After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  Marcus heard a gasp, but could not tell whether it had come from the countess or Miss Sheringham.

  “My only regret,” Julian said as he looked into Miss Sheringham’s eyes, “is that I cannot stay and marry you now, Eliza. I offer you the protection of my name while I am gone. And I look forward to making you my wife when I return.”

  He turned to leave, but Miss Sheringham called him back. “Julian!”

  Marcus watched her cross to Julian, put her hands on either side of his face to draw his mouth down to hers, and kiss him tenderly on the lips.

  Something twisted painfully inside him. He could not seem to catch his breath. It was as though someone were squeezing his chest and would not let go.

  “Goodbye, Julian. God be with you.”

  Julian managed a smile. “Do not fear, poppet. I will come back safe to you.”

  He was gone a moment later.

  Miss Sheringham turned to stare at Marcus. He had never seen such a tormented look in his life.

  The earl and countess stood protectively on either side of her. He wanted to explain why he could not marry her, that it was nothing to do with her, but a failing in him. He could never trust a woman, not even her. But whatever he wanted to say would have to be said in front of the sheltering couple. And he could not—would not—lay his heart open to anyone but her.

  He settled for what could be said.

  “Goodbye, Miss Sheringham. I cannot offer much to allay the trouble I have caused you, except to say I will protect Julian with my life. I wish you joy together.”

  He did not expect a reply. He had pivoted to leave when he heard her whisper.

  “It was not there, Captain. I looked, but it was not there.”

  He hesitated, swallowed over the aching lump in his throat, and walked away.

  AFTER THE KISS

  The Beast of Blackthorne

  Chapter 12

  “Uncle Marcus is crying,” Reggie whispered.

  “How do you know?” Becky whispered back.

  They lay flat on their stomachs in the dark, heedless of the damage being done to their matching shifts by the damp, moldy stone floor. Uncle Marcus had been hiding out in the east wing of Blackthorne Abbey for nearly a year, refusing to receive them. Today they had decided to see him, whether he wanted to be seen, or not.

  Getting in through the door had proved impossible, with Griggs blocking the way. They had been reduced to spying on Uncle Marcus through an ornate wrought iron grate set in the wall of the drawing room.

  The narrow black grate, which traveled from floor to ceiling, looked merely decorative from their uncle’s side of the gray stone wall, but it concealed the presence of a room on the other side that could be reached only through a secret passageway.

  They had first discovered the mazelike corridors that honeycombed the stone walls of Blackthorne Abbey three years ago when they were mere babes of six. Within moments of entering the narrow passageway from a bedroom in their wing of the Abbey, they had been hopelessly lost in the coal black labyrinth. When their father found them hours later, near where they were now, weeping and scared out of their wits by cobwebs and crawling creatures, they had been more than willing to promise never to enter the passageway again.

  That had been a long time ago. Dire situations required dangerous solutions. For the first time in nearly a year they they were able to see their uncle, and were shocked by what they had found.

  Uncle Marcus was crying.

  Becky peered through the iron grate, listening carefully for a grown-up version of the sobs or whimpers or wails that normally accompanied crying. “I don’t hear anything, Reggie.”

  “No. But he is crying, all the same. I can see a tear on his cheek,” Reggie said. “Do you think he is remembering Father and wishing he were here?”

  “Perhaps,” Becky conceded in a quiet voice. “Miss Stipple said this morning that it is exactly one year today since Father disappeared at sea. And eleven months and thirteen days since Uncle Marcus came home from Waterloo so horribly wounded and disappeared into this ‘decayed, dilapidated, and decrepit’ wing of Blackthorne Abbey.”

  Becky mimicked the haughty tones of their latest governess perfectly as she continued, “ ‘The new duke might as well have drowned with his brother, as little use as he is to you children or anyone else.’ ”

  Becky exchanged a resolute look with Reggie. They had let Miss Stipple know such feelings were not appreciated in the most direct way they knew. Reggie had filled her plate full of breakfast foods from the sideboard and “accidentally” spilled it in Miss Stipple’s lap on the way to her seat. Becky had jumped up from her place at the table to help Miss Stipple clean up the mess. And easily managed to spread shirred eggs and porridge and a heaping spoon of jelly onto her face and into her hair.

