“He was so young,” she said softly to herself.
“Seventeen,” Dalrymple said.
She started at both the servant’s words and at his having heard her quiet utterance.
He gestured to his right, intact ear. “I can hear on this side, my lady.”
A splash of heat rushed her cheeks and she returned her attention to Christian’s portrait. Yes, she recalled as much from his admission days earlier. Still, staring at this rendering of him, frozen in time, somehow made that truth all the more—real. And all the more horrific.
“The marquess despises that painting. Wants it taken down.” Why did it remain, then? The astute servant must have seen the question in her eyes. “His mother insists upon it. Wants it hung and so it is hung. His Lordship merely has it covered when she’s gone.”
Prudence took another step closer. She peered more deeply into those innocent eyes. There was a bravado and swagger that could only come with a brash young man’s youth. Tearing her gaze away from Christian’s piercing stare, she looked at the towering servant. “Did you know him then?” she asked hesitantly. Part of her longed for the answer to be yes so she could have a window into the life he’d led before, while the other part feared the answers he might have through that connection.
“No,” the butler said with a shake of his head. “I fought in different Peninsular campaigns. The marquess found me at a tavern in the countryside. I was a drinker. And angry. And hated the world. His Lordship gave me a purpose again.” He grinned, displaying an uneven row of teeth. “Made me his butler, no less.” The man’s expression grew distant as though in his words, he was transported back to that dark time in his life. “Hired me when no one else would.”
She drew in a slow, steadying breath. Instead of Dalrymple’s words satisfying this need for details about the man she now found herself wedded to, it merely fueled a hungering to know more. Tamping down the questions on her lips, she stole one more long glance at a seventeen-year-old Christian and started down the hall.
They continued on in silence with Dalrymple coming to a stop beside a scratched, oak paneled door. He pressed the handle. She hesitated at the threshold and took a step forward. When the butler spoke, she stopped her movements. “I did not know the man he was then. I heard whispers of him.” A chill stole through her. He tightened his jaw. “But I know the man he is now and do not pay much attention to the whispers. His Lordship hires men no one else will; when so many of the others who fought alongside us forget. That says much about who your husband is.”
Without waiting to see if she required anything else or allowing her to put in a question, the butler limped off, leaving her door hanging open.
Prudence stared at the place he’d just taken his leave, with the servant’s words tumbling around her mind. Since her family had been embroiled in scandal after scandal, she’d made it a point to studiously avoid all word or whisper of gossip. Gossip was nothing more than a kernel of truth cooked within masterful lies, then expertly fed to a voracious lot of people who thrived off those falsities. Except, shamefully in her own hurt, she’d given life to the smallest part of the truth the ton had manipulated. Remorse pulled at her.
She cast a glance over her new chambers, her white satin skirts rustling noisily in the empty space as she walked a perimeter about the space, trailing her fingertips over the oak armoire etched in a rose trim and then to a vanity. She stopped beside the bed and stared down at it—her bridal bed.
A wave of heat slapped her cheeks as she considered lying upon that down mattress with Christian. Never more had she regretted her sister’s absence than she did this day, her wedding night. Her mother’s own terse, quick explanation of what her wifely duties entailed had sounded both impossible and painful and not at all pleasant. Which was vastly different than the image painted by Juliet of something wondrous and magical which Prudence had wanted to hear no further parts about because of…well, it was her sister-in-law. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. But now, in the span of one morning, he’d become a stranger to her. Yet, what if her husband wanted nothing more than her dowry? She closed her eyes, as the memory of his touch and kiss filtered through her thoughts. Surely he wanted to…to…have more than a marriage of convenience.
Then she thought of the blasted wager.
Or mayhap he’d never wanted anything more than her fortune. Except to believe so would be to place him into the ranks of the Albert Marshvilles of the world. Her heart protested the pairing of Christian’s name with that monster.
Prudence opened her eyes and momentarily froze. With her gaze trained on the pillow, she wandered to the head of the bed. A small branch lay atop her pillow. Her throat muscles working painfully, she picked it up. Her elm. Their elm.
She raised it to her face and the brittle stick brushed her cheek. These were not the actions of a ruthless man who did not care. A fortune hunter who’d carefully plotted a match between them would not have bothered with the ceremony underneath their tree, when he himself so hated it, or this gift, which was worth more than any diamonds or baubles he could have ever given.
