With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  His eyes were so tender that I had to bite my lip and look away. The idea of having a child with him, absurd though it was, held an aching loveliness that momentarily transfixed me. But even to think of such a thing just compounded the danger that threatened us, and both of us ought to be on our guard. “It wasn’t that, exactly,” I said. “I think I’ve let myself become careless about the risk we’re taking. As you said, it’s dangerous to tempt the curse.”

  “When did I…?”

  “When I was sewing,” I said uncomfortably. “You remember that evening.”

  “Oh, I see. That was my temper speaking, I’m afraid, not reasoned judgment.” His eyebrows drew together quizzically. “In any case, I thought you felt that you had nothing more to fear from Gravesend, or you wouldn’t have married me.”

  “That was when I’d lost everything, or thought I had. Now… now I know I have something to lose.” I hoped he would not ask me just what this was.

  There was a silence while perhaps he contemplated what I might have meant. Finally he said, “Curse or no curse, everyone takes a risk when they open their heart. I for one don’t intend to wall my soul round with stone and iron so that I never cherish anyone again. That would be a living death—at least, it would be for me, and I think for someone like you as well.”

  “What do you mean, someone like me?”

  The pensive quality that seemed never to be far from his eyes had returned. With a faint smile he said, “You’re a passionate woman, Clara. It’s part of your beauty.”

  This was not helping matters. With something like desperation I said, “Good night, and do let me know if I may be of use should your father’s condition require it.” Before he could answer I had drawn my hand from his, slipped inside my bedroom, and shut the door firmly behind me.

  Safe. Another moment and I might have fallen headlong into the tenderness in his eyes, the caressing warmth of his voice. The unwanted thought came to me that gentleness, coupled with such a face and form, could be most seductive. I had been right to put some distance between us.

  By morning the danger would be past, I told myself: whatever luster we had gained in each other’s eyes tonight from the excitement of the ball and the pleasure of reconciliation would have died away, and we would be able to greet each other as friends, without any quickening of the pulse or too-fervent rush of pleasure at the sight of one another. Yes, friendship we could safely permit. Anything more would be too great a complication—and too great a risk.

  Suddenly my own words came back to me. All of life is a succession of risks, and each of us must judge for ourselves which risks are worth the taking. Atticus was right: I did not want to wall up my heart. Indeed, I feared it was already too late for that. But for that very reason he and I needed to find our way back to safer footing.

  If the night had ended there, the risk might have been averted. Might have, I say, but the truth is that we were probably already too far gone… and the consequences would be beyond my imagining. For Gravesend was no place for a Blackwood—by blood or marriage—to seek happiness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I tried to push Atticus out of my mind as I placed my jewelry back in its case and began undressing. My body was weary, and I looked forward with relief to the prospect of soon nestling into my soft bed. Off with the claret-red evening slippers, and I gave a glad sigh. Off with the magnificent but heavy skirt and overskirt, with their elaborate trimmings; off with the bustle petticoat with its spring-steel frame, the architecture of support for the gorgeous skirt. Off with the bodice—

  Ah. Now I had a problem.

  Unlike most of my other bodices, which followed the fashion of buttoning up the front, this one laced up the back. And try as I might, with my upper arms pinioned by the small off-the-shoulder sleeves, I could not reach around behind myself and get a purchase on the lacings. I was trapped.

  I could have rung for Henriette, but the hour was much later than that at which I usually retired; it would have meant waking her from her sleep and forcing her to rise, dress, and come to my aid after a long and busy day. I had not the heart to do that to her. Genevieve? She was probably abed herself; she had been yawning during the last two dances, although like everything else she did this so adorably that not only Mr. Bertram but many of the young blades had been watching her with yearning eyes. And her room, thanks to my own jealousy, was not close to mine; I would have to don the rest of my ensemble again for that journey.

