‘It is past midnight,’ she snipped in her best Lady Constance Stuart tone that brooked no argument, ‘and you need to go to bed.’
Far from being intoxicated, two very lucid russet eyes turned towards her. Their handsome owner smiled without any humour. ‘There is no point. I cannot sleep any more.’
‘Go to bed, Aaron. It has been a long and trying day and you look exhausted.’ There were now dark shadows on top of dark shadows and in the dim light his face was looking gaunt.
‘I have often heard people claim that some take solace in drink when life gets difficult. I thought I might give it a go. See if it made any of my problems go away.’ He poured the last dregs from his glass into his mouth and reached for the decanter again.
‘Has it worked?’
‘Not yet,’ he said, tipping more of the brandy over his fingers than in the glass, evidence that he was perhaps not quite as sober as she had first thought, ‘They are all still there. But I am hopeful. If I could just stop thinking about them all, then I know I would be able to sleep and if I could sleep, then perhaps there is a chance that I won’t go completely insane.’
Connie carefully prised the decanter from his hand and placed it on the desk out of his reach. ‘Perhaps the solution cannot be found at the bottom of a glass. Perhaps you should unburden yourself by telling me all that ails you. Apparently a problem shared is a problem halved.’
‘You can’t solve these, Connie. Nobody can.’
She sat down primly on the opposite chair, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her in case she inadvertently displayed anything that he would not want to see—even though he had already seen it all. ‘Try me. When I have problems, I put them all in a list and then approach them one at time rather than try to solve them all at once. When you break down your worries one at a time they are less daunting and therefore easier to find solutions to. Let’s list them.’
‘We will be here all night.’
‘As that was your original plan for the evening, indulge me.’ Although she sincerely hoped that it would not take all night because the taxidermy heads were much more sinister in the dim lamplight and this room still smelled of his father.
Aaron took another slug of his brandy and then stared at the empty glass in disgust when he realised that he had not poured much into it. ‘Unless a miracle happens, I shall be completely bankrupt in a year.’ He stared back at her defiantly. ‘Can you stop that, Connie?’
‘It will not come to that. I thought we had agreed that you should plant barley so that you can have two crops this year. Two crops means twice the profit. And I found some significant savings by reducing the staff at your townhouse.’
‘A few thousand pounds will barely make a dent in what is missing. Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts. It all made much more sense when we worked on it together. I can’t make head nor tail of it all on my own.’
They would still be working on it together if he had not cruelly shut her out. Silly man! ‘You could also sell that land your father purchased to spite my father. That has to be worth something.’
‘Just shows what you know, Connie. Mr Thomas arranged that purchase, no doubt upon your father’s express instruction, because he knew something that my father didn’t. That land is useless. I doubt I could give it away.’
‘All land has a use, Aaron. I am sure that someone will buy it.’
He shook his dark head and gave her a lopsided attempt at a smug grin. ‘It is solid chalk—like the White Cliffs of Dover—except not as useful. The soil is too thin for anything apart from weeds to grow on it and the ground is too hard to build on.’
‘If things get too dire, then you could still sell that town house. It is not entailed and properties on Berkeley Square are always quite highly sought after. It would raise a good price.’
‘I suppose so,’ he slurred begrudgingly, but then leaned forward, his black brows drawn together in consternation. ‘But the state of my finances is the least of my worries, Connie. I also have a wife who would rather not be my wife. In fact, she would rather live out her days completely ruined by the scandal of an annulment than stay with me. How’s that for a problem?’
That was definitely not a topic that she was prepared to be drawn on. It was too raw and too personal, so she sidestepped it. ‘Come on—let me help you up to bed.’ She reached out and took his arm and tried to make him stand, but he would have none of it. He snatched his arm away angrily.
‘I don’t want to go to bed. I have nightmares. Every time I close my eyes I am back in Spain.’ But he stood shakily and let her take his arm anyway, leaning heavily on her and then looking a little bewildered. ‘I feel dizzy.’
Hardly a surprise when he had consumed such a vast amount of liquor. ‘Come on. Let’s get you upstairs while you can still stand.’
Connie led him away from the study towards the stairs. She had scarcely managed to get him up more than two steps when he stopped abruptly and turned towards her conspiratorially. ‘The only time that I don’t have the nightmares is when I sleep with you.’ He pointed his index finger into her breastbone and spoke directly into her face. ‘Perhaps you should take me to bed again so that I can sleep. I shall be a perfect gentleman, Connie. I promise. Let me sleep with you. You’re my demon slayer.’
Heaven forbid he would ever want to do anything else, he had made his thoughts on that quite clear already, and she could not bear the thought of lying so close to him when she knew that she repulsed him. ‘I don’t think so, Aaron.’
‘Then I am going back downstairs!’ he announced dramatically. He was swaying a little now and was starting to list quite substantially to the left. He really did need to lie down. Perhaps, if she put him to bed in her room while she slept in his that would suffice?
‘I shall take you to my bed. Just please put your arm around my shoulder. I am frightened that you might fall down the stairs.’
