Phantasmagoria

by Madelynne Ellis

  At the door he paused. His resolve almost faltered. They’d shared so much, the three of them. He wanted them to share so much more, but he knew it was all in tattered ruins. He had to let his two lovers find each other. Maybe then they’d find him again.

  He wasn’t hopeful. He wasn’t that much of a fool.

  One foot across the threshold, he risked a glance back. Vaughan’s eyes were wild in the darkness, their brilliance pronounced against the damp pallor of his skin. His lips were deep red, bruised from too many kisses. Lucerne wanted nothing more than to crush him to his body and spend the night on the rug before the fire, streaking one another with ash and semen, but it wasn’t to be. He took a deep breath. There would never be another Vaughan. No equal to his wit, his beauty, his raw sexuality …

  There were no words …

  Lucerne closed the door quietly and made his way down the steps and into the night.

  Bella stood on the edge of the kitchen garden, surrounded by the scent of damp earth, of garlic and wet mint. The light had faded since Lucerne had gone in, and her tears ran thick and fast. The more she mopped them, the more readily they seemed to spill. She was half-frozen, even draped in Lucerne’s heavy greatcoat, but she couldn’t face company, the stares and the questions, and there was no way to get to her room without first passing through the great hall.

  ‘Louisa,’ she sobbed into Lucerne’s coat sleeve. It wasn’t fair. Her friend should have been enjoying the child she’d just brought into the world, not lying in the cold earth in a foreign land.

  She could picture her so clearly, so petite and perfect, standing on the lawn of Wyndfell Grange on her wedding day, her head cocked delicately to one side as she wondered aloud how she would explain to her new husband that she wasn’t destitute after all.

  It was the last time they’d seen one another.

  The sound of a door slamming across the courtyard brought her thoughts back to the present. Bella licked the salt from her bee-stung lips. A lone figure emerged onto the grass. ‘Lucerne.’

  Desperate for the comfort of his embrace, Bella started towards him.

  His pace was equally determined in her direction. They met beneath the timber frame that sheltered the well. ‘Lucerne.’ He opened his arms for her only after an awkward pause, and even then his face was so stripped of emotion, she paused before snuggling up to his heat. His collar was askew and he smelled of sex and Vaughan. ‘What happened?’

  He tensed.

  A loud thud came from the direction of the castle. Vaughan rushed onto the south tower drawbridge. ‘Lucerne!’ he yelled.

  His dark ringlets danced in the breeze.

  Lucerne held himself rigid in her arms. Bella’s gaze flickered between the two men, taking in the rigid stoicism of Lucerne’s face, the raw pain in Vaughan’s, clear even from a distance. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No … Lucerne …’

  He closed his eyes, ever so slightly inclining his head. ‘No,’ she shrieked in disbelief. It couldn’t be. He was supposed to mend things …

  He turned away from her. Bella clung to his sleeve as he strode out through the wicket gate and across the moat. In the shadow of his crested carriage he stopped and gently pried her fingers from his arm.

  ‘It’s the only way, Bella. I can’t make things right.’ His man opened the carriage door. ‘I’d ask you to come, but I know the answer.’

  Her nose tingled. The tears ran cold across her cheeks and down her throat. ‘You can’t,’ she squeaked. ‘I can’t leave him.’ The burning passion she’d once felt for Lucerne was but dying embers to what she felt for Vaughan. Perhaps, given other circumstances, they’d have rekindled, but for now she belonged at Pennerley with Vaughan, not with Lucerne in the north.

  Lucerne took his greatcoat from her shoulders and pushed his arms through the sleeves.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I have to, Bella. It’s for the best.’ He enfolded her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry.’ There it was again, that apology, as if all the wrongs of their relationship were somehow his. As if this was entirely his fault. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and another to the back of her hand. ‘Tell him … tell him…’ He shook his head. Let her fingers slip. ‘ Goodbye, Bella.’ He forced a smile, then mounted the carriage steps. ‘Farewell.’

