believe.

Only untold suffering could result in a human being producing such agonizing cries. She couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. Rushing toward her door, she flung it open and rushed out into the hallway, smacking directly into the broad and immovable chest of her husband.

“You should be in bed,” he chided softly.

Stepping back, Olympia looked up at him. The light spilling from her room illuminated his face and the bloody scratch that marred his cheek. Reaching up, she touched it with her fingertips and he winced.

“It is impossible to sleep in a house where one clearly suffers so much. Who is she, Griffin? Who is it that wails so in the night?”

“At one time, she was my sister,” he said.

“She is no longer your sister, then?” she asked, puzzled by his answer.

He looked away from her as he answered, and his voice was thick with emotion. “If there is aught left inside her of my sister, it is buried so deep that I doubt I will ever reach it again… but I will continue to try. To do less would be a disservice to her and to our parents.”

There was such pain in his voice, such guilt and remorse that Olympia was overwhelmed. She thought of the journals and letters in her room, things she’d essentially stolen from him. If she offered them to him, would they give him peace, make him feel less alone? Or would it simply reopen old wounds?

Uncertain of what else to do and possessing no other way to convey her sorrow for him, she stepped closer and closed her arms about him. “I would help you if I could.”

His hand curled around the fall of her braid, tugging her head back until their gazes locked. “You have helped me. More than you know… Go back to your bed, Olympia, while I have the strength to let you occupy it alone.”