Obligingly, he swung his heavy arm around her shoulders while Connie gripped him firmly about the waist. Despite his acquiescence, getting him up the stairs proved to be more challenging than she had originally anticipated. Once or twice he almost toppled backwards and it took all of her strength, and a great deal of her patience, to get him to the top. By the time she had manoeuvred him to her door he was practically unconscious and almost a dead weight.
He lent sluggishly against the door while she wrestled with the handle, so when it opened he fell to the floor and dragged her on top of him, cushioning her from the impact with his floppy, brandy-pickled limbs.
‘The last time we were on the floor together you were naked.’
Connie did not need to be reminded of that fact and she definitely did not want to witness the soppy grin he had on his face.
‘If you wanted to get naked again, Wife, then I am sure that I could oblige you.’ He tried to wink at her. Instead of closing one eye saucily, he scrunched both together and them appeared to be quite confused by the fact that he could not get his eyelids to work independently of each other. The effect would have been quite comical if she had not been so mortified by what he was suggesting.
Enough was enough. She did not care how drunk he was, suggesting that he would perform his husbandly duty because he was now suitably numb with drink was just plain insulting. Connie scrambled to her feet and then grabbed both of his hands. There were times when it was quite handy to have the body of an Amazonian because, after one enormous, unladylike grunt, she heaved him back to his feet and dragged him unceremoniously to the bedchamber beyond. How typical of Aaron Wincanton to be the one man of her acquaintance who was bigger than her.
Aaron sat heavily on the bed, causing the bedstead to creak ominously, looking more delightfully rumpled than he had a right to and completely foxed. The brandy had clearly worked its way around his entire body and he was now experiencing the full effect. He could barely keep
his head up on top of his slumped shoulders. Connie knelt and pulled off his boots while he watched her sleepily. He really was practically dead on his feet, the poor man, and it was tragic that he was so terrified of closing his eyes. She might hate him still for hurting her, but that did not mean that she was devoid of sympathy for him. Or feelings. ‘Lie down, Aaron.’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t. Need to take my clothes off first or they will get covered in blood again. Hate that.’
Lord only knew what that meant, but she was too tired to argue. It was not as if she had not already seen his magnificent body. Or touched every inch of it.
Or kissed it.
She only had to close her eyes and she could easily picture it. All of that firm muscle, golden skin and sinful, delicious hardness... Shaking herself out of her sudden carnal thoughts, Connie quickly went about the process of undressing him as dispassionately as possible. She made quick work of the shirt, but his breeches were more problematic, especially as he just kept grinning down at her as she fought with the buttons. Once he was fully displayed in all of his naked glory he allowed her to tuck him into bed, but even then he refused to close his eyes. ‘You have to get in, too, Wife. If you are not next to me, then Fletcher will come again and I don’t want to see him. I want him to leave me alone.’
The panic was back in his eyes again so she relented. Ensuring that her dressing gown was tightly knotted over her nightgown, she lay stiffly on top of the blanket beside him. ‘Who is Fletcher?’
It was a reasonable question. Aaron called the man’s name every time he had a bad dream and was still frightened of him when roaring drunk.
‘He was my lieutenant.’ That did not sound particularly terrifying. ‘But I can’t tell you what happened to him, Connie, because it is my deepest and darkest secret.’
Aaron rolled on to his side so that he could nuzzle his face against her neck, wrapping his free arm snuggly around her waist while he burrowed into the mattress and made himself comfortable. When he threw one leg proprietorially over her hip, and his breathing became deep and rhythmic, she realised he was fast asleep already.
The poor dear was obviously quite spent, which was quite understandable. On top of his many burdens, real or imagined, he had buried his father today. It did not matter that Connie was now burning with curiosity, he needed to sleep. Perhaps the brandy would help him to do so. It had certainly helped to loosen his tongue. Instinctively she wrapped her arm around him, just to comfort him in his hour of need—she certainly did not need the reassuring contact.
And then again, this might be her only opportunity to find out what lay behind Aaron’s tortured nightmares and understand why he was becoming increasingly more withdrawn. Surely, in the quest to help him, prising the truth out of him would not constitute taking advantage of his inebriated state?
Connie gently shook his arm to no avail. Aaron was so sozzled and so tired that he probably could have slept through a full military marching band traipsing over his bed. Gripping his shoulder firmly, she rocked his big body from side to side until he groaned in sullen protest.
‘Go away!’
His ribs were rising and falling in a steady rhythm, but he shifted his position slightly, sliding his hand up to cup her breast, through the layers of clothing she was still wearing, and reminding her that her body was still a traitor where he was concerned. Even in this state she still wanted him. How pathetic and needy was that?
Connie continued to shake him with determination. ‘What happened to Lieutenant Fletcher?’
Finally, he mumbled words that chilled her to the bone.
‘I killed him.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Connie sealed the note with a blob of wax and gave it to the waiting messenger. After spending an entire sleepless night next to Aaron, worrying about everything he had told her, it felt good to be able to do something constructive.
