Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance)

by Lisa Andersen

  “We will marry soon,” he said.

  Arabella gasped. She had been expecting this, but it still seemed sudden. “Yes,” he went on. “I will ask your father on the morrow. But I must share something about myself before I make that move. Something that may make you nervous about marrying me.I should’ve shared it long ago.”

  “Oh, Lucian, you’re scaring me.”

  Lucian stared down at his knuckles, took a deep breath, and then revealed his secret.

  “During the war, I saw more horrible things than I care to remember. I won’t trouble you with them. Let me just say that my idea of man was shaken to its core. I was torn asunder. I had been a good little boy, with high ideals about courtroom decorum which I now despise. I had thought a good household the start and end of all things. And I went to war with that in mind. It will be good, I thought, to have more stories to tell over a good cup of wine.

  “But when I got there, I did not see stories. I saw life. Boy – and I mean boys – were being murdered all around me. The country was burning. People were starving. Life was being tossed about, lifted upside down. Soon after I got my scar, I was in a deep pit. I felt as though life was over .I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. No, no, please let me finished.” He touched his scar absentmindedly.

  “A deep pit,” he went on. “I came to a town one day that had not been completely destroyed. There was a—a house of ill-repute there that some of the soldiers frequented. I had never – and since then I have never – but I—”

  “You entered it?” Arabella said, horrified. “You entered it and you—” She couldn’t say the words. “With a lady of the night, you—?”

  Lucian nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “I was weak, and I thought I would be dead soon, and—It was only that once, I swear it. Only once. After that, I was so disgusted with myself that I tried very hard to die. But providence would not have it. And soon I was back in England, filled with memories of blood, marked by the blade, and desperately wanting to find that pure, good lady who sang so stoically on the streets of London.”

  Arabella rose from her chair and went to the window. She felt like she could collapse. She had imagined Lucian much in the same position as her when it came to carnal relations. Oh, she knew that men – some men – went to places like that where a woman would—do things. But she never imagined Lucian to be one of those men. She thought that he was like her.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she breathed. “This is quite a surprise.”

  “Does it ruin things?” He was on his feet now, standing close to her. “That is why I have not kissed you, Arabella. Don’t you see? I did not want to kiss you if you didn’t know the truth. I held your hand. That was bad enough.”

  “And you haven’t done it since?” Arabella’s head was spinning; the room was spinning. Her hands trembled.

  “Never,” he said. “And I never will.”

  “I need to be alone,” Arabella blurted. “Yes, Lucian, I need to be alone. Would you please leave me? For—for a week! Leave me for a week!”

  “You would torture me for a week?” he said quietly. “Make it three days. I can stay away for three days, I think, but no longer.”

  “Fine, fine,” Arabella said, hardly hearing her own words. She turned away from Lucian. “Three days, then. But leave now. It is too much.”

  She faced away from him as he exited. He closed the door quietly behind him. In a few minutes, Mother entered. Arabella had slumped down in an armchair. She stared into the fire, trying to lose her thoughts in the flickering of the flames. “Arabella, is something wrong?” Mother said, sitting next to her.

  Arabella knew her mother’s feelings when it came to matters like this. No amount of Dukedom or wealth would ever clean Lucian in her mind if Arabella told the truth. She must have still been considering him; otherwise she would have told Mother everything.

  “I have a headache,” she lied. “I think it is this fire. It is making my head heavy. Perhaps I will retire for a time. Would you wake me when supper is ready?”

  She had to resist the urge to run up the stairs. She threw herself upon the bed and curled into a ball. Lucian, with another woman, like that. Doing that in a dirty building in the middle of nowhere with a faceless woman. She knew men did that, especially at war. But it still made her feel sick. And he had waited until now, until she was falling deeper and deeper in love every day! She buried her face in her pillow, and prayed for sleep.

  She couldn’t sleep. Instead, she sat beside the window and looked out upon the dying garden. Something fluttered against the window.

