Undoing One's Enemy

by Camille Oster

  He liked her hair loose; it was a glance into the private part of her, the part that he wasn’t supposed to see; although he had. He’d seen the most private things about her, but it was confronting to see such complete vulnerability. It also reminded him of other times, his body remembered them well and responded with feelings he tried to quell.

  Her hand gripped the little knob at the back of the chair as she regarded him. It was disturbing how attractive he found her in that state, a state of being completely undone.

  “We have to decide where she is to be buried,” he said. Her face frowned in concentration.

  “She wants to be with my father,” she said clearing her throat. “There is no other place that is of any appropriate meaning.”

  He smiled tightly. Her father was buried at the country estate in Wiltshire. Burying her there meant that he would willingly have to let another Hessworth rest in his family graveyard. He’d been very displeased when he’d found Edward Hessworth had been placed there, but for all his displeasure he wasn’t quite willing to dig up graves. “Of course,” he said and left.

  Chapter 14

  Amelia fixed her hair in the most severe style she could think of. It wasn’t flattering but she didn’t care. The stark black dress she wore made her skin look very pale; the dark circles under her eyes didn’t help.

  “It’s time to go, Miss,” one of the maid said from the doorway. Amelia nodded and looked down on the austere dress she wore. The problem with black was that it picked up everything and displayed it prominently. She picked a few pieces of lint off the skirt and grabbed the black parasol that had been made for the dress.

  Lord Eldridge was waiting by the carriage outside and he assisted her into the closed cab. It had all the comforts that a travelling carriage should. It was going to be a long ride to Wiltshire. The coffin had gone the day before, she had been told. Her companion took his seat and they were off with a start. Although she wished to go alone, having another person in the carriage would distract her. He had organized everything and she was grateful.

  “I have spoken to Mr. Jamieson,” he said as they reached the outskirts of London. “He’s preparing all the legal paperwork. He has informed me that you are to receive a small inheritance. Were you aware of this?”

  She shook her head. She had not known that Edna’d had any money whatsoever.

  “It is not a large amount and it will take time for it to be released,” he said watching her. She didn’t want to think about money or practical matters. She just felt bone exhausted. Her seeming inability to sleep wasn’t helping either. Her mind just kept ticking along, refusing to let her rest.

  Her face was remarkably telling of her emotions and thoughts. The little inheritance had taken him by surprise. The elder woman had likely forgotten about the money; if she had been cognizant of it, they would like have used it before now.

  The inheritance was putting a crimp in his plans as it lessened his leverage over her. Although she may feel that the money was insufficient—which it was—for a comfortable lifestyle. It would also not keep her for very long, but she could just walk away and there wasn’t much he could do about it—his leverage had died with Edna Hessworth. A case of injustice as fortune had favored her in this instance.

  In the meantime, he’d had to put his rage aside; gentlemanly duty compelled him to help her. There was no joy in dispensing justice to someone completely vulnerable and miserable. Her vulnerability did stir him, he admitted. It was the aspect that made their intimacy impossible for him to forget. Everything he did was to rid himself of vulnerability, the fact that she’s revealed it so completely both fascinated and repulsed him.

  For now he was stuck being dutiful to his position and breeding. He would be a perfect gentleman for the proceedings to come. How long it would last, he didn’t know. Dealing with her properly would have to wait, but now there was the additional risk that she would walk away into a new life out of his reach.

  He felt twinges of anger when he thought about her ridiculous plans. His spite may have been replaced by duty, but it was simmering under the surface. His core sentiments toward her had not changed. It grated that she was going to spend her time with pathetic men like artists, in accordance with some delusion that they will see past her loss of position. It was particularly infuriating because there was a chance that it could happen, two idiots with compatible delusions finding each other in this world, living happily within their mutual self-built fallacy. Some ridiculous artist that believed in a sense of nobility in living without the luxuries in life, whose daft prophesy she’d buy hook, line and sinker.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. For now he had to take care of her. Somehow he always ended up taking care of her.

  “A little.”

  “There is an inn about half an hour away, we’ll stop there.”

  The inn was of sufficient quality, he remembered it well from his childhood. They’d had a rhubarb pie that he’d been particularly keen on, but likely there were different persons running the place now, and he was not the kind of man that indulged in rhubarb pie.

  “We have a lovely table for you and your wife,” the inn keeper said. He was about to argue, but why bother he thought to himself. He sat down at a table and began to peel off his gloves. It was an absurd idea that she’d be considered his wife. He watched her as she joined him at the table.

  The inn keeper was back with a tray containing roast lamb and bread. It looked fatty and it tasted the same. “Ale or wine?” the inn keeper asked.

  “Wine,” he decided. She didn’t argue with him, just accepted his decisions. Her austere black dress held no charm, the grey lace that skimmed the neckline only contrasted with the white skin underneath. He remembered well the shape of her breasts that were so tightly confined in the stark material.

