Dunsaney's Desire (Historical Romance)

by Brianna York

  Slowly, she raised her left hand up off the table, her eyes riveted to the shining band of gold that encompassed the fourth finger as she gathered her strength. With sudden violence, she wrenched the ring off her finger, then stared at her naked hand. She knew that she would never be able to look at her hands without thinking of what her brother had driven them to throw away in the name of honor and love.

  Her face felt oddly wet, and she glanced up at her reflection in the mirror. The teary-eyed face looking back at her wore the one expression that she had never expected to see it bear; hopelessness. With a shock of pure revulsion, she recoiled from the stranger she saw in the mirror. Unable to tear her eyes from the specter of living death, she felt the first choking sobs climbing inexorably to the surface of her carefully-constructed calm. With the last vestiges of her will, she sealed the letter and pressed Matthew’s wedding ring into the wax in place of her signature seal. She rose unsteadily to her feet then, one hand stretched out before her as if to ward off an attack as she stared at the unfamiliar shadow of the face she knew to be hers in the mirror. She began to back away and caught her foot on the leg of the chair that she had been seated in. She fell to the floor with a muffled gasp and gave in to the hysterical grief coursing through her. She curled into a ball on the cold floor and stuffed the corner of the blanket into her mouth in an attempt to silence her sobs.

  Before the limitless grief washed her into oblivion, she felt a surge of triumph that she had severed her brother’s one connection to Matthew. She alone had the power to save Matthew, and she had done so. She would be forever proud of the pain such a noble act had caused her.

  ∞∞∞

  “Put the tray over there, Milton,” Alex told the butler when she caught sight of him in the doorway with the tea tray in his hands.

  “Yes, Lady Alexandra,” Milton replied in his smooth, deep voice as he crossed the carpeted floor of the library and set the tea tray down on the table that Alex had indicated.

  “That will be all, Milton,” Alex told the servant before returning to her quest for a good book to read.

  Across the room, Matthew watched his sister as she stretched up on tiptoe and plucked a narrow volume off of one of the highest shelves. He smiled fondly at the sight, knowing that he would not see nearly enough of her once she was married to Forrest. Feeling eyes on him, he turned to his right and caught Forrest’s slate blue gaze. He smiled gently in acknowledgment at the knowing look on Forrest’s face.

  “I shall miss her very much,” he said softly, his eyes on his sister again.

  Forrest exhaled gustily and leaned over to pour himself some tea. “I have always known that, old man. It weighs a bit on my conscience I must admit.”

  Matthew chuckled. “It shouldn’t, Forrest.”

  Forrest nodded and smiled contentedly. “That’s what I told myself. And then I ceased to feel badly. Tea?”

  Matthew laughed aloud at that. “Tea would be grand, thank you, Forrest.”

  He was still chuckling when Forrest handed him the delicate cup and saucer. He had taken the first sip of fragrant, uncomfortably hot liquid when Milton returned, clearing his throat elegantly to draw attention to himself.

  “Yes Milton?” Matthew called, twisting about in his chair gingerly so that he could look behind himself at the butler without spilling his tea.

  Milton looked a bit uncomfortable, but he stepped farther into the room. “A note has arrived for you, Your Grace.”

  Matthew’s golden brows drew down over his eyes. “A note? From whom, Milton?”

  Milton walked up to Matthew’s chair, holding out the piece of foolscap. “It was delivered by a servant who would not tell me his direction.” Milton’s tone indicated his annoyance at the behavior of the letter-bearer.

  “Well,” Matthew said with a shrug, transferring the tea cup and saucer to his right hand and holding out his left. “Let’s have it here.”

  Milton obligingly passed the note to Matthew, who noted that there were no identifying marks of any sort on the outside of the paper. As he took a hold of the thin piece of foolscap, he noted its unusual weight mere moments before his fingers collided with the hard lump on the other side of the paper. Feeling a chill weight sink into his stomach, he slowly turned the paper over.