  It had started to snow.

  *****

  For the first two days, Arabella tried to block everything out. Mother and Father knew that something was wrong. She could tell, by the way they kept talking to her like she was an invalid. Mother had implied on more than one occasion that something improper had happened between Arabella and Lucian, and that was the reason or her sadness. Arabella wouldn’t comment. She couldn’t, not without revealing the truth. And she had no desire of letting Mother or Father know the truth. This was between her and Lucian. He didn’t come. She’d thought he might, but he didn’t. She was glad. She needed to think. But thinking was so painful.

  On the third day, she gave it some serious thought. Lucian had been with a woman of ill report. That was the truth. There was no shying away from it. She knew that some ladies would take this much better than she was: that some ladies would simply shrug it away. But there was something so seedy about it that kept niggling at her. She kept imagining Lucian, sneaking into a muddy house, the floor all torn up from boots, and then falling into some woman’s arms. But she needed to think beyond that. She needed to think about his state of being at that time. He’d been at war for years, his face was scarred, and he’d needed companionship. She could console herself with these facts, but it didn’t get rid of the seedy feeling deep in her belly.

  It was late afternoon when the calling card came. Lucian – His Grace to Mother and Father – wished to know if he could call on Arabella in an hour. Mother and Arabella were sitting in the drawing room. Mother turned to Arabella with raised eyebrows. “Well, dear?” she said. “What do you suggest I say?”

  Here it was, perhaps the most defining moment in her life, to take place in a simple exchange with Mother, in the drawing room. Two paths lay ahead of her. Upon one path lay spinsterhood, a life of loneliness, or perhaps marriage to a man she would forever compare with Lucian. Upon the other path lay reconciliation, a coming to terms with the reality of what had happened, transcendence.

  “Reply that he may come,” Arabella said, her voice shaking. “Yes, Mother, say that he may come.”

  “Very well,” Mother said.

  “And Mother.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I know it is impolite of me to ask it, but His Grace and I will need the drawing room to ourselves.” Mother’s face creased. “I know,” Arabella went on, quickly. “But I promise you, as a daughter, that no insult is being done to me. I need to discuss something with His Grace, as future man and wife.”

  “Arabella!”

  “Please, Mother!” Arabella cried. “Just do this for me. Please.”

  “I will pretend I have to chastise Bessie, and leave you for ten minutes—no more.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Arabella said. “Thank you.”

  Mother did not look happy, but Arabella hardly noticed. Her thoughts were consumed with Lucian, and the coming confrontation. The hour passed too fast, as though Time itself was against her, and before she had mentally prepared, the doorbell rang.

  Mother made her excuse, and she and Lucian were alone in the drawing-room. His skin was taut, and there were bags under his eyes. He looked physically ill. “Arabella,” he whispered, glancing at the door. “I feel as though part of me were dying. I ca
nnot eat. I cannot sleep. Please, tell me you have some good news. Please.”

  It was horrid to see him like this. Lucian was strong, scarred, immovable. Lucian was like a rock. And now here he was almost destroyed before him. She knew this was a test of real love. If she were only infatuated with him – like so many ladies were in the early days with their husbands – she would despite him now. He was not living up to her ideal of him. But she did not despise him. A violent reaction gripped her chest. She had to fight hard not to leap across the room and cradle him in her arms.

  “Lucian,” Arabella said. “I love you.” She held up a hand, to stop whatever he was about to say. “But you need to be honest with me now. Is there anything else – like this – that you are withholding from me? Any tryst with a lady? Any secret affairs?Anything?I must know now, before I fully commit myself. Father would urge me to marry anyway. You are, after all, a Duke. Mother would do the same. But I have to see you as a man, not a Duke. I feel I can talk to you as a woman, not a lady. I feel we have risen above that muck. It would sadden me greatly to never see you again, so, please, tell me. Any other women?Any other secrets of this sort?”

