by Terry Long
He sat down beside her. “Your grandmother…well, what I mean to say is that…she must have been—”
“They were happy thoughts,” she hurried to say. Victor looked relieved and she offered him a smile. “She was very sick. I wouldn’t wish for her to remain with me while in any sort of pain.”
Victor took a deep breath as if to calm himself.
“And I have properly grieved for her,” she continued as she clasped her cloak tighter around herself. “I’ve let her go peacefully…and I…” she cleared her throat when she felt a firm ball begin to form there.
“It’s all right, Ally, you don’t need to explain.”
“No, I want to.” She forced a smile and nodded to stress that she really was all right speaking of Nana. In fact, she felt as if she needed to. “You know, I prayed to God and to all who listens up there,” she said tilting her face to the dark sky, “that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I wish to be my grandmother’s granddaughter again.”
“Ally…”
Victor’s hand brushed across her face, and she stiffened at the touch. She hadn’t known a tear had escaped until she felt Victor’s fingers.
“I’m sorry. I should not cry. I said I have properly grieved, and here I am,” she said forcing a laugh. She turned to Victor, trying to see how uncomfortable she’d probably made him.
She lost her words when he returned her gaze with a smoldering one- one that was all too familiar. She swallowed audibly and averted her face, hopeful that he’d quit looking at her as if he longed for her. “Will it rain tonight, do you suppose?”
Victor took one of her hands with such gentleness, and clasped it in his. She felt the urge to run like a Welshman.
“Marry me,” he blurted.
“Mr. Langdon.” She believed he’d already ended this silly notion of marrying her. She tried to pry her hand out of his, but he resisted.
“I can make you happy, Ally, I know that I can. I’ll do anything you want. We can return to the Continent. We can start a wonderful family together. I just want—” He stopped when she began to shake her head. “Please, just consider it.”
“I cannot. I’m…I’m very sorry.” She couldn’t look at him in the eyes, so she cast her gaze to her other hand, where it clutched the edge of her seat. “You’re so wonderful to me. But like your brother has said, you deserve a woman who—”
“Don’t say it,” he bit out, causing her head to snap up. His expression was that of pure disappointment. The sparks that regularly danced in his eyes, lighting up his face were no longer there. A dim, hollow sullenness took its place instead, tugging at her heart.
“I don’t know what else to say.
“Say, yes.” His dark eyes appeared to plead, expecting empathy, causing Ally to avert her gaze again.
She felt awful for inflicting pain to someone so sincere and honest, and simply good. And she hated herself for not being able to adore someone who loved her. But Victor was worthy of a woman who could return his affections. He deserved a woman who was pure, and flawless, and innocent…unlike herself.
She had been married to his brother, whose face she had seen countless times each night. She’d been married to man who made her heart heavy when he was close, as well as when he was far, a man who was capable of imprisoning her very soul when all he had to do was steadily hold her gaze. Ally shut her eyes when the image of him invaded her senses. She shook her head to get him out of her head.
“Do you love him?”
Her gaze found Victor’s searching ones. Ally opened her mouth to respond—to deny—but nothing came out. She tried again, and this time, a sound much like a frog croaking escaped her throat.
Do I love Michael Langdon?
No. She would never love a man who…who took it upon himself to ride hours each day for a sennight, determined for her pardon. Ally’s breath caught in her throat, and she tried to suppress the growing pain, but to no avail. Michael. The man whose kisses enthralled her sanity, whose gentle whispers and tender caresses captivated her mind, body, and soul- yes, she loved him. But he did not love her.
“You love him.” It was no longer a question.
Hearing it spoken out loud made it all the worse, made it deafening. “I’ve tried not to, but—” She paused to swallow the lump in her throat and realized the hot tears that stung her like a whip down her cheeks. She wiped them away with trembling hands. “I can’t do it.” Her body wracked with tremors. Whether it came from the cold wind or from the bitter truth, she’d finally admitted, she’d never know.
In one simple movement, Victor gathered her into his arms.
“I don’t know why, but I’ve tried so hard not to—”
“Shh...It’s all right, Ally.”
“I remind myself that he is no good. But, I know it’s a lie, because…because I know that he is good. And I don’t want to love him.” She shook her head. “I just want—I want…” She sobbed uncontrollably into Victor’s coat, and he tightened his arms around her. “I’m so sorry. It should have been you. It should have—”
“This love business, it’s unsettling, isn’t it?” he said in a tranquil voice over her head as he gently petted her hair. “Its power is a great deal stronger than our minds. Sometimes…”
He paused for a long while until Ally believed he wasn’t going to elaborate on the complexity of his explanation. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t, because apparently this was as hard for Victor as it was for her, but to her chagrin, he went on.
“Sometimes, we can’t order our hearts to love, nor can we order it not to love a particular person. Its will is greater than ours, I imagine.”
Victor said no more, only tightening his arms, and crushing her against him as Ally wept tears for his brother.
***
She didn’t know how loud she’d cried until she stopped, and when the only noise she heard were the bare branches outside whipping against the wind. Ally buried her face into her pillow. How disconcerting it was for her to admit that she loved Michael. She loved him so much. And all he felt for her was pity.