Prudence squared her jaw. A blackguard who’d wanted nothing more than an heiress would not have selected the perfect spot to wed and he’d certainly not go to the effort of finding a stick from that special elm. No, if he’d been a ruthless fortune hunter, it would have only mattered that he’d secured her wealth. Gift in hand, she marched to the door.
She was not through with her husband, after all.
The faint click of his office door opening filled the quiet of his office. Christian turned and then went still.
Prudence cleared her throat. “I found the branch.”
From where he stood at the hearth, he jerked erect. She’d returned. And more…why had she come back? The faintest stirrings of hope lit in a place he’d thought hope had died long ago. His wife entered deeper into the room, that silly scrap evidence of how little he had to offer her, clutched in her white-knuckled grip. “Prudence,” he said, warily. “What…” Are you doing here? Why, when she despised him, with all good, justifiable reasons?
With the branch wielded in her right hand, she had the look of a fey fairy with the ability to cast a spell. But then, hadn’t she cast a spell upon him from across Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom floor?
Prudence came to a stop and peered at him, seeming to search for something. He momentarily closed his eyes. This had been inevitable; the time when she looked at him and saw who he truly was. That he was no hero as she’d made him out to be but rather an empty excuse of a person so flawed that forgiveness was impossible for. “Why did you have no right to me?”
Those softly spoken words took him aback. He gave his head an uncomprehending shake.
She took a step toward him. “You said it gave you the push to dance with a woman you had no right to. Why did you say that?”
The same coward he’d been on the battlefield, he wanted to retreat at her determined approach, and yet his feet remained oddly frozen, until she came to a stop before him. They stood so close the tips of her slippers brushed the tips of his boots. The sweet summer scent of rosewater which clung to her skin filled his senses until he was nearly drunk on his hungering for her goodness.
He flinched as Prudence caressed his cheek. “You didn’t think you were worthy of me.” There was a soft-spoken wonder in her words. Her wide, expressive eyes served as a window to the sadness, shock, and disbelief there. “How could you think I was not worthy of you?”
“And why do you think I am?” Christian captured her wrist and then removed her fingers from his person, going cold at the loss of her touch. “Because I was a soldier?” Retaining his grip upon her. “Because I’m some whispered-about war hero who gentlemen want to take drinks with and women want to bed.” Her entire body jerked at his jeering, and more, truthful words. “I was no hero,” he spat and released her with such alacrity, she stumbled back.
“We do not always see ourselves the way others do.�
�� She spoke as one who knew; as a woman who’d been judged for the actions of others and disdained for those same actions.
“We are nothing alike,” he said raking his stare up and down her person, hating that he’d never been worthy of her and that she now made him clearly enumerate why. She’d flayed him open, exposing all his weaknesses and failings. “I have lived a lie the past eight years and I will not continue to do so with you.”
Her fingers fisted the fabric of her white ruffled skirts. “I don’t know what you—”
“You want the truth?” An ugly laugh worked its way up his chest and spilled past his lips. “The truth is I was a rotten soldier. I was…” More adept with the young women eager for a night with a solider than any battlefield skill.
“You were?” Prudence gently prodded.
He blinked, unable to concede this humiliating failure. The rest he would give her so she might understand, so that she could cease seeing him as a hero, and let him live his life without this constant lie between them. Christian clenched and unclenched his jaw. “The truth was I was a rotten soldier,” he repeated lamely.
She tipped her head and because he did not know what to make of that odd little angling—surprise, disappointment, a rejection of that truth—he forced out the remainder. “I was no hero. I was not the revered and deserved respected Lord Drake. I was bloody awful with my gun and a coward in battle.”
A soft understanding sparked in her eyes and she took another step toward him, hand outstretched. “Oh, Christian.”
He wanted to accept that offering. God how he wanted to merge their hands and take what strength she had as his own. Then his gaze fell to the stick still clutched in her opposite hand. The bloody elm. With a curse, he spun on his heel and marched over to the sideboard. He passed a hand over the decanters before settling on a bottle. Christian shot a glance over his shoulder. “You think I am being heroic and rejecting the praise bestowed on me?” He arched an eyebrow.