  Lucian gripped her hands. Arabella was surprised when she didn’t recoil. His hands were big, warm, and strong. He gripped her hands tightly. “No,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I promise you, Arabella. There has been nothing else of this sort. Ever. You have my word.”

  Arabella searched his eyes: searched his soul. And she saw the truth. He looked at her with sincerity in her eyes. “I believe you,” she said. “Yes, Lucian, I believe you.”

  “What does this mean?”

  Arabella took a deep breath. This was, without a doubt, the most emotional moment in her life. And yet she was able to withhold tears. She smiled warmly at him. Slowly, a smile lifted his lips. Confidence returned back to his countenance. Illness fled it. Live coursed through it.“It means,” she said, turning her face slightly upwards, “that you may kiss me now.”

  He kissed her. It was long, hot, passionate. She fell into the kiss, gave herself to it. When it was done, she and Lucian were panting like tired wolves, hunger glinting in their eyes.

  “Then you will marry me, Arabella?” he said, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing her fingers.

  “I will,” Arabella said. “Yes, Lucian, I will!”

  *****

  The wedding night was here. After the rigmarole of the ceremony – after giving her soul to Lucian – she was ready to give her body to him, too. All thoughts of his secret were gone from her mind as they lay in bed together. “Are you ready?” he whispered in her ear.

  She nodded. “Yes, Lucian. I am ready.”

  He undressed her slowly until she was naked. She lay on her back with her legs parted, her womanhood facing him. He regarded her for a few seconds and then began to undress. Arabella was more nervous than she had ever been. Her heart was a hammer in her chest, cracking against her ribcage. Lucian leaned over her and kissed her neck, her cheek, her lips. She kissed him back and felt a hunger rise in her.

  She reached down as they kissed and found his manhood. It was huge and hard. She squeezed it and then rubbed it up and down. He moaned through the kiss. His hands were on her: on her breasts, and then her belly, and then tickling her womanhood. She closed her legs around the hand, trapping it there. He rubbed her womanhood fast, and she moaned loudly.

  Then he parted her legs and shifted his hips. His manhood brushed her lips. She let out a long moan. Her body was alive to his; each touch sent reverberations through her. He stared into her eyes, and she stared back, and she knew that something incredible was about to happen.

  He thrust himself inside of her.

  For the first few minutes there was a pain. And then pleasure began to replace the pain. He thrust into her slowly, easing her into it, and then she lifted her legs and moved with the rhythm of him. “Your Grace,” she moaned in his ear, her hands on his muscular back. “Yes, yes, Your Grace.”

  He pushed deeper into her, hitting a spot inside her womanhood she had not known existed. And then he made love to her faster, and harder. She bounced up and down on his manhood, moving with his passionate thrusts. He went in and out, in and out, in and out, harder with each thrust.

  Arabella was on the edge of something. She could feel it coming like a stampede moving through her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and for a moment everything went dark, and then she was thrown bodily into otherworldly pleasure. It wracked her body, threw her around. She gyrated and screamed. She couldn’t help but scream. Her womanhood went tight around him, and soon he was moaning, too.

  They fell into the abyss of pleasure together.

  When they were done, she lay with her head upon his chest.

  “That was—”

  “Incredible.”

  “It was,” Arabella said. “Was it like that—”

  “No,” Lucian said, touching her face. “Not even close. Not even a little bit.”

  “I am sorry to talk of it,” Arabella said. “I just need to know that you are mine, and only mine, and that I am yours.”

  “You are, I am,” he assured her, kissing her forehead. “Forever, you will be mine, Arabella. Even after this life. You are my wife, now. I can’t believe it! The beautiful, stoic lady in London is my wife! I feel like the happiest man alive.”

  “You are a flatterer, husband,” Arabella said.

  “Oh, say it again,” he said, his voice more boyish than Arabella had ever heard it.

  “Husband.”

  “Again.”

  “Husband.”

  “Again!”

  “Husband.”

  “Again!”