That night, Ally stayed in complete darkness in her chamber, trying to summon his face again. That was never hard to do. She saw it easily when she closed her eyes.
There was his dark face, his square jaw, a pair of dark eyes, his wide-set mouth…
No. She shook her head. She was doing this all wrong.
His twinkling, humorous eyes. His prickly jaw. His soft, generous mouth. His kisses. His warm, giving body…
Ally’s eyes flew open, and the image of Michael’s face promptly vanished.
How was she to fall asleep now?
Chapter Twenty- Eight
If Michael thought leaving to Brooks and getting sotted with his acquaintances over hands of vingt-et-un a splendid idea, he was vastly mistaken. Everyone, it seemed, was on a grand mission to annoy the hell out of him.
First, his butler with his list of questions had Michael glowering. He didn’t need to give his accounting to anyone, and most certainly, not his butler. He gave Matthews a piece of his mind before embarking on the evening of pilfering his comrades’ gaming funds.
Then it was his coachman who asked if he planned on staying long, mentioning something about the horses. Michael had given him a setback as well.
Upon entering Brooks, an inebriated Viscount of Wescott walked right into him, spilling a glass of whatever the hell was in it, onto his boots.
Then it was Havenbrook, who had tugged at him by the elbow, muttering something about avoiding altercation. Hell, all he’d wanted to do was ask Wescott if the bloody man was blind not to have seen him.
Several glasses of brandy later, Michael still sat at the hazard table. Those fleeting glances from his friends grew quite bothersome to say the least. After innumerable glares at them, none of which seemed to discourage them a bit, he took a hearty drink. “What the bleeding devil is it?”
“Nothing,” two of them said smirking.
Michael looked
at the others, and all but one shrugged nonchalantly in answer. “What is it, Arlington?” he very nearly growled.
The Earl chuckled. “I must learn to glower like that.”
Damnation! Michael threw back the remaining contents of his glass. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Right,” someone said in a guttural voice. After taking a seat right beside him and stammering, “Let’s g-get on w-with it th-then,” Michael knew it was Baron Avenly without having to turn his head. Michael looked up at Havenbrook to see the Viscount looking for another hazard table, his eyes darting from one end of the establishment to the other.
“M-my, it’s warm in here,” Avenly said to no one in particular. Everyone averted their gazes from the Baron. He turned to Michael then and slapped him on his shoulder. “I’d s-say, it’s q-quite s-stifling in here, don’t you t-think?”
Michael turned to him, struggling for some control. No one could stand the doddering, nonesuch fop. The Baron was a useless fool who fell into his money when he managed to outlive four of his cousins for the title. However, nothing disturbed Michael more than hearing the man beat his baroness before putting her through the carnal act. And this came from the man, himself, while drowned deep in his cups.
The Baron quit his futile muttering, but apparently, he thought it would be all right to go ahead and slap Michael on his shoulder again.
“I swear to you, Avenly, if you do that again, I’ll give you back twice as much.”
The man threw his head back and chortled with laughter, turning more than a few heads their way. A little part of Michael actually anticipated putting a fist to his round, red face. He gave the Baron a tight smile, daring him to slap his back again.
And Baron Avenly did.
Michael grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him from his chair. He got in one solid punch, and the blasted Baron fell unconscious. “Get up, you bloody fool! I am not finished with you yet!”
“What the hell are you doing, Langdon?” Lord Penn grabbed him by the elbow, giving him one good shove. Michael stumbled backwards a few steps, but caught his footing.
“Ho, when’d you get here?” he asked. He could have been slurring, but he wasn’t certain.
Penn ignored his question and took to glaring at him.
Michael grinned.
“Are you mad?” Havenbrook demanded, materializing at his side. “Do you know what could happen to you?”
Just as he asked that, two men clad in identical livery strode to them. They regarded the Baron who lay crumpled on the floor and lifted their gazes to Michael.
Michael laughed. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t want to do that to him, yourself.” Both the men showed no amusement to that comment. He smirked. “You’re both probably just as dim and cockbrained-”
“We were just leaving,” Penn said, shoving Michael behind him. “I will see that my physician will personally see to Baron Avenly’s er…misfortune.” He pressed a few coins into one of the men’s hand. “My carriage is parked in the front.”
Havenbrook added a few more coins. “If I remember correctly, the Baron lost his footing.” He gave the men a knowing glance.
“Of course, my lord. We’ll see to him right away,” one of them said to Penn and Havenbrook with a slight bow. Then he turned to Michael. “Good evening, sir.” They both rotated at the same time to heed to the bloodied Baron who sprawled on the gleaming floor.
A few gentlemen observed the affair with amusement, looking as though they welcomed the distraction, while others looked irritated by the slight interruption, and quickly returned their attention to their games.
Penn turned to frown at Michael. “Proud of yourself?” he hissed under his breath.
Michael offered him a grin he couldn’t seem to contain. “Knocked him out with one punch. Damn right I’m proud of myself. He has to weigh at least two stone heavier than I.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” Havenbrook said, flashing him a wide smile.
Penn sighed with apparent exasperation and pointed to the exit. “That way.”