  He blinked as jealousy hit him, the jealousy that she was going to give that body, the intimacy to someone undeserving, someone who would make her his wife. She wanted to settle for nothing less. He wondered if she would make a good wife—not that it was for him to wonder, she was ruined and well beneath him, but he would imagine her sitting in an inn with her husband, rounded with child and glowing complexion.

  He needed to stop thinking of her, he should be thinking about his own future wife, a position that could perhaps be given to Miss Rosen—the slim girl with wheat blonde hair and a little snub nose. She was pretty enough—still the thought left him cold. He’d been hoping the idea of her would grow on him, but it hadn’t. There was also a celebrated Spanish beauty that was making a bit of a splash at the moment, but her coy pouting and flares of anger displeased him.

  He just wanted to find someone he could get on with. He wasn’t asking for much, just someone who didn’t make him want to strangle them—someone steadfast, predictable, calm and unshakeable. Sadly, they were qualities lacking amongst the females of the ton. Actually the only person who he’d met with those qualities had bored him to tears, which placed him in a bit of a pickle, particularly if they turned out to be females who expected unending politeness and reverence. He suspected he’d kill himself if he spent his entire life talking only of the weather and the garden.

  In truth, he felt he could breathe in the brutally honest interactions he had with the woman sitting across from him. He had always spoken plainly with her and she with him. He’d never hidden how he despised her from the very start. He smiled when he suspected that she had called him every crude name she likely had in her limited vocabulary.

  “What kind of wife do you think you’ll be?” he asked, it just kind of came into his mind and he didn’t stop himself from vocalising it. It was not a question he would ask a female in polite society, or probably any female he knew.

  “Pardon?”

  “What kind of a wife would you be, if you married one of your starving artists?” he repeated looking at the confusion in her eyes. He wanted to see if she would answer him properly.

  “I good wife, I guess.”

&n
bsp; “And what does that entail?”

  “A wife that loves her husband.”

  He snorted. “Fairy tales,” he said. She gave him a harsh look. “I have actually been alive longer than you and I have never seen it.”

  “Then maybe you weren’t looking in the right place.”

  “Oh that’s right; it’s a purview of the poor.”

  “Maybe it is,” she challenged.

  “You should give up this ridiculous notion. It will lead you nowhere and you would have wasted whatever advantages you have, leaving you with nothing.”

  She shook her head. “For an alternative of what, being some man’s mistress? Some man I don’t particularly care about, so I can buy dresses and baubles?”

  “So you can support yourself,” he said angrily. “What about when this rash adventure to find love proves false? What then?”

  “Then I’ll keep trying. There are other people who believe in love and kindness—not everyone is like you. I am not going to give up on it. Why would I do that, so I can live in the bleak existence you do?”

  Her little tirade hit him in the gut. He smiled to himself, he had given her another chance to reject him, and she had. It really was his fault for setting that up. Of all twisted notions, she thought his future was bleak, when she was at risk of falling down to the very floor of the socio-economic strata. Didn’t she understand that if she wallowed in the slums for long enough the stink would stick to her and she’d never get anyone of quality to support her.

  He truly did want to strangle her. She was so completely infuriating. He didn’t speak to her throughout the rest of the carriage ride; he didn’t quite trust his own reaction to her as there was a good chance he might actually strangle her, or worse, kiss her. It seemed the angrier he got; the more he wanted to make her acknowledge him and to understand that you couldn’t give yourself to someone and then just take it back.

  Somehow the carriage seemed to have gotten smaller. He needed to get hold of himself and his anger. Anger had always been his friend, but he had always had good control of it. Unfortunately his control seemed to be slipping. She tried him to his outer limits, but it was more than that, he’d been short with everyone. He’d practically had to hold himself back from lashing out at Lord Hariston. The sooner he could be rid of this girl the better. He wanted revenge, but was starting to wonder at the toll on him.

  Supper was ready for them when they arrived. They were both tired from the journey, but she had grown hungry. She wasn’t planning on dining with him, but as it was ready, it seemed less hassle to just eat in his company as the dining room was prepared for them. She hadn’t eaten in this dining room since her father was alive. It contained so many memories, she didn’t want to tarnish them with her present company, but she was too weary to deal with the bother of changing the plan. It was also be decidedly rude. If it had been a month back, she would definitely have insisted, but now that he had been helpful, she didn’t feel right being downright rude to him.

  His presence throughout the carriage ride had been both challenging and comforting. She knew she was being contradictory, she wanted to be alone, but she wanted him there. He made no secret that he wasn’t the greatest supporter of her plan for her future and it wasn’t surprising; he was mirroring the exact some sentiments she would get from her father if he’d been there. They were the same sentiment that most gentlemen would hold, reflecting values related to success, wealth and honor.

  She knew he was angry that she had declined the arrangement he had proposed. She just didn’t want to be a mistress. She wasn’t going to settle for that even though he was under the impression it was the best thing for her. She also knew that he believed it too. She got the feeling that he didn’t entirely believe that love existed and she felt sorry for him in that regard.