  Miss Stipple had immediately retired to her room, swearing they were “devils” and no one could control them, and as soon as she could find another position, she was “departing this madhouse!”

  “We must do something to get Uncle Marcus to come out of hiding,” Reggie said. “Otherwise, we are going to end up with another of those horrid governesses.”

  Becky put a hand to Reggie’s mouth. “Shh! Uncle Marcus will hear you.”

  Reggie pried Becky’s hand away and hissed, “Maybe I want him to hear! Maybe I want him to—”

  Both girls held their breath as their uncle frowned in the direction of their hiding place. He sat slouched in one of two wingback chairs that faced the mammoth fireplace.

  Becky had never seen Uncle Marcus when he did not look top-of-the-trees. Until now.

  He wore no jacket, and several buttons were open at the neck, revealing a tuft of golden hair at his throat. His white shirt points were long past wilted, and his neck cloth dangled, half untied. Fawn pants fit like a second skin, but showed stains where he must have spilled his drink. His booted feet—where was the spit-polish shine?—extended before him, crossed at the ankle.

  The heavy black curtains over the windows made daylight dark as night, and the flickering flames cast an eerie shadow on his face. Nevertheless, with his head angled toward them, part of the scar on his face became visible above a heavy beard and the Brutus cut he had allowed to grow wild.

  No one would have recognized this man as the Beau.

  Becky saw the dread on Reggie’s face and knew her own expression must be equally distressed. It was impossible to look at Uncle Marcus without wincing. One imagined one’s own pain at the infliction of such a terrible wound.

  The distortion at the edge of his right eye from the slashing sabre cut was not nearly as bad now as it had been before the wound healed. But every time Becky saw the remaining scars, she remembered the horror of the fresh wound, instead of seeing the thin, almost white, spider web of lines that were all that remained to mark his pain.

  In the first days after Uncle Marcus had returned to Blackthorne Abbey, the maids and grooms and footmen were forever gasping and averting their eyes when they caught sight of him. The maid-of-all-work screamed and fainted dead away. Uncle Marcus could have dismissed them. Instead, he had taken himself from their sight.

  Little remained of the fun-loving uncle they had known. His eyes were hooded, his mouth—what Becky could see beneath the dark golden beard—was grim. The beard hid part of the thin white line that trailed from his eye, down his cheek past the edge of his mouth, all the way to his chin. He reminded her of a thunderstorm, dark and menacing, hovering ominously overhead, waiting for the right time and place to strike.

  When Uncle Marcus’s gaze returned at last to the crackling fire, Becky breathed a sigh of relief. She reached over to touch Reggie’s arm to reassure her their hiding place had not been detected.

  They watched together as, with his good right hand, their uncle traced the pheasant in flight etched on the brandy decanter that sat on the table between the two wingback chairs. His black-gloved left hand rested palm up on the arm of the chair, the fingers frozen in place like
an upside-down spider missing a few legs.

  Griggs, who had lost his right arm at Waterloo, had brought Uncle Marcus the refilled decanter not five minutes past, protesting, “You should not be drinkin’ so much brandy, Your Grace.”

  In a slurred voice Uncle Marcus had replied, “Then next time bring me a bottle of port.”

  Griggs made an unpleasant sound and said in sarcastic tones, “By all means, Your Grace.”

  “Don’t call me that! I don’t want my brother’s title or the honors that go with it. Alastair can swim like a fish. The three sailors who survived said they saw him safe into the water before his ship went down. If they made it safely to the coast of Scotland, he did, too. I have no idea what is keeping him away, but mark my words, my brother is alive. I have no right to be Duke of Blackthorne.”

  “Nevertheless, Your Grace, it’s duke you are. And a sodden one at that, if I may be so bold as to say it.”

