Griff placed a strong hand on his shoulder while Lord Bromley gazed at him with curiosity.
"I have problems controlling my anger," he informed Bromley. "Griff knows. He's seen it. I apologize. I can usually master it, but this man beside Bee incensed me. I think he's drunk too much and assumes too much."
Bromley glanced toward the doorway as the guests departed for the music room. "I saw him. If Wellington's able men can't surround him and usher him up to his room, who can?"
Griff smiled. "He does need to retire from the field."
Bromley rubbed his hands together in glee. "Let's go. If we'd do the same for his friend Hallerton, I'd be most grateful."
Alastair noted that Hallerton had sat beside Delphine tonight at dinner and that man had appeared as forward to Delphine as Carlson to Bee. "Nothing like friends in arms to win the day."
But as the three walked toward the music room, Alastair could not suppress his ire. He breathed deeply, purposely. That had helped him calm himself before. But as he and his friends entered the small room, he noted that Carlson maneuvered to stand beside Bee. Marjorie and Delphine inserted themselves between him and his prey.
What's more, Simms raised his proverbial disapproving brow at the man, then caught Alastair’s eye. He strode toward the men as if summoning the troops to save the day. "Time to intervene, don't you think?”
"With pleasure," Griff said.
Alastair went to Bee. "Are you well?"
She sent him a wan smile. "I am now."
He grasped her hand in brief regard, then let it go.
But his gaze traveled around the room...and it was ablaze with candles. The glint of metal thread in the drapes, the gilt upon the wainscoting, the shine of the ivory French pianoforte and reflections off the golden harp assaulted his eyes.
The light was a necessity for the musicians. Certainly. He understood that. He himself liked a goodly amount of it cast upon his score sheets. But his eyesight since Waterloo blurred in these bouts of brilliance and tore at his reason. His sense of place and time askew.
Griff's step-mother, the countess, rose before her guests and declared she was honored to have so many accomplished musicians with her for the Christmas holiday. "Our first will be our own, my niece, Miss Delphine Craymore. My dear, please, at the pianoforte."
Bee's youngest sister took her place and asked for Bromley to turn the pages for her. That left Griff to interfere with Carlson's attempts to draw near to Bee. Worry ate at Alastair. The brilliance in the room suffused him, sending flashes of lightning through his head. Whatever Delphine played, Alastair could not name it.
Del chose another piece, a country song, and who should join her but Lady Eliza. Whatever that young woman sang, Alastair did not know it.
Another young woman was called upon to pluck at the harp. She did not do it justice—and rightly bowed away after one song.
A man, whose name Alastair could not hear, rose to play the violin. His talent, if one could call it that, was greatly lacking. The screech of his bow on the strings was like metal to metal.
Pain slashed through his head.
"Alastair?" Bee whispered. "Do you still wish to play for us?"
"No, no." I dare not. "Don't let that man near you," he pleaded with her and gave her hand to Griff with a silent entreaty. "I must go. Forgive me."
He rushed from the room. His head heavy. His eyes burning with the lights and the hideous sound of the abused violin.
He took the stairs two at a time, blind with light and deaf with the clanging in his head. Shaking, he thrust open his bedroom door, left it banging on its hinges. Tearing at his cravat, his frock coat, he was afire.
"Alastair, Alastair," Bee called to him, her hands cool on his cheeks, her body supple to his own. "Darling, what's wrong?"
He curled her close. Confused, he tried to speak. But he babbled and he was ashamed and angry at himself.
"Oh, Alastair. Come." She led him to sit in an overstuffed chair and knelt before him. Her hands ran over his cheeks, his forehead. She felt his pulse at his wrists and pushed him backward to the cushions.
She was so lovely, always had been. His, always, too. "Bee. Bee." He used her name as an anchor in the void he traveled. "Bee."
"You've got a fever," he thought she said as she rose to cross the room, then yank at the bell pull. "Your heartbeat is too rapid."