  There was a solution close at hand, however. And though I hovered indecisively at the dressing-room door for long minutes, I knew that if I was going to ask him, I ought to do it before he, too, undressed and retired.

  The prospect of this, which would be mutually embarrassing, propelled me abruptly through the dressing room and up to Atticus’s door. I knocked briskly before I could change my mind. “Atticus? May I trouble you for a moment?” I called.

  There was a pause that might have been puzzlement. Then came the polite reply, “It’s no trouble,” and I heard his footsteps approach and then the key turn in the lock.

  Fortunately he was still dressed save for his coat, waistcoat, and tie. His eyebrows rose at the sight of me, and I knew what a peculiar sight I must be: from the waist up, still attired and coiffed for the ball; from the waist down, in under-petticoat and stocking feet. “It’s my bodice,” I said hastily. “I’m afraid I can’t unlace it myself, and it’s so late—”

  “Of course,” he said, as readily as if the request were perfectly normal. “There’s no need to disturb your maid at this hour. Come nearer the light, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped back to allow me to enter the room, but the way he favored his bad leg reminded me that it was troubling him, and I should not keep him standing. “Would you mind if I sat down?” I asked. “My feet are so sore from dancing.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and with a gesture indicated the divan near the fire; but his bed was closer, and I did not wish to make him walk more than necessary. I perched on the edge of the mattress, where the coverlet had already been turned back, half turning so that he could reach the lacing more easily, and fixed my eyes resolutely on the bedpost. This would not take long, and then we could both retire—and Atticus, in particular, needed the rest.

  I thought he hesitated for a moment, but then I felt the mattress sink as he sat next to me. “Would you mind moving your hair out of the way?” he asked, the words startlingly close to my ear, and I gathered up the long ringlets and held them against my head as he set about finding where the end of the lace was tucked in at the top of my bodice and drawing it out.

  He worked gently, and in silence; I was aware of the faint feathering of his breath against my neck, and there was no sound but the sibilance of the cord being drawn through one eyelet and then the next. Gradually I could feel the bodice easing open. Somehow my breathing seemed to have become strained, at least to my own ears; it was the only other sound I could hear besides cord against fabric, and I cast about for something to talk about that would prevent Atticus from becoming aware of it. There should have been a hundred pleasantries at hand, a thousand observations about the ball. Yet not a one came to mind.

  “You may let your hair down now,” he said presently, and I did so, realizing that he was almost finished. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought that he was working more slowly.

  “Thank you for doing this,” I said lamely. “And thank you for the gown as well. It’s quite beautiful.”

  “You’re quite beautiful in it. And out of it as well.”

  I was still trying to decide whether he was teasing when I felt the last constraint of the bodice give way, and realized that he was done. Then, even through the sturdy coutil of my stays, I could feel his hands poise at either side of my waist. His voice sounded slightly breathless when he asked, “Do you need me to unlace your corset as well?”

  “No, there’s no need. It hooks in the front.” My own voice was strangely husky,
and I cleared my throat. “Thank you again. It was most kind of you.”

  This time he said nothing. I waited for my body to rise, walk to the door, and return to my room. I continued to wait, but it did no such thing. Why was I not going? But when I did move, his hands tightened ever so slightly on my waist.

  “Clara,” he said. It was a hoarse whisper.

  I could not read that one word; I must see his face and know what was in his mind—or his heart. Slowly I turned my head and found myself gazing into his eyes. His eyes had always been the most soulful I had ever seen, and now as he gazed at me there was something in them that made me raise my hand and place it against his cheek—and then draw his face down toward mine.

  That first kiss was like wine after years of thirst, even more so for being a thirst I had not known was in me. Then he was kissing me with soft, slow kisses that melted my bones and woke shivers all over the surface of my skin, deep luscious kisses that coaxed my lips apart and made me feel faint, but deliciously so. I was vividly conscious of every sensation, every thudding heartbeat, every soft exhalation of his breath mingling with mine, the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms holding me.