  He was dreaming. He had to be. There was no other way to describe the feeling that washed over him as he stared at the engagement ring pressed into the wax holding the note closed. There was no premise, no rational reason that he should be staring at the brutal refusal. Images of stone corridors and white roses and Tess’s smiling face swam before his stunned eyes But he knew that one did not see this clearly in dreams; that one did not smell the scent of tea with nearly overwhelming clarity, that one did not hear one’s heart thundering in one’s ears, that one did not feel this constriction in one’s very soul. He felt something hot and wet on his leg suddenly, and managed to tear his gaze away from the note. He knew that if he had not been caught in a state of trance-like removal from the situation, he would have been horrified at the sight of his hand shaking so badly that it was sloshing tea from the cup onto his breeches and boots.

  “Matthew?” The voice was Forrest’s, but Matthew was unsure whether it was speaking to him or not. “Matthew? What’s the matter, old chap?” He recognized real apprehension in Forrest’s voice, something that he had never known his friend to feel, and he wondered idly if he was going insane.

  “No,” Matthew whispered, his eyes riveted to the ring and the piece of paper. It did not matter what she had said since there could be no suitable explanation for such an action. “No,” he said louder, his voice sounding like someone else’s in his ears. “No!” he shouted, leaping to his feet suddenly, the saucer and cup falling from nerveless fingers to shatter on the floor.

  Alex and Forrest watched in mingled shock and horror as Matthew bolted from the room, the letter falling unheeded to the floor. They stared at each other for a long moment during which both recognized that something horrible and irrevocable had happened, before Forrest rose gingerly and picked up the letter. His mouth a grim line, he broke the seal and read the contents of it. When he finished, he closed his eyes as if he was in pain and silently held the sheet of paper out toward Alex. Walking as if on eggshells, she crossed the room and took the piece of foolscap. She steeled herself, and read what was written on it.

  A few moments later, the letter fluttered from her fingers to the floor again. Staring at Forrest with wide, frightened eyes, she whispered, “Why?”

  ∞∞∞

  Why? Why? Why? Matthew cut off the confused repetition of his thoughts with a ruthless shake of his head and clucked to his horse. He guided Apollo around an oncoming carriage neatly and admired his ability to separate the chaos of his emotions from the actions of his hands. He drew the horse to a halt before Tess’s house and flung the reins at the street urchin that ran over to him. He leapt up the steps two at a time, nearly missing one and slipping badly before righting himself and hammering on the door with his fist. When there was no immediate response, he pounded on the door more loudly.

  “Goddamn that butler,” he cursed through his gritted teeth, driving a hand through his hair in frustration. He finally heard steps behind the door and then it swung open to reveal the butler.

  “Your card?” the servant inquired snootily, his annoyed expression making it evident that he did not approve of Matthew’s impatience.

  “To hell with all that,” Matthew snapped. “Get out of my way!” He attempted to push his way past the butler, but the servant caught his shoulder and pushed him back onto the doorstep.

  “The Dartmoors are not receiving at this time, Your Grace,” he informed Matthew. “If you would be so kind as to leave a card, I am certain that they will answer you in suitable fashion at their convenience.”

  “Convenience be damned!” Matthew cried, shoving past the other man, who cried out in protest. “Tess!” Matthew shouted, one hand on the newel post at the foot of the sta
irs. “Tess!” he shouted again. He knew that she was home. There was nowhere else that she would be at this particular hour. “Tess!” he yelled again, feeling a cold despair settling over him. Maybe he had not known her properly at all. Maybe she had been a woman like his last fiancé. Perhaps she was not and had never been the glorious being who reflected his own soul so perfectly. He felt sudden upsurge of horrible pain at that thought and closed his eyes.

  “Your Grace, you will leave now, or I will summon some footmen to help me throw you out.” Matthew heard the butler’s words, but they bore no connection to anything alive within him and it took him a long moment to decipher their meaning in relation to himself. “Your Grace? Please do not make this too terribly difficult,” the butler said by way of a final warning. Matthew nodded slowly, releasing his hold on the newel post and managing to make his feet move toward the door. He stumbled down the steps to his waiting horse, guided by some form of self-preservation that would not allow him to surrender to his wish to make no decisions, to cease to act, to forget how to think.