"Anger," he got out. "Too much."
"Yes. I see that. Rest now. I will take care of you."
He sank back once more to the comfort of the chair and Bee Craymore's ministrations.
Someone banged at the door.
He tried to rise.
She held him back.
"Stop, make them stop," he said, knuckles digging at his eyes.
"I will." She ran to open it for a man.
Simms? How’d he get here?
"What does he need?" the butler asked her.
She listed items, her tone as brisk and demanding as any commands he'd once issued to his men.
Bee returned to him to remove his coat, then knelt once more before him, stroked his hands and talked of summer and flowers, days when they were young.
* * *
Within spare minutes, Simms and her own maid Mary returned with the items she'd requested.
"Put the tea tray here on this table, Simms. Bowl, towels and hot water bucket, over by the fire. Thank you. I knew I could count on you."
The butler's steady gaze locked on hers. "My duty. My honor, Miss Belinda." He left with the quick precision he was known for.
"Mary," she summoned her maid and cast a glance at the blanket the girl had thrown over her arm, "what dress did you bring me?"
She lifted the blanket to reveal a pink gown Bee normally wore to breakfast. "Your favorite muslin, Miss Belinda."
"Good." She couldn't nurse Alastair in an evening gown. "Unlace me."
"Miss?"
"Mary, I must be comfortable. Now undo this gown and get me out of these stays."
"But, Miss!"
"Mary, I know what I'm doing." The house was full of guests, all of society, all prone to gossip. If anyone surmised she was here, if they even breathed that she ministered to a man in his chambers, she'd be a laughing stock. Everything she worked for, every rightful word or action that she'd made in the past three years would be for naught if she were discovered here. No restitution of her family name would ever be possible. But then she was not willing to pay the price of losing Alastair to his darkness. "I won't ruin the gown. And as long as no one knows, I won't ruin my reputation, either."
Alastair groaned. Put his head in his hands. "Stop the noise!"
"Quickly," she mouthed to Mary, then turned her back and let the girl work on relieving her of her formal clothes.
When she closed the door upon her, she hurried back to Alastair who had taken to rocking in the chair. Silent, staring into space, he was a man beset by horrors Bee could not see. Might not ever understand. But she could sit with him, abide with him, relieve him of his shoes and his waistcoat, pull out the tails of his shirt from his breeches and wipe his brow.
The warm water the footman had brought her served its purpose to bathe Alastair's face and neck and soothe him. He breathed more slowly and he looked at her with more awareness.
"Might you wish to go to bed? It would be a good idea for you to rest. Perhaps you'd like to change into a nightshirt?"
She wouldn't do that for him, of course. He'd have to. But he responded by pointing toward the chest of drawers.
"I'll look."
A footman had assembled Alastair's stockings, small clothes, stocks and shirts neatly in the small drawers. Struggling in the dim starlight streaming through the windows, she opened one drawer after another. And in the second, she found a folio atop a garment that looked like a new muslin nightshirt. As she lifted it out, the contents of the folio spilled to the rug. Berating herself for her clumsiness, she picked up a piece of paper that made her gasp.
"Oh, Alasta
ir," she murmured as she re-read the words. "You acquired a special license."
"I did," he said from across the room. "I did. I love you, Bee. Love you. I wanted you for my wife. Always wanted you."
She stared at him, talking to himself more than her, his private world the one in which she walked with him through his battles. Then, now, his declarations gave her joy that here was the love that refreshed him and saved him. Here was the man whom she had loved and would all her life.
She'd not refuse him any longer. Pride held no measure to love. Self-concern held no glories compared to what they might create together. Somehow she would explain it to Marjorie and Del, arrange matters so that they did not feel abandoned by her. She never wanted them to live alone, deserted by her, their only kin.
She replaced the license and removed his nightshirt from the drawer.
Then on the morrow, when he was recovered—please God that be so—she would accept his proposal and never more deny him or herself the benefits of a mutual love that could grant them both a life of joy.