  “When did you ever let rank stop you from speaking your mind?” Uncle Marcus retorted.

  “If you want the truth, here it is,” Griggs said. “I thought better of you than what I’ve seen, Captain. You lost your brother to the sea, and Major Sheringham in a battle that claimed too many old friends.”

  Griggs refused to let Uncle Marcus interrupt. “It was not your fault the major died, despite what you think. There was nothin’ you could’ve done to save him.”

  “I could have fought at his side.”

  Griggs gave a Gallic shrug. “He did not want you there.”

  “That was my fault, too!”

  “Blame yourself, if you must,” Griggs said. “But there is no changin’ what happened. You could not save your friend from harm, Captain. And this time, sad to say, he could not save you, either.”

  Uncle Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. “Miss Sheringham will never be married now, never have a husband to care for her, or children to hold in her arms,” he said in a voice so soft Becky had to strain to hear it. “That is my fault, too.”

  “You could many her yourself.”

  Uncle Marcus turned to Griggs, a look of such agony on his face that Becky nearly cried out to him. Reggie’s palm trapped the sound before it escaped. She met Reggie’s eyes and nodded that she was all right, and her sister released her.

  Griggs laid a hand on Uncle Marcus’s shoulder and said, “Miss Sheringham has been livin’ with her aunt in the home she inherited from her father. There’s no reason why you couldn’t—”

  “It is impossible.” Her uncle lurched from the chair, as much to escape the comfort Griggs offered, Becky thought, as from his own restlessness.

  “Miss Sheringham did not want me when I was the Beau. She would never have me like this.”

  Griggs’s voice turned gruff. “The Beau you will never be again. But the world did not end when you lost your beauteous looks, Captain. I never believed they mattered to you, but I see I was wrong.”

  “If I were not—”

  “You are still a whole man, with arms and legs and a face—scarred though it may be. That is more than many another came home with,” Griggs charged, angling his body so Uncle Marcus could not fail to see the empty sleeve where his jacket was pinned up.

  Becky could not even imagine living life without one of her hands. She needed them both to paint and to play the piano and to write her wonderful stories. Griggs had used his right hand to fight, but the war with Boney was over and both men had left the army. Griggs had learned how to manage his duties as her uncle’s valet—not so different from those as his batman—with the hand he had left.

  Uncle Marcus’s shoulders slumped, and his head fell forward in defeat. “I admire your courage, Griggs. I wish I had some of it.”

  “You never lacked courage before, Captain. If only you would—”

  Uncle Marcus whirled, completely exposing his scarred face and gnarled hand. “I am a monster, Griggs! The Beast of Blackthorne.”

  Becky was afraid to breathe in the silence that followed her uncle’s anguished admission. It hurt to swallow over the frog-size lump that grew in her throat.

  Griggs opened his mouth to protest, but this time Uncle Marcus cut him off.

  “I know what everyone says behind my back. I know how hideous I look.”

  “I expect not, Your Grace, since you haven’t allowed a lookin’ glass in this wing of the abbey since you came here. The wound has healed. It is not nearly so bad—”

  “A beast belongs in a cave, Griggs. Here I will stay.”

  “What about the children, Your Grace? Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca have been asking to see you.”

  Becky risked a glance at Reggie to see if she was paying attention and found her sister staring back at her with a look of pain and longing in her eyes that matched Becky’s feelings exactly. They clasped hands and turned their gazes back to the shadowy room, waiting to hear whether Uncle Marcus would agree, finally, to see them.

  After an interminable silence, he sighed and said, “They were never mine, Griggs. I am not necessary to their well-being. All Reggie and Becky really need at their age is a governess.”

  Becky shot Reggie a frustrated look and got an angry one in exchange as Reggie pulled her hand free. How could Uncle Marcus be so stupid as to think they did not need him? Fortunately, Griggs came to the rescue. Although Becky wished he had not chosen quite the argument he did.