  Bella stood in the dark and watched the carriage rattle away until it was an infinitesimal blot on the horizon and her tears had dried in tight streaks across her face. Slowly, terrified of Vaughan’s reaction and numbed with sorrow, she turned back towards the gatehouse.

  15

  VAUGHAN PULLED THE bottle from the rack and rubbed the dust off it with his sleeve. Sherry, port, Madeira. What did it matter? He just needed something to rid himself of the taste of Lucerne. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat before the fire watching the flames dance and cinders fall across the hearthstone, maybe minutes, maybe hours. The room had grown dark, the candles burning out one by one, and then the brandy had run out too, which was why he was fishing around the cellar in the dark.

  He drew the cork from the dusty bottle with his teeth and spat it across the room. The liquid within was syrupy and a fraction too sweet. Not one of the castle’s best, although he wasn’t sure anything would ever take away Lucerne’s kisses.

  The wine, or whatever it was, hit his stomach like vitriol. Vaughan bent double, clasping his sides. He knew it was his fault Lucerne had left. He’d pushed him to it. And now it was real, he had to live with it. Had to continue somehow, with half his heart torn out.

  ‘God damn you, Lucerne,’ he cursed. ‘You weren’t supposed to walk away.’ Especially after an encounter like that. The memory of Lucerne’s cock stretching him, of his kisses, so aggressive and demanding, necessitated another swig from the bottle. His stomach immediately protested, but he continued to swallow regardless, only to retch the moment he stopped. There wasn’t anything to come up apart from alcohol, which thankfully stayed put. He hadn’t really been able to face food since Tuesday night. Not since he’d painted Bella with jam.

  Vaughan pitched forwards onto his knees. His eyes felt like they’d sunken into his sockets and his jaw ached. His lips were tender too, scratched raw by the faint growth of Lucerne’s stubble. They hadn’t made love like that for months.

  ‘Fuck!’ Still holding the bottle, he slammed his fist into the nearby wall, driving fragments of splintered glass into his palm and splattering his clothing with wine. The thick red liquid pooled by his knee, fed by his own blood.

  Cold seeped into his brow, numbing his thoughts as he sagged against the pitted stone wall. Was there nothing left except memories now? They all tasted bitter. Salt water mingled with the memories. Vaughan brushed the streaks away with his hand. What was he supposed to do now? Pretend nothing had happened? It wasn’t as if their relationship was openly acknowledged. How could it be, when the King’s law forbade such loving. Even the intercourse he shared with Bella was considered a crime of nature. Judging by her recent pleas, she was beginning to think that too.

  Bella … He’d have to ask her to leave if she hadn’t already flown with Lucerne. She couldn’t stay here, a constant reminder of what he’d lost, and why he’d lost it. Lucerne was wrong, there was nothing between them. He conceded that he’d been pleased to see her at first. She was the only woman who ever stood up to him, and they sparked nicely off each other. But it wasn’t love.

  He tucked up his legs before him, and picked the shards of broken glass from his bloody palm. His blood tasted cloying and thick as he sucked the wound clean.

  He’d let her stay until the party. Then he’d send her away with the other guests. Pack her off with Devonshire if he had to.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Vaughan glanced up from beneath his eyebrows. An orange flame bobbed in the darkness by the cellar steps. ‘Vaughan, is that you?’ A moment later, a delicate hand touched his shoulder. Niamh’s fingers stroked through the tumbled shroud of his hair. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  She kn
elt before him and pushed at his shoulders until he raised his head. ‘ Blessed angels!’ Her eyes went wide. Already pale, the colour seemed to bleed from her cheeks. She touched one finger to his lips, then stared at the red smear upon her fingertip. ‘Blood,’ she gasped, and there was a tremble of fear in her voice. ‘What have you done?’

  Vaughan opened his palm, causing the wound to run freely again. Dark rivulets trickled into his coat cuff. Distractedly, he watched the light play across the streams. They glinted maroon and scarlet, red like his sister’s lips, plum like his lover’s glans.

  Niamh forced an embroidered handkerchief into his palm and watched the stain seep across its surface.

  ‘I’ll send for Doctor Kepple.’