  He took the reins from the boy holding his horse and swung up onto Apollo’s back in a trance-like state of numbness. He clucked to the horse, but the stallion only shifted restlessly. With some annoyance, he made to cluck at the horse again, before he noticed the small boy holding firmly to the reins, a menacing scowl on his young face.

  “I let’s go once I get’s paid, yer lordship,” the boy informed him.

  Matthew sighed and nodded. “Of course. Here,” he flicked a coin to the child, who caught it and tipped his dirty hat to Matthew before scampering across the street in search of more work. Matthew drew in a deep breath to collect himself and clucked to Apollo once again.

  As he guided the stallion into the street, he felt as if his entire being had become capable of no sensation other than the feel of the reins in his hands and the sight of the road before him. He knew that he would feel pain later on, but for now he felt nothing other than the continued will of his body forcing him to act, to move, to continue to live.

  Tess stood at the sitting room window, watching Matthew ride away. She pressed her hand against the glass and closed her eyes as pain course through her. It had been terribly hard not to cry out, not to run down the stairs in reply to him shouting her name. She felt a small shred of victorious pride in her own fortitude amidst the sea of anguish depressing her soul. She took a deep breath and turned away from the window, her shuffling feet taking her back up the stairs to her room. She turned the key in the lock on her door, then stumbled over to her bed and collapsed untidily onto it. She was too rung out to sob, but a steady stream of hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she lay in the silence, wishing for oblivion. Her last thought before she slipped into exhausted and restless sleep was of Matthew’s rigid shoulders and the defeated pain marring his handsome face as he rode away from her house for the last time.

  ∞∞∞

  He had known that they would hear him return. He had known for the entire ride home that he must have something prepared to say to them. As he crossed the threshold and passed his coat and hat to Milton, he knew that he had no idea what to say nor any desire to say it.

  “Matthew? Matthew, what happened?” Alex cried as she dashed into the foyer in a rustle of skirts. She drew to a startled halt at the blank desolation marring her brother’s countenance. She glanced back at Forrest, uncertain how to proceed.

  Forrest nodded slightly at her and stepped forward. “Matthew, why don’t you come and sit down and have a cup of tea? Perhaps we can resolve this predicament.”

  Matthew’s expression didn’t alter itself in the slightest as he shook his head and shuffled past his friend and sister. Alex turned worried eyes on Forrest for a moment before hurrying to catch up to her brother and catch hold of his arm.

  “Matthew?” she asked, a note of entreaty in her voice. He had halted when she caught hold of his arm and he turned to look down at her briefly. She felt her heart sink at the emptiness in his eyes. “Matthew, she cannot really mean it. There must be some explanation.” Her brother only shook his head wearily in reply and shrugged his arm free from her grasp. Alex watched him stumble up the stairs, then turned to meet Forrest’s gaze. “What shall we do?”

  Forrest sighed and drove a hand through his hair. “I don’t believe that there is anything that we can do, love. Come now, let’s go have some tea and leave Matthew to grieve in peace.”

  Alex breathed a heavy sigh before stepping down off the stairs and allowing Forrest to draw her beneath the protective circle of his arm. “I was so sure of Miss Dartmoor,” she murmured.

  Forrest pressed a kiss to her hair. “As was I, love. We shall have to hope that all isn’t lost for them.”

  Upstairs, Matthew untied his cravat with numb fingers and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. He slipped out of his coat and tossed it after the cravat. He fumbled blindly for the bell pull and gave it a tug. Barely a minute elapsed before Dobbs came hurrying into the room.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” he asked.

  Matthew didn’t turn from where he was slumped against the window casement staring down at the street. “Bring me the whiskey, Dobbs. Don’t bother with a glass.” Dobbs hesitated a moment and Matthew turned then to stare at out of bleak eyes. “Do hurry up, Dobbs.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Dobbs replied sharply, hurrying from the room.