  “No governess can manage the little demons, Your Grace. They sent the seventh one packing today.”

  “Put an advertisement in the Times,” Uncle Marcus retorted. “Find another. Surely one woman with hair and wit can be found in all of London.”

  “They need a father, Your Grace.”

  Uncle Marcus scowled, a fearsome look that would have frightened Becky if it had been directed at her. Griggs did not seem to notice it.

  “Alastair is their father,” Uncle Marcus said.

  “The man is dead!”

  “I cannot believe he is gone. I would feel more pain in here.” Uncle Marcus thumped his good hand—which held a glass of brandy—against his heart, spilling some of the liquid. “My brother is still out there somewhere.”

  “It has been a year. The Bow Street runners you hired have searched the whole of Scotland—includin’ that troublesome estate where he was bound, Blackthorne Hall—and half of England, as well. The duke has not been found. You must accept the fact your brother is gone—”

  “No!” Uncle Marcus threw his glass against the stone fireplace, where the crystal shattered, sending shards flying and blue flames licking at the brandy on the grate. He began pacing the room, his gloved hand curled tight against his body.

  Griggs pleaded, “For the children’s sake—”

  “Damn and blast, man! Do you not understand the sight of them reminds me of all I have lost? Of what I will never have? Get out!” he raged. “Leave me alone!”

  Griggs left without another word.

  Uncle Marcus had eventually slumped back into his chair before the fireplace, staring once again into the fire.

  Becky had felt sick inside, frightened of what the future held if he truly had abandoned them. She wanted to flee, to get as far away from this dark and lonely place as she could. She grabbed Reggie’s hand to pull her away, but her sister resisted.

  That was when Reggie had told her Uncle Marcus was crying. Now that she looked more closely, she could make out a single, silvery line down his cheek reflected by the firelight.

  Becky shivered—from the cold stones beneath her, of course, not from fear of her uncle, despite his recent rage. Uncle Marcus would never hurt a flea. Well, maybe a flea, she corrected herself, literal to a fault, but nothing larger.

  However, with his hair and beard so wild, and cast in shadows, he did look quite fearsome. And lonely. And sad.

  “He does not want us,” Reggie said flatly.

  “We will have to change his mind.”

  “How?”

  “I will think of something.” Becky was as
good at coming up with ideas as Reggie was at executing them.

  “I wish Father were here,” Reggie said wistfully.

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you think Uncle Marcus is right? Do you think Father might still be alive?”

  Becky saw the hope on Reggie’s face and hated to extinguish it. But she did not want Reggie refusing whatever plan she presented to force Uncle Marcus out of hiding, because she believed Father might someday return and right the situation.

  “Uncle Marcus is wrong,” Becky said certainly. “Father is dead.”

  Reggie did not argue. Her eyes welled, and her chin quivered. Before the first tear could slip out, she turned and stared through the grate again, blinking fast enough to force it back.

  Becky was not as strong-willed as her sister. Her watery eyes began to leak tears that felt hot as they dripped onto her cold cheeks.

  Becky had hung on to hope for a long time herself, but when Father never came back, she knew he must have died. He would never go away and leave them for so long. She knew that because things had been different after she and Reggie were nearly kidnapped in London.

  Father had scolded them less harshly after that, and had spoken to them more softly. He occasionally touched her or Reggie on the shoulder or brushed at their black curls. It was almost as though a different person—a much nicer one—had come home with them from London in place of the stern, distant father they had previously known.

  Before Father left for Scotland to take care of some business at one of the Blackthorne estates there, he had called them into his library. Becky had been certain the other father, the cold and angry one, would be waiting there for them.

  She had been wrong.

  Father had not been sitting behind his desk, he had been standing near the door. The instant Becky entered the room, he grasped her under her arms, swinging her playfully high above him. She shrieked once in surprise before he pulled her tight against him, so her nose settled against his throat. He hugged her for a long time, long enough for her to become aware of the strong, steady pulse in his throat and to notice he smelled of bayberry.