  ‘No doctors,’ he said, and it felt as if his voice was disembodied. ‘It’ll heal.’

  ‘But …’

  He clasped her wrist in an iron grip. ‘No doctors. I don’t need blistering or bleeding. I can manage both myself.’

  She drew away from him, shuddering. The candle flame shone in her pupils, highlighting the sheen of fear within. Vaughan rose to his feet, causing the shards of broken glass to scrunch noisily beneath his shoes.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He shrugged and pulled another bottle from the rack.

  ‘Wait.’ She pressed a hand to his arm.

  Vaughan stared at the point of contact. Very few people dared stop him doing as he pleased, but he was finding his sister had developed a certain stubbornness in his absence. He guessed he’d allowed her too much freedom.

  ‘Let me help. I can bind it.’

  He shook his head so that his dark hair spilled over his shoulders and stuck to the wetness on his cheeks.

  ‘Just let me come to your room.’

  His stomach lurched at the thought. ‘Most women have more sense than to suggest such a thing.’

  ‘I’m not most women. I’m your sister in case you’ve forgotten,’ she chastised, and clamped a hand onto her hips in a pose that reminded him far too vividly of Bella. ‘What’s happened tonight? Bella is milk pale and won’t say a thing to anyone, and you …’ She was blocking the stairs. ‘You stalk off halfway through dinner and now after midnight when all our guests have retired, I find you skulking about the cellars.’

  ‘It’s over,’ he said simply. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of sharing him any longer.’ He didn’t want to explain, but how else was he to get rid of her. Unfortunately, the statement only brought more questions.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ She bit her thumbnail. ‘I’ve heard rumours. They say that you and Viscount Marlinscar are lovers.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Tell me it isn’t true. They could hang you!’

  ‘It is true. And they can damn well try.’ He swept her aside and headed up the stairs, realising for the first time how drunk he’d made himself.

  Niamh scurried after him. ‘Vaughan! Did you never think of the risks?’

  They reached the top of the cellar steps and she dived ahead of him again, this time blocking the corridor to the lower parlour with her outstretched arms. ‘I know what a libertine you’ve grown into, but did you run out of women to satisfy you?’

  ‘Niamh,’ he growled, his temper rising quickly in response to the revulsion in her eyes. ‘Be very careful what you say.’ He drew his hand towards her and she flinched, drawing herself up against the passage wall. ‘Do I disgust you?’ he asked, sliding a finger into the coils of one of the ringlets framing her face.

  She cowered. ‘You frighten me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he murmured, his other hand tightening on the neck of the bottle he’d brought up from the cellar. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, except that it was raw, and he wanted everyone else to feel it to. He wanted her to understand that it wasn’t wrong, it was simply how he was, who he was, and no amount of insults would ever change that. But she didn’t understand. She’d never felt the same way.

  ‘That fool Edward Holt, do you love him?’ he asked.

  Bewildered, Niamh stared at him, her elegant lips parted, her nails curled into the wainscotting. It was clear she didn’t understand the connection, but there was one.

  ‘Do you?’

  Still flustered, she twisted both her head and her body, trying to escape his touch and his soul-searching gaze. Vaughan cupped her cheek with his injured hand and forced her to meet his stare. The movement hurt, but the pain was minimal to what he felt inside. She made a half-choking sound, her lip trembling. ‘I’m not sure.’ The statement was delivered as a hesitant stammer.

  ‘You’re not sure,’ he echoed. ‘Well, I’m sure. Don’t criticise my feelings until you understand them.’ He let go, leaving a bloody handprint on her skin. ‘Marry him if you want. I’m done with ruling your life for I can’t rule my own. But, Niamh, if, after all, you can’t marry for love, ’tis better not to marry at all.’

  Her mouth fell open in response to the permission she’d never expected him to give, quickly followed by words of explanation, of justification for her desires. ‘He entertains me,’ she said.

  Vaughan sighed. Had everybody else forgotten how to feel? ‘So does “Monk” Lewis, but you’re not set on marrying him.’