  Then he raised his head, and the clear blue of his eyes had never been so breathtaking. He said softly, “Clara, be with me tonight. As my wife.”

  For a long moment I made no answer, and there was no sound but our breathing. At last I nodded, and instantly overcome with shyness, bowed my head.

  But his hand cupped my chin and raised it so that he could look into my eyes again. Stroking my hair back from my face with his other hand, he whispered, “I need to hear you say it.”

  I swallowed. I waited for my brain to awaken, to present a reason I should not do this. It was silent. I looked into his face—into my husband’s face—and knew only that I felt closer to him than to anyone on earth, and wanted to be closer still, to comfort him and bring him delight… and be comforted and delighted in my turn.

  “I will stay with you,” I said, in a voice that was very low so that it would be steady. “As your wife.”

  After a silent moment he took my left hand, the one wearing his ring, from where it rested against his cheek. With a curious solemnity he brought it to his lips. Then, gently but inexorably, he bore me back onto the bed.

  I do not know how much time passed, or how many kisses—first light teasing ones that made me strain toward him and curl my hand around his neck to draw him closer; then soft nuzzling kisses as if he were tasting my lips, growing deeper and still deeper, searching and masterful, until the heat of languor was drugging me. But at the same time my skin was sensitized, so much so that when his hand stroked my bare arm and shoulder I shuddered at the loveliness of it; never had anything, no silk or satin or velvet, felt as sweet against my skin as did his touch. When his lips left mine to trail down my throat, a feeling of beautiful rightness descended on me, a golden certainty that this was unfolding as it was destined to.

  Then he drew the bodice of my gown away and laid it aside. There came a gentle tug at the front of my chemise as he took one end of the ribbon tie and drew it toward him, untying the bow that fastened the drawstring. The ribbon loosened, and his fingertips touched my skin.

  Abruptly memory crashed in on me, and I gasped. My hand flew to cover what he had laid bare, but it was too late. He had drawn the violet from its hiding place and now gazed at it wonderingly.

  It was as if Richard had appeared and laid a sword between us. Suddenly we two were not alone in the bed, and I was shamed and furious at myself for having been the one to bring the ghost of this intruder upon us. Even though Atticus could not know what the flower meant, I felt as guilty as if I had struck him.

  But it did mean something to him, I saw. Something blazed into his eyes—something that was not anger.

  “You remembered,” he said softly.

  My mind was still hazy from the spell of his touch, and I did not understand at once. “Of course I remember,” I said foolishly. “But how could you know of it? He wouldn’t have told you…”

  Only then did comprehension break upon me. The delicious languor of moments ago evaporated, and a cold shock surged through my veins.

  “It was you,” I whispered. Queasiness roiled my stomach, and I scrambled off the bed and backed away. “You had the violet put on my pillow. It was you, that day in the folly. Not Richard.”

  Now it was his turn for confusion. “I thought you knew,” he said. “I was certain you’d realized it was me and not him. When my father made me kiss you the other evening, you said…”

  There was an imploring note in his voice but also what sounded like pity, and I rejected it. I had backed away until my body was against a wall, and I shut my eyes to escape the sight of him. “How could you do such a thing to me? You made me think I could trust you, and all the time you hid this. Was it a prank, something to laugh over—the time you fooled Richard’s stupid sweetheart into your arms?”

  “It was no prank.” His voice was stronger, and even with my eyes shut I could tell from the sound that he was rising from the bed and coming closer. “I only meant to keep you from being hurt. Richard told me he wouldn’t be meeting you that day, that he was keeping an appointment with another woman.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Listen to me, my love.” His words were rapid, urgent, but I turned my face away, trying not to hear. “Richard was deceiving you. I knew you’d be heartbroken if you learned that you were only… that you weren’t his only sweetheart. So yes, I pretended to be him.”

  “You kissed me. You…” The memory of him unbuttoning my dress as my younger self lay there, innocent and trusting, sent another chill through me. “You took advantage of my trust.”