  *****

  Arabella could not bear to have little Victoria away from her for long. She and Lucian sat on the porch, passing her between them. It was May, and the first day of glorious sunlight was upon them. Victoria grabbed Arabella’s finger, cooed, and squeezed it. Arabella stroked the little baby’s head and then passed her to her father.

  “She is amazing,” Lucian said. Her husband had grown a moustache. He looked even more dashing than their wedding day. “Amazing,” he repeated. “She had everything of yours, and nothing of mine. How lucky. Yes, don’t look at me like that, she does! Look at her! What a beauty!”

  Arabella was filled with a warm glow whenever Lucian took hold of the baby. There was something primitive and soothing in it, watching her man hold their baby, proclaiming his love. She never felt safer than when Lucian was holding Victoria. “Do you think she’ll love me?” Lucian said. “Of course, she will love you more. You cannot forsake a daughter that. But do you think she’ll love me, too?”

  “You are silly today, my love,” Arabella said. “She loves you already.”

  “The next will be a boy, I wager,” Lucian said, smiling over Victoria’s head.

  “The next, Your Grace!” Arabella cried, slapping him playfully upon the arm. “You will insult a lady with such talk.”

  Lucian bobbed Victoria up and down on his knee. “You will harm a man, with such talk,” he retorted. “Of course, I have no dominion over you.”

  “You are progressive.”

  “Ha!” Victoria giggled with him. “War does that to a man, my love. No, but if you do not wish to have another child, I will understand. I am no brute, to use you as a brood—”

  “Hush, sweet man,” Arabella said. “The next shall be a son.”

  “Arabella,” Lucian said, at length.

  “Hmm?”

  “Will you sing it?”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, the baby does love it. And so do I. I can still remember it, like it was yesterday. Back from war, robbed of hope, and then I see this lady, a lady like no other, singing a simple, yet beautiful tune.”

  “There are not even wor
ds,” Arabella said. “I fear it is simple.”

  “It is, but it is perfect.”

  He kissed Victoria on the head. “You want to hear it, don’t you, sweetness?”

  The baby cooed.

  “Fine,” Arabella said, laughing. “But just once!”

  She sang the tune for her family: the tune that had traveled with her from ruin in London to contentment in Lucian.

  Fate’s Ploy

  LollieMcArkam had always been skeptical about the local legend. Spend some time of Finger Rock, they said, and good fortune will be granted to you upon your wedding day. Lollie was of marriageable age, though she had no suitor. But Father had demanded that she fulfill tradition. Finger Rock was named for the way it jutted from the ocean floor like a defiant finger. Father rowed her out to it. The Scottish winds were high, and the mountainsides that bordered the out-of-the-way isle of Karankaywas blasted by the wind. Father said nothing as he rowed. His brow was creased, and every so often he wiped sweat and sea water from his face. Lolli was bored. This was a waste of time. But tradition was not to be ignored.

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” Father said, as Lollie stepped upon the rock.

  “Okay, Da,” Lollie said.

  Father rowed away, and Lollie was left alone. A mist had descended upon the ocean, and Lollie could not see very far ahead. She sat upon the rock and waited—waited for what? She knew nothing would happen. The kelpie was a legend that had persisted in this nowhere place for hundreds of years. Lollie had grown up with it. And yet she doubted it. As she grew, she had observed. She had seen a woman who sat upon the rock fall into loveless marriages. The MacNeill woman had sat upon this rock. Now she lived alone in the shack, and her husband wandered the mountains, only returning once a week to bring her game. What power could this rock hold, if it set matches like that?

  But Lollie was not about to dive into the wild ocean and swim back to the isle. She was here for the night. She had brought a blanket. She pulled it tight around her. It did little to protect her from the frigid gales. She tucked her hands into her waistband and tried not to shiver. Once the shivers set in, danger started. She breathed deeply of the sea air. The clouds were a thick shield above her, blocking all light. No merman climbed upon the rock.