  Alone once more, Matthew leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He kept hoping that he was going to wake from this terrible nightmare only to remember that it wasn’t a dream at all but cold, hard reality. How could she have jilted him? Why had she done it and why did she refuse to see him? How could he have been so wrong again? He firmly pushed aside the wash of misery that threatened to engulf him, seeking refuge in the stark safety of numbness. He stared down at the street, not really seeing the traffic that was passing by. He wondered idly if one could recover from two broken hearts in the same lifetime. He remembered the sharp pain of the words in her letter and the scalding tea burning his skin and shook his head sharply, wrenching away from the window.

  “I know that you didn’t wish for a glass, Your Grace,” Dobbs said as he returned to the room. “But I brought one anyhow.”

  Matthew didn’t answer, just lifted the ornate decanter from his valet’s hand and tilted it to his lips. He shuddered slightly as the mouthful of alcohol scalded the lining of his throat. He swallowed once, then raised the cut crystal to his lips again. “You may go now, Dobbs,” he rapped out. “Tell everyone to leave me be.”

  Dobbs bowed slightly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Matthew watched the other man leave, then crossed the room to twist the key in the lock. He leaned against the closed door, truly alone now. Suddenly his knees were too weak to support him and he slithered down to sit on the floor. His aimless gaze fell on the bright sparkle of his signet ring. He felt a sudden sharp and lancing pain as his memory conjured Tess’s slim, white hand wearing the golden band emblazoned with his family seal. Choking back a sob, he hastily gulped more whiskey, wishing that the alcohol would burn away the tide of painful sorrow that he felt pressing in around him.

  Twenty-Two

  “W

  hite’s,” Dartmoor snapped at the driver of the hack he had summoned. He tossed himself inside the stuffy and over-used looking confines and slumped against the hard squabs with a dark scowl. Damn his sister, he thought savagely as the carriage swayed its way into the dark, damp streets. Why could she never follow directions properly and where in the world had she gotten such silly moralistic notions? He cracked his knuckles abstractedly as he cudgeled his brain for a new way to satisfy his personal vendetta against the Hargreve family. By the time the hack stopped before White’s distinctive bay window, Dartmoor had admitted to himself that there might not be any other way for him to get to Matthew. He simply could not believe that his sister could so neatly hog-tie him with so little effort. He paid the driver for his time and leapt out of the ca
rriage with savage swiftness.

  He handed his coat and hat to the man at the door and sauntered into the card room idly, feeling that he must move in some direction, no matter how futile the effort might be. He saw nothing of interest in the few groups of slightly tipsy gentleman playing hazard and faro. He himself never played any game of pure chance and he considered those that did worse than fools.

  Sighing, he turned around and wandered to the dining room, asking himself why he had gone to all the trouble of getting himself elected as a member of the exclusive club when it offered nothing of real interest to him. He halted just over the threshold of the dining room, his gaze running lazily over the occupants with little interest. He was about to turn around and leave when he caught sight of the Earl of Wythinghall dining alone in the farthest corner of the room. He smiled thinly and wove his way between tables as he crossed the room toward the Earl.

  “Good evening, Lord Wythinhall,” he said smoothly as he approached the Earl’s table.

  Marcus leaned back a bit in his chair and regarded the other man with lazy interest. Finally he nodded so slightly that Dartmoor was uncertain whether to take the movement as a greeting or a cut direct. “Evening, Dartmoor,” Marcus said then, his voice level and bland.

  “Might I join you?” Dartmoor said, emboldened by the other man’s acknowledgment. Again the dark blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally the Earl nodded slowly. “Thank you very much, Lord Wythinghall,” Dartmoor said politely, slipping into the chair across from the other man. A waiter arrived on silent feet and asked Dartmoor if he should like a drink. Dartmoor told him what he wanted, then turned away from the waiter to regard his dining companion with interest. He knew very little about the Earl other than that he was reclusive and enigmatic and not much interested in the business of the rest of the ton. Those things were of no interest to Dartmoor, however. What interested him was his relation to Dunsaney.