  ‘He’s never offered.’

  The quick response shocked a snort of mirth from him. ‘I guess I should have invited him instead of Devonshire.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she bleated. ‘Just stop it. You’ve always been like this. Just because you’re hurting … It doesn’t give you the right …’ She clasped her arms before her like a shield, the same way she’d used her dolls as a barrier in the past. ‘I like Edward. I find him agreeable, which is all society demands.’

  ‘Bugger society!’ He grabbed hold of her chin. When she squirmed, he jammed her against the lower parlour door with his thigh pressed between her legs. A curious wash of arousal bathed his loins at her exclamation of fear, followed a heartbeat later by a rush of nausea as her startled breaths assaulted his tender lips.

  He hadn’t wanted it to be like this. He’d tried to shield her, to protect her from men like himself. One of them had to have a chance at being happy. She had to understand, he wasn’t the villain.

  ‘Agreeable,’ he snarled, his mouth a mere inch from hers. ‘How agreeable will you find him after he’s forced himself on you every night for a year? What about when he insists on bedding the maids in your place or when he makes a mistress of your best friend?’

  ‘You’re sick. You need help, Vaughan.’ Her arched eyebrows rose. ‘Edward’s not like you. He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Edward already has.’

  Her eyes turned glassy with tears. ‘You pig. Let go of me.’

  ‘He spent last spring wooing Alicia Allenthorpe, then dropped her when he found out she had a far richer friend languishing all alone in the country.’

  She shook her head but he could see the doubt in her eyes. Vaughan released her and watched her depart in a flurry of skirts. Perhaps a better brother would have found a kinder way. If she’d loved Holt, he’d have kept his silence, tolerated him even, but he wasn’t going to have her marry a scoundrel for nothing. He sighed. In the morning, she’d go sobbing to Alicia, and the whole sorry story would no doubt spill out. Maybe then she’d realise he’d saved her from a life of misery.

  Despite everything, he was still convinced love was an essential requisite for tying yourself to someone. People who didn’t even like each other had no business being together. His parents had been a good example of that. Maybe Niamh had been too young to remember.

  Up in his bedchamber, the fire had burned low in the grate. Vaughan lay on the warmed bed linen, having bound his injured hand, and stared up into the inky depths of the canopy. His palm stung but the cut was not particularly deep. It would heal far quicker than the other wound he’d sustained.

  ‘Lucerne,’ he whispered into the dark. He lifted the gold locket that lay close to his heart and pressed the warm metal to his lips. It was over, but it would ne
ver truly be done between them. He rolled onto his side, locket clasped tight within his fist, and willed himself to sleep. But when he closed his eyes, images came to him of Lucerne’s Cupid’s bow lips, of his blond hair ruffled against the pillowslips, and of Bella curled around his feet.

  For some reason, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t extract her from the vision. He guessed he’d grown accustomed to her presence. Futilely, he kicked at her image, but it merely shimmered and reformed whole again.

  After twenty minutes of this torture, Vaughan got up. He stood before the fire and swigged from the bottle he’d brought up from the cellar, only to choke on the acrid poison within. His eyes watered as he spat the vinegar, with a hint of sludgy cork, into the flames. Not only were his lovers deserting him, his cellars were mouldering too. Disgusted, he peered into the bottleneck and found crystals growing around the rim. How in God’s name was a man supposed to drown his sorrows when his wine tasted like cat’s piss?

  Air. He’d take himself for a walk instead.

  Shunning the battlements, he headed for one of the castle’s curiosities, a door set into the outer wall of the tower. In his youth, he’d assumed it was a relic of the castle’s medieval past, but it was unlikely the curtain wall had reached such an impressive height even in the fourteenth century. Instead, he’d been reliably informed by Foster, whose family were another of the castle’s relics, that it was simply a means of getting furniture, too bulky for the stairs, into the tower.

  The wind battered him as he stepped out onto the narrow ledge, chasing away some of the alcohol haze. To his right, the castle walls fell away into the murky waters of the moat. If he slipped, would he survive or crumple like a rag doll?