His drunken admission had left her reeling. Whatever had happened now weighed on her mind so heavily that she knew that she would not rest until she had properly talked to him about it. After dropping his bombshell, she had not been able to get another word out of Aaron. He had slept so soundly he had not even moved until just after dawn, which meant that she was held captive in his arms for several long, agonising hours, with only her own racing thoughts to keep her company.
However, the more she thought about it, the less likely it felt that Aaron was capable of killing someone without a justifiable explanation. She knew him too well. Underneath all of that charm and stubbornness was a man who took his responsibility to others very, very seriously. He had married her when he had not needed to simply because it was the right thing to do. He was desperate to save his estate—not for himself, but for the tenants who depended on it. Whatever had happened to Lieutenant Fletcher had not been done maliciously. Connie was sure of that. She was too good a judge of character to have fallen in love with a cold-blooded murderer.
Driving herself mad thinking about it, Connie had desperately tried to take her own advice and categorise each of Aaron’s problems to try to find solutions to them. Only then did Sir Gerald’s dinner-party conversation come back to her—he quarried chalk and he desperately wanted more chalky land to quarry more!
As soon as she was able, Connie had escaped the bedchamber and written the letter. Even if Sir Gerald did not wish to purchase the land, she had asked him to call on them and explain how they could go about making a profit from the chalk themselves. Either way, it opened another financial avenue that they had not known existed.
After instructing Deaks to send up a cup of hot, sweet tea and some toast to settle Aaron’s stomach, Connie headed for the stable. Since the viscount’s death she had ridden with her brother every day, and although she had kept the most damning and pertinent details of her mockery for a marriage to herself, she had found Henry to be an excellent listener with an astute head on his young shoulders.
* * *
When Aaron woke, the first thing that struck him was that the bed appeared to be moving. As soon as he prised open one unwilling eye, several other things struck him simultaneously. The daylight was painful, his head felt as if elephants were tramping over it and it wasn’t just the bed that was spinning. The walls and ceiling were, too.
Instantly, he squeezed his eyes shut in protest and waited for the bed to stop rotating and dipping with such ferociousness. It was like being seasick—only a hundred times worse—and it was all self-inflicted. There was only one thing that had the power to make him feel this ill and that was brandy. Or whisky. Or even port. In vast quantities. He had ridden a spinning bed before, usually after a particularly raucous regimental dinner, and it never ended well. Already he could feel his stomach begin to lurch in protest and through it all, he had the distinct feeling that he had done something that he oughtn’t—although he could not quite put his finger on what that was.
* * *
It was late into the afternoon by the time Aaron felt able to leave Connie’s bed and stumble downstairs. As the fog in his head had begun to clear he began to feel more and more uneasy about what had transpired the night before. The gaps in his memory bothered him. The snippets he did remember were sketchy, to say the least, and did not fill him with much confidence. He remembered talking to Connie about the estate—nothing harmful there—but he had a very clear memory of confessing that he could not sleep unless he was with her and he must have been persistent because he had woken up in her bed.
Alone.
But completely naked.
He had found his clothes neatly folded on a chair—and as that was not something he ever did, even when stone-cold sober, then it was highly likely that Connie had undressed him. He also had a vague recollection of suggesting that they might engage in more than just sleep. Had he been unguarded enough to tell her how he truly felt about her? And had she allowed more li
berties than merely sharing a bed? Not remembering that would be the greatest irony of all. Aaron had wanted her almost constantly since that one, life-changing night they had shared. Or did he owe her a grovelling apology? The simple fact was Aaron did not know.
Unfortunately, a servant informed him that his wife had gone out riding so he was unable to ask her to fill in the gaps for him, however humiliating that conversation was bound to be. Out of habit he wandered into his father’s study and sat in one of the chairs facing the fireplace. There was no point sitting at the desk. He could barely function, thanks to his ridiculous decision to consume an entire bottle of brandy. Aaron simply sat and stared at the walls.
After a few minutes he noticed something that had never occurred to him before. The glassy, lifeless eyes of the numerous hunting trophies lining the walls reminded him a great deal of the dead bodies lying still on a battlefield. The mere thought sent a shiver through him. What had possessed his father to decorate his study with something so macabre? They were enough to give anyone nightmares. They really had to go. The last thing he needed was more reminders of the war and death.
‘You are feeling better, then?’
His wife breezed into the study looking all windswept and wanton in his favourite tight, green riding habit, her glorious copper hair already escaping its pins. Good grief, she was stunning. Even with the last remnants of his drunken debauchery still lingering in his system he instantly felt a surge of raw lust, so strong that his chest tightened as well as his groin. But this was not the time or the place for such thoughts. There were things that needed to be said. Questions that needed to be asked.
‘If that is your polite way of asking me if the effects of the brandy have worn off, you do not need to dance around it. I am not completely sure what possessed me to over-imbibe—but as I am still suffering from the after-effects, you can rest assured I have no desire to repeat the experience. Also, I have come here to offer you a blanket apology for whatever I said or did last night that might have offended you.’
Her Enemy At the Altar Page 20