Chapter 7
He rolled to one side and noted warmth that enticed him. The rest he'd enjoyed suffused him with mellow recognition that the heat next to him was human. And supple. He opened one eye. Another.
Bee.
Bee? How is this possible? Bee in a pretty pink confection, her dark hair a cloud over the white linen pillow, her lush lips open and oh, my, snoring.
He chuckled silently. He stilled, recalling how he'd fled the musicale, that scoundrel Carlson sniffing after Bee.
But here she was in his bed.
How in hell had she gotten here?
He rose up on one elbow. A survey of his bedroom told him few tales. Pushing down the blanket and coverlet, he saw he still wore his breeches. Well that was a relief. He'd not ravished his beloved while he was half out of his mind.
She sighed, rolled over and snuggled against his arm.
Happy Bee. Darling Bee.
He wished to comb his fingers through her lovely hair. But he stopped, couldn't. Shouldn't take advantage.
But he had. Hadn't he? Her presence here proved it.
Hell.
What had he said? Done?
He recalled that last night as she bathed his face and spoke to him, he dwelled on happier times, when his mother and father were alive. When William too was with them. Laughing, climbing a tree, playing with their toy soldiers in the nursery to recreate old battles.
He put a hand to his brow. Last night he'd also had visions of his men, fallen, bleeding, cut to ribbons, their voices pleading. The blast of nine pounders, the shriek of howitzers. The buzzing in his head.
Now clear.
But what of tomorrow and tomorrow?
He slid from the bed, swallowing shame at his weakness, fury at his need that he'd be so mindless as to welcome her to his rooms and she'd...do what?
He spied the tea tray. The porcelain bowl, towels, the bucket servants would use to haul up hot water.
Oh, she hadn't bathed him, had she?
No. He had on his breeches and a nightshirt.
He sat on the chair and watched her sleeping. At peace, exhausted. Through the mist of his memories of last night, he remembered her patience and her care of him.
He rose to the window and pulled back the drapes and curtains. The sun brightened the horizon. She must leave. Even now, house maids were scurrying to light fires and empty chamber pots. Footmen were about carrying heavy items for baths. And it was Christmas morning which meant everyone would be up and about preparing to go to church.
He went to her side and sat near, one hand to her shoulder. "Sweetheart. Bee. Wake up, please. Bee?"
She fluttered her lashes, but smiled at him. Unafraid, even unconcerned where she was, she reached outside the covers, put her hands to his shoulders and drew him down to her. "How are you?"
"Well. Better." He pushed away but she caressed his cheeks.
"I'm glad. I was so worried. These are the terrors that plague you." In her tone was half a question.
"Yes. We can talk later. You must get up, my darling, and leave here."
She sighed, a moue of discontent on her face. "I liked sleeping with you."
He snorted in laughter. "Did you now?"
She pressed a kiss to her fingertips and put those to his lips. "I want to do it again."
He said nothing. Oh, he wanted her, yes. But could he saddle her with his mindless rages? His empty minutes? Hours? God knew how long he'd be afflicted this way. In his worst moments, he thought he would be forever damned to suffer them.
"I looked for your nightshirt last night." She licked her lips, suddenly sheepish.
"That was kind of you. I see you did not totally disrobe me."
"That was not my intention. Though..." She widened her eyes. "Perhaps it was."
"Minx." He touched her nose. "You must leave."
She glanced around. Not jumping out of bed to save her reputation. "About your special license?"
“What of it?”
"I never doubted that you wished to marry me," she said. "The license, the very sight of it, proved one thing to me."
He disliked this conversation. He doubted he could be a good husband to her. A loving one, certainly. But if his mind was damaged in such a way that he must fear sound and light, and must even leave musicales, for God's sake. All to wrestle his emotions to the ground, what kind of man would he be for her? Weak, fettered always to his frailty?