  There was a part of her that wished him well. She would like for him to be happy, but she wasn’t sure he would ever allow himself to be. It certainly wasn’t going to come from her serving as his mistress. If she was completely honest with herself, there was temptation there—as much as she disliked some of his values and attitudes, her pulse quickens when she looked upon his form. She was never going to regret knowing what he looks like with his clothes off, or what if feels like to be with him. The close space of the carriage did tend to draw her attention to the more physical parts of him; his lovely hands rests upon the muscles of his thighs.

  Every time those thoughts popped into her mind she flatly dismissed them because she knew that if she let things continue in that direction, it was only get harder and harder to say no. Better to cut that intimacy off completely. The ties between them were weakening with Edna’s passing, and it was best not to build further on the ties that still existed.

  “The service will start at 10.30 tomorrow,” he interrupted her thoughts. The whole idea of the funeral saddened her—tomorrow was not going to be a fun day. She looked over at him; he was consuming his meal with steady precision. She wondered if he even enjoyed his meals—not that she was particularly enjoying it. It didn’t matter what it tasted like, she was just disinterested in eating, but she tried her best. She would only feel worse if she was weak from lack of nourishment.

  After she’d had as much as she could tolerate, she bid goodnight and withdrew to the room that had been her sanctuary for most of her life.

  He waited downstairs for her the next day. She was running behind slightly, but it was not the day to admonish her for her punctuality. The just audible rustle of her skirts told him that she was on her way. He still felt unused to seeing her in the stark black mourning dresses; it just highlighted the fact that there was something wrong.

  He offered her his arm and guided her toward the carriage. He’d been up early this morning, making sure that everything was ready and where it should be. If anything went wrong, he would take it personally. It would also really grate him to see disappointment in her eyes, which was a contradictory sentiment as he had gone out of his way to disappoint her otherwise. He supposed that he wouldn’t like having his organisational skills called into question.

  The carriage ride was short and silent—they weren’t going far. She’d brought the small black parasol, which might actually have been a good sentiment because the day was grey. It was not entirely impossible that it might rain before the day was through. Rain did suit funerals.

  The service was short and concise, just as he had demanded. It was given by a Reverend Hopkins, a new member to the parish since his childhood. It was clear that this Reverend and Amelia knew each other. The young man was profusely sorry for her loss and tried to comfort her with a steady hold of her hand. It annoyed him—as did the sweet smile she gave the man, a smile he had not seen before.

  A smattering of people attended, including seemingly the parish’s full complement of elderly ladies. They congregated around Amelia at the end and he could only stand aside. The actual internment would be more private, just the two of them and the puerile Reverend. They were to have tea with the Reverend and his wife while the necessary logistics were being seen to.

  If he could have wished for the day to be over, he would have done so now. Sitting to tea with the Reverend and his wife was not to his taste—then again relatively little was these days. The young man’s wife was charming in an artless kind of way. She had large blue eyes and mousy brown hair. They were seemly a devoted couple, nauseatingly how polite to each other, even smiling when they reached for the same scone. He wished for a large glass of whiskey, but had to make do with some very mediocre tea.

  Amelia looked the best she did all day. She been very drawn throughout the service, but she had kept her composure to his eternal relief. She liked this couple, he could tell. She watched everything they did like she was studying them. Suddenly in dawned on him, this was what she wanted—this was her view of a successful life—the two achingly naïve people in this tiny rectory. He quietly huffed to himself.

  She might be completely naïve in some respects but she was
never meant to be innocent—the way her body responded, she was made for sin. He tightened involuntary as he continued to ignore the discussion around the table. But she wanted to give that deliciously sinful body to some lightweight just like the Reverend. It offended him in every possible way.

  Mercifully, the tea ended and it was time to go back to the family grave yard—a place he hadn’t been in years. Generation of his family were buried there. People he didn’t actually think of that often. The next little while was going to be miserable; he could feel that Amelia was losing her composure. She was crying when the Reverend started reading and it only intensified.

  He did his best to steady her, and she let him. He felt a stab of rage as the Reverend tried to sooth her by rubbing her arm. He wanted to pull her away, but ended up chiding himself again for his short and unreasonable temper.

  After the first soil was thrown it was time to go. He gave the Reverend a curt nod and led her away toward the house.

  “I can’t bear it,” she said, her tears were still flowing. He hated seeing the tears and hearing crying—hated it more than probably anything. He’d hated it when his father had made his mother cry; it had happened occasionally, and he’d scarpered out of the house as soon as he could. He couldn’t walk away now, as much as he wanted to; it was his duty to see to her. He was no longer a child who could run away for the uncomfortable parts; he hadn’t been that for a long time and he’d prided himself on his ability to face anything. He would face this as well.

  They had walked about half way to the house when it started raining heavily. It couldn’t just have waited another ten minutes? Her little parasol was not going to protect her much, let alone give him any protection. They took shelter underneath the thick foliage of a tall pine and placed his arms around her, trying to keep her steady and protected from the rain.