The next morning when his mind cleared, Michael began to miss Ally all over again. He decided he couldn’t take the misery much longer, and felt the need to have her like the air he breathed. He wanted to hold her, and hug her, and kiss her, and he wanted to do other agreeable things to her.
After he’d cast up his brandy consumption from the previous night, he ordered Matthews for more. It was easier to be unconscious rather than yearn for someone he couldn’t have, for someone who despised him. Hell, she’d ordered him away from her! She was not a nice young lady. No, she was cruel and unkind, and God, he loved her.
Michael shut his eyes at the sting of the brandy’s descent down his aching throat. It felt as if someone sliced it repeatedly with a dagger. It burned like the very devil. But he refused to quit drinking the warm liquid.
To have Ally here again would be wonderful. It would be beyond wonderful, it would be extraordinary. He’d worship her, shower her with tender kisses, caresses, and one day…one day, she’d forgive him and return his love. They’d be happy together. He’d give her children. Lots of them. He knew Ally would like that. She’d be a wonderful mother and a wonderful wife. And he’d be whole again. Hell, he’d be alive again.
His last thoughts were ones that had a great deal to do with Ally’s nakedness before everything turned to total darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Damn it!
Michael’s fingertips groped along the floor of his bedchamber, trying to locate the crystal decanter that slipped from his hand. Lying face down on his bed, it proved a tricky task to uncover it, but hell, he couldn’t summon enough strength to sit up and look for it properly.
When he cracked open his eyes, the fire raging in his hearth made him wince. Was it night again already? The pungent scents of cedar and a nutty tang filled his nostrils, causing him to grimace. Blast it all! Most of the scotch had probably sluiced out by now. He muttered another curse at the perfectly good liquor that had gone to waste.
Footsteps sounded outside his door. Matthews. He swore if his meddlesome butler came through that door, he’d…ask him to bring in more liquor.
“Matthews, my good man! Get your arse in here.” He managed to say all that before his energy had worn out, and his head began a steady throb. He let his face fall forward and he shut his eyes. “Matthews. More. Scotch,” he muffled into his mattress.
Outside his door, he heard incoherent speech for a while, and then finally more clearly, “I’m having a hard time following, Matthews.” Victor’s voice. “You’re telling me that my brother has adamantly confined himself to his chambers now?”
Michael groaned. Please, not so loud. The pounding in his skull didn’t relent.
“Yes, sir,” Matthews said. “He consumes nothing but his liquor. I’ve tried to water them before, but milord knows it. He exerts himself into quite an angry state, and I cannot have him worked up as such. It frightens the staff members.”
Of course I knew! That Matthews! Michael wanted to get up and shove away the two chaps bickering at his door so they might go shout elsewhere, but he hadn’t the strength to move.
“Go on,” Victor drawled in a tone laced with superiority. Where had that come from?
“Each time milord orders for a new decanter, I bargain with him to finish his meal. He never does,” his butler related on a disapproving voice. “Not only is he drinking to oblivion each time he wakes, but milord now refuses to see to anything. He refuses all callers. He’s being careless, I’m afraid. Why, just Tuesday, he marched into the stalls, led a stallion out, and rode bareback at a deathly pace. He gave me the impression he coveted suicide over life, sir. I wouldn’t put it beneath him to try that again.”
“Is that right?”
“And, sir, that’s not all. I’ve called for the doctor to take a look at his condition, but milord threatened to kill him, sir. The doctor!”
Michael could practically hear his butler
rolling his eyes. He grinned at the memory. He’d never seen anyone cover so much ground so quickly.
“I see,” Victor said, sounding like he couldn’t believe any of it. “Anything else?”
“Sir, I’m afraid he is unwell, but there is no way I could send for help. I’ve deliberated sending for another doctor, but I am quite certain that whoever walks in there will turn right back around. You see, it’s the look on milord’s face.”
Michael scowled, though his butler couldn’t see it.
His door opened.
“How long have you been up here?” Victor asked, his voice holding a more somber note than it had sounded outside.
It took Michael a rather long time to be able to sit up in the midst of his crumpled bed sheets. “That depends on what day it is.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Hmm…” Rubbing his stubble, Michael answered truthfully. “I still don’t have the damnest clue.”
“I gathered as much.” Victor propped on the opposite side of the bed and regarded him in such a way that he frowned. “I haven’t been here for more than a month, and you don’t care to ask? Before, all the time it took for you to come bursting through my door was merely a sennight of absence.”
Michael did all he could to keep the nauseating sensation down. His room twirled. He shut his eyes and tried to shake it off, but the action only promised more queasiness.
“In case you’re wondering,” Victor began, “I went to—”
“I don’t want to know,” Michael cut in. Panic rose, threatening to pop each vein in his body. “Please…don’t tell me.” He shook his head, letting his gaze fall to his hands that now gripped the crumpled bed sheet, further wrinkling it.
Striving to remain calm, he took deep, long breaths. When that failed to help, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood, gradual in his actions. The sheets entangled around his ankles, causing him to stagger. After regaining his balance, he irritably tossed the cotton covering onto the floor, close enough to the hearth to almost catch fire, before stumbling to the windows.
