Prelude for a Lord (39 page)

Empty. She felt so empty.

But she was not alone. There was a Presence, small and beautiful,
in a space deep inside her. She knew it was there with a knowing deeper than knowledge.

Mr. Coon finished the ceremony, and the two of them had signed the registry when the door burst open. Wilfred rushed inside, his narrow face flushed, his pale grey eyes bloodshot, with Mr. Kinnier and Mona behind him. “What are you doing?”

Dommick faced him, placing his body between Wilfred and Alethea. “It is done.”

Wilfred stood stock-still in the aisle, rainwater dripping from the brim of his hat, his mouth contorting in a series of grimaces. “No. You had no license—”

“Didn’t you know, my lord, that I am friends with a man who represents the archbishop of Canterbury? We are quite close,” Sir Hermes said.

“I signed a betrothal agreement—”

“You did not sign one with me,” Dommick said. “It is now your own affair that you could not fulfill your side of the contract with Mr. Kinnier.”

Wilfred stood in furious disbelief, then wrenched off his hat. “Do you realize what you have done to me?” He began to roar his complaints, the sound reverberating from the church’s ceiling.

Mr. Kinnier stood slightly behind Wilfred. On the surface, his face was impassive, but an anger glittered in his eyes that made Alethea’s throat burn and a shiver course across her shoulders. Mr. Kinnier whirled around, his greatcoat capes flicking water in a graceful arc, and exited the church. Mona watched him leave with wide eyes.

When Wilfred’s language grew more colourful, Mr. Coon reacted with righteous censure. “You will not speak so in the house of God.”

Wilfred stormed out of the church, but Mona remained. Her skin seemed to tremble, and Alethea realized the woman was holding in a fury like nothing she had ever seen before.

When Mona opened her mouth, her voice was far different than Alethea had heard from her before, sibilant and awful. “You think you’ve won, but no one crosses us without repayment in kind.”

“You will leave my house within the half hour,” Dommick said.

As if he hadn’t spoken, Mona moved closer to Dommick. “I have been in the highest society in London for the past decade and have far more dangerous acquaintances than your idiot mother.”

“Get out!” Dommick shouted.

“I will ensure that your sister’s season is
ruined
.”

And with that terrible pronouncement, Mona stalked out of the church.

It was the most awkward, frightening, exciting night of Alethea’s life. But mostly it was simply awkward.

She sat before the mirror at her dressing table and brushed her long, dark hair. A maid had brushed it earlier, but it was something to occupy her hands.

She had been moved from the guest bedroom to the one connected to Dommick’s bedchamber via a small sitting room. The furnishings had been redone by Lady Morrish a few years ago, so they were not old or unfashionable, but the pinks and yellows of the wallpaper and upholstery were more feminine than Alethea was accustomed to.

The connecting door taunted her. Should she retire to the canopied bed or stay awake in case Dommick came through? Either option promised embarrassment and pain.

Her stomach growled. She had not eaten much of the wedding dinner prepared by Dommick’s surprised staff. There had been both an air of festivity and also a current of anxiety among the guests. Most had exulted in successfully routing Wilfred and
Mr. Kinnier, but it was obvious that Clare and Lady Morrish, especially, were deeply affected by Mona’s threat and attempting not to show it.

At that moment, the connecting door opened.

Dommick wore a blue brocade dressing gown. The white of his nightshirt blazed at his throat, which made it more apparent when he blushed in embarrassment at the sight of her.

She looked away from him. “I had not expected you.”

He swallowed. “I do not wish to mortify you, but there are things . . . I do not wish the servants to gossip.” He flushed even darker than before and crossed to her bed. She saw the flash of a small knife, and he did something to the sheets and mussed her bedding.

He walked back to her, binding a small cut he had made on his forearm. “I apologize. I do not wish anything about this to embarrass you.”

Except that his presence here, doing what he had done, was embarrassing her. She could not answer him. She laid her brush down on the dressing table. Her body and her heart reacted to his presence so near to her, in so intimate a situation. Yet the three feet separating them may as well have been the lake in front of the house. She felt adrift, forsaken. She fought the tears pricking her eyes.

Then she felt the warmth of his fingers touching her hand. His touch was strong and tender, as she imagined it might be if he had come to her in love rather than this deception for the servants. He cradled her hand between both of his own, and then he raised it to his lips and kissed the back of her wrist. His lips seemed to linger, or perhaps she imagined it because she desired it to be so.

But then he turned her hand over, and she felt a warm puff of breath just before his lips touched her palm. His mouth seemed to heat her skin like a stream of hot tea, pooling in her hand, running down her fingers and across her forearm.

And then he dropped her hand. She drew it to her lap, cradling it with the other.

“Good night, Alethea.”

“Good night, Dommick.”

He left, closing the connecting door behind him.

This, then, was what her marriage was. This was what it would be to love him—this pain, this desiring more but afraid to ask for it, knowing the answer would only slice her deeply.

The soft Presence as bright and comforting as a candle flame that had sustained her throughout the wedding ceremony, throughout dinner, now flickered out.

She had never felt so alone.

Alethea woke with a start. She had not realized she’d fallen asleep. How long had it been since Dommick had left her? She rubbed at one eye while searching the darkness for the fireplace and saw the embers of the coals. Not long, then.