  “Clara, I’m sorry. It wasn’t calculated.” His voice sounded so sincere, but I would never be able to trust his sincerity again. “Partly I was trying to convince you I was Richard, and—”

  “Partly? So you were only partly betraying my trust.”

  “Please listen.” His hands closed on my bare shoulders, and I shoved him violently away.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  His bad leg buckled under him, and he almost fell. But he regained his footing and approached me again, more cautiously this time. He came so close that, although he did not touch me, meeting his gaze gave me an almost physical jolt, and I averted my eyes. “Clara,” he whispered. “I was in love with you.”

  “You were no such thing. You just wanted to take something from Richard. To feel that you’d won something that was his.” Hot tears were starting down my cheeks, and that added humiliation was more than I felt I could bear. I darted away from him and looked wildly around for the discarded bodice of my red gown, swiping at the traitorous tears.

  “That isn’t true,” he exclaimed. “Or if it is, it’s only a part of the truth. It killed me to see how little he valued your love.”

  I snatched up my bodice from the bed and plunged toward the door, but I could not escape the horrible words. His voice went on, steady and relentless.

  “He was a libertine, and no matter how much it hurts you to hear it, it’s time you knew the truth. He had other women.”

  “Stop it!”

  My shout startled us both into immobility, and we stood facing each other for a moment. In that tense and jagged silence the only sound was our breathing, which was as labored as if we had been trading physical blows. And then came the sound of running feet.

  We’ve awakened one of the guests, I thought numbly, but the pounding at the door was too urgent to be from that source. “Mr. Blackwood!” came a muffled voice, and I recognized the voice as Brutus’s.

  Atticus did not move at once. He was still staring at me, awaiting a response. Only when Brutus renewed his tattoo on the door and shouted again did he rap out in reply, “What is it?”

  “Lord Telford is worse, sir. I think we should send for the doctor.”

  The words woke Atticus from his trance. He strode to
the door and opened it—a crack merely, so that I would not be seen in my state of undress. “Saddle one of the horses and go fetch him here,” he directed the valet. “I’ll watch over Father in the meantime.”

  “I ought to stay with him,” came the protest.

  “My God, man, do you want to stand here quibbling while my father may be dying? You’re already awake and dressed, which puts you that much closer to the doctor than any of the other servants are. I told you, I’ll stay with my father. I can do as much as you can to make him comfortable.”

  “Very good, sir.” The reply was grudging, but the footsteps receded with alacrity.

  I came to myself. Before Atticus had time to close the door and turn back to me, I had darted through the dressing room and back into my own bedchamber. I slammed the connecting door and turned the key in the lock just as I heard his footsteps in pursuit.

  “Clara—”

  “Go away,” I said childishly. “Your father needs you.”

  A moment’s silence. Then, heavily, “We’ll talk later, when he’s out of danger.”

  I made no reply. After a second more, his footsteps slowly retreated. In another few moments I heard the door that led from his chamber to the hallway close, and I went limp in sudden reaction, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

  My mind could scarcely hold the realization that Atlas had betrayed me all those years ago. I had trusted him—with my body as well as my heart—and he had let me believe it was Richard I was trusting, that it was Richard whose love for me held his desire in check. That single perfect afternoon, my talisman for all my life after, my absolute proof that no matter how others might slander him, Richard was a true and tender and honorable lover… shattered, stolen from me.

  Now the beliefs that I had cherished for so many years were thrown into uncertainty. Had Richard truly loved me as I had him? That afternoon in the folly I had felt so enfolded by his love, lifted and buoyed on it as by the ocean, yet that love had been a charade. The house had already stolen Richard from me; now Atlas, with his devastating confession, had stolen my certainty of Richard’s love. I’d thought I had nothing left to give Gravesend, but the curse, greedy for more of my suffering, had found something that remained to rob me of.