She touched his cheek. "Alastair, last night as I helped you, I realized that my pride was nothing to the real needs of two people who love each other. I was selfish and overly priggish to refuse you. I want to marry you, Alastair. And I don't care if anyone finds me here with you. I will marry you if God Himself comes down to walk in that door."
That was precisely what he'd hoped to hear her say. But now, her words could not salve the wound that he feared would always make him less than a man. Less than a man who could protect her from the evils of the world. "That's kind of you, Bee."
"Kind? Oh, Alastair!" Shocked, she pulled him down to kiss his lips and in her move was desire and hope and despair.
He drew away. "You must leave, Bee. Come now." He offered her his hand.
"No!" She rolled away from him to stand on the opposite side of the bed. "What's wrong? Tell me."
"I am no proper man for you."
She gaped at him.
"My fits—”
"That was not a fit. I know fits."
"No, I—”
"Two of our tenants suffered them. I nursed them, I tell you. You did not roll your eyes. You did not fall down. You were stunned. Inconsolable, for a while, at least. But you were hot, fevered, obsessed. But you did not have a fit." She was firm, insulted, putting her foot down. His sweet stubborn determined Belinda.
"Whatever we call it, I have them. They come over me at odd times. I can control a few. But not all. And last night's was horrendous."
"How do you know?"
"What?"
"If you cannot recall the details, how do you know what it was?" She approached him.
"I cannot remember everything."
"I do. You did not curse. Or cry. Or yell. Or rant or rave. You left the salon and came straight away here. There—” she said and pointed to his chair, "you sat, rocked a bit. You did not bite me. Or drool."
He raked a hand through his hair. "Oh, do stop."
"No." She took a step nearer. Her chin up, defiant, she peered at him. "You did not resist me. Nor did you kiss me or accost me or seduce me."
"Thank heavens for that."
"Ohhh. Don't you see? Even in your..." she flung out a hand and searched for a word, "your malaise, you are kind, respectful...and sweet. Your true self in that as in all else."
She stepped against him. Her body, lithe and firm and warm, moved against his in a symphony of delight. "I love you, Alastair. And I wish to marry you as you are, as you will be, until we both do die."
His des
ire for her the most magnificent emotion he'd ever owned, he stared into her large sky blue eyes and was sorely tempted. Reason however was a dastardly master. He set her from him. "I'm sorry, my darling. But that is quite impossible I find. You must go. Now."
In all his life, when he dreamt of her as he rode to battle as he mourned his comrades, as he hoped for peace one day, a house, a small income to sustain him, he had wanted only her by his side. But his battles were now with his own body and he must never show her again how weak he was. What man was a true husband who could not offer his wife all his devotion without his protection?
He strode to his bedroom door and opened it. No one was about.
She stood in the center of his room, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her back ramrod straight. But she bent to pick up her shoes and then she approached him, passed him and in the hall turned to face him.
"I love you, Alastair Demerest. Friend, captain, viscount, duke, whatever others may call you, I call you mine. So as you said to me days ago, before this house party is done, I will find a way to prove it."
With that she turned on her heel and as was her infuriating practice, left him where he stood. Alone. Bereft. Without her.
* * *
Bee padded down the hall on bare feet, her long black hair swishing around her shoulders as she made for her suite. Passing the grand staircase, she heard Simms' stentorian tones rise up the steps as he received a visitor in the foyer. Whoever it was, not only was he uncommonly early, especially for Christmas morning, but also he sounded vexed.
"Urgently, I must speak with the earl and his mother," the man requested of the butler.
Simms would climb the stairs any moment! Bee hurried along, turned the corner to her room and froze in her tracks.
From Marjorie's door emerged the unmistakable disheveled form of Griff Harlinger. He, like Bee, held his shoes in one hand, while the other drew her younger sister into his embrace. Marjorie's honey gold hair spilled carefree down the bosom of her translucent muslin nightdress. But she was uncaring of her dishabille as she rose on her toes to kiss this man she'd spent her life unmercifully teasing.
The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Page 8