The low keening carried through the closed door, making her skin prickle. Was that Dommick? What was amiss? Was he injured?

She was through the door and into the sitting room before she could think further. She hesitated at the closed door to Dommick’s room, but then a hoarse cry from within made her scrabble to open it.

“No, I am able to fight, I tell you.” The earnest, frustrated voice came from the bed at the far side of the room, lit by the low-burning fireplace. Then he shouted, “David!” with the dragging desperation of a man full of terror.

She approached the bed. He appeared to be having a nightmare. Should she wake him?

Then he began to sob, deep, wracking sobs that shook the entire bed. “Champion . . . God, please . . . I can’t . . .”

She recognized the pain in his voice. It was utter despair, drowning condemnation, arid helplessness. She had felt it the night her brother sold her. Tears filled her eyes at the torment in his voice, in the sight of the curled figure on the bed, shaking with sobs.

Just as she was reaching to wake him, he spoke again, still sobbing, but this time with a small voice full of fear.

“Raven, they can’t know about this, about Bedlam . . .”

Bedlam
. What had happened to him to have placed him in that asylum for the insane?

“I have to do something . . .” He broke into bitter tears. Sounding like a petrified child, he said, “Raven, I don’t want to go mad again.”

She gasped. She had not credited the rumours, assuming they were designed to inflict hurt by questioning his sanity. But this . . .

“Oh, Dommick.” She touched his shoulder.

He jerked upright, striking at her hand. He did not recognize her for a moment, his eyes wide and white in the darkness. He panted, quick and shallow like a dog.

She knew when he had woken because his breath calmed. “Alethea?”

Slowly, as though with a wild animal, she reached her hand to him. She touched his cheek in a soft, gentle stroke. His skin was cold and slick with sweat. “I am here. You are safe.”

His hand covered hers, pressed it to his face. Then he turned his head, and he kissed her palm again, his fingers tightening around hers.

He remained thus for long minutes, his breath fanning against her skin while his breathing slowed and his skin warmed. Then he looked at her. “You are cold.”

She had not noticed. She had rushed from her bedchamber
without a wrapper, and now she felt the numbness creeping into her bare toes, the shivering in her torso. She saw his dressing gown thrown over the foot of the bed, and she pulled it on. The fabric was cool, but she was warmed by the scent of his musk that wrapped around her throat.

She sat on his bed and tucked her cold feet under her. “You were dreaming of war,” she said.

He stared toward the fireplace. His eyes had become dead. “Of Corunna.”

She had read about the retreat in the newspapers, and the casualties. “Captain Enlow was there with you?”

“He saved my life.” He began to rub his shoulder, although he did not seem conscious of it. “I had been injured during the retreat and lost a great deal of blood. David helped me to the port and onto a rowboat to the medical transport ship.”

His other hand, resting on the covers, suddenly clenched the bedclothes, and the pain of his memories seemed almost like a physical blow to him. His eyes squeezed shut and he bowed his head.

She touched his cheek and stroked his fisted hand, caressing him until he had calmed again. “What happened?” she whispered.

“The retreat had been . . . blood and bodies and chaos. When we finally reached Corunna, the majority of the transport ships hadn’t arrived. They ordered us to kill our horses . . .” His voice hitched. He couldn’t continue for a few minutes, but when he did, his voice was broken. “I couldn’t do it. When I was on that rowboat, Champion plunged into the water after me. He swam alongside . . .” She felt hot tears flowing down her fingers. His voice thick, he said, “Even as the transport ship was leaving the bay, he swam after us. He was trying to follow me . . .” He could no longer speak.

Neither could she. She cried with him, for his guilt and remorse,
for the loyalty and bravery of an animal who did not understand why his master was leaving without him.

When his tears had run their course, she wiped them from his face with her fingers, smoothed his hair back from his forehead. He enfolded her hands in his, their skin wet with tears.

“I awoke in a London hospital crying out for him. I didn’t understand I was no longer in Spain. The battle was before my eyes as if it were happening again. I thought I was
there
.”

“What did the doctors do?”

“They sent me home. I hadn’t known until then that my father had died while I was recovering in London. The nightmares—the ones at night and the waking ones during the day—frightened my mother and my betrothed. They sent me to Bedlam.”

She tightened her hands around his.

“I don’t remember my time there, except that it was horrible. Then Raven came and took me away.”

Thank God. What would have happened if Ravenhurst had not saved him? She remembered Dommick’s anguished cry,
I
don’t
want to go mad again
. She now understood fully the panic behind those words. “You will never go back there. I give you my word.”

Even in the dim firelight, she saw his sadness, the vulnerability . . . and the tenderness. “I don’t want to frighten you if it happens again. The waking nightmares.”

“They will pass. They will become less frequent, and then they will become less powerful, and you will be able to break their hold over you more quickly.”

He shook his head. “It has been over a year.”

“It may take longer, I suppose. But I do think it will pass.” She hesitated, then said in a whisper, “I had them.”

His brows drew low over his eyes. “Why did you have them?”

For an instant, she smelled the smoking tallow from her brother’s study, but then the warmth and scent of Dommick’s dressing gown
brought her back to the firelight. “My brother had gaming debts. He had a friend who needed to marry for some reason—he never told me. They signed a betrothal agreement—I would marry his friend, and my brother would receive half of my dowry.”