“One never sees one’s actions as heroic.” The dance. She referred to the bloody dance once more.
With jerky movements he poured himself a healthy glass of whiskey. He turned to face her. A muscle jumped in the corner of his eye. “And that would be because there was nothing heroic in my efforts,” he said with a casualness that raised a frown from her. “You wish to think you married a Waterloo soldier? An adept man who saved lives?” He continued over her attempts at protestations. “A man so modest he should reject the praise, content with the memory of his own greatness? But I am not that man.” Christian raised his glass in a mocking salute and then downed the contents in a long, painful swallow. He relished the burning trail it marked down his throat. “Do you know who I am?”
She jutted her chin out. “I would have you tell me.”
“I am a man who convinced my two best friends to join me on that grand adventure.” He recalled Derek, now the Duke of Blackthorne and Maxwell as they’d been—skeptical and hesitant. I rather like my good looks… Derek had jested. I’ve little desire to return a monster whom none of the ladies will take to their bed… His mouth burned with the need for more liquid resolve and he swiped the whiskey from the sideboard and poured another glass to the brim.
“It was still their decision to go, Christian. They decided.”
He scoffed. “Is that supposed to bring consolation?”
“No,” she said firmly. “It is supposed to show you that you aren’t responsible for the decisions another person makes.”
How desperately he wanted to cling to that undeserved absolution and yet it could not come from her. Perhaps it could not even come from Maxwell or Blackthorne or any of the other men. Perhaps it could not come from anyone because there was no absolution to be had. “They were far better fighters than I ever was,” he said quietly to himself. The great irony—he’d been the one eager for the show upon that grand stage but Blackthorne and Maxwell had taken to battle as though they’d been born to it. While he’d muddled through battles, a living failure of a soldier. “They saved me…” His voice broke and he took another sip. “More scores than I deserved.” Christian stared into the half-empty contents of his glass. How much better Blackthorne would have been if he’d have just let him flounder in battle.
“Do not say that,” Prudence snapped. Icy steel underscored her command and brought his head up. “You deserved to live and I am…” Tears flooded her eyes once more and she sailed over and cupped his face between her palms. The cold edge of the stick bit into his cheek. “And I am glad they did save you. How very empty my life would be if I’d not met you, Christian.”
Her words filled him, lifted him. The chains of his past, however, would never free him. “I would have you know the whole of it,” he said tersely, stepping back.
“Then tell me,” she demanded, a spark glinting in her eyes. “Tell me everything.”
He would and then she’d cease to look at him as though he were the single reason for her smile. He’d been selfish long enough where she was concerned. “I am the reason my friend was nearly killed.” His mind shied away from offering her the whole truth.
Her mouth parted.
Christian grinned, even as her silent shock knotted his insides. “What, nothing to say to that? Would you have me tell you the chaos at Toulouse?” The floodgates cracked open and then the memories rushed through of the terrified panic. The agonized screams. Then that one shot. The burning scent of flesh invaded his nostrils and bile climbed up his throat. With a roar, he hurled his empty glass at the opposite wall where it exploded into a spray of crystal shards, falling upon the sideboard like a thousand useless teardrops.
At the soft, hesitant touch on his sleeve, he stiffened and braced for the loathing in his wife’s eyes. Instead, agony bled through their crystalline depths. “Oh, Christian,” she whispered and then wrapped her arms about his chest.
He went taut, his hands of their own will came up and hovered about her, aching to fold her close and breathe in the purity of her summer scent. Christian closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, determined to have the whole of it told. “I was a lousy shot. I spent more time shaking in battle than killing men. Maxwell and Blackthorne became protectors of sorts. Set themselves up at my side.” As though he’d been a bloody babe in the nursery in need of constant care. “Timing was everything.” He dropped his chin atop the silken tresses of her golden curls and stared beyond to the raging fire in the hearth. Those flames drew him back to Toulouse. “Do you know how to fire a gun, Prudence?”
She nodded once. “My brother schooled me on how to use a gun. He would take us hunting but Poppy and I despised killing the animals so we would go along and scare them off so he could not kill them, either.” Ah, God, that was the manner of innocent she was and had been. His wife’s eyes grew distant with the memory. “After failed outings, Sin insisted we fire at the trees on our country estate until we became skilled shots.”
…Look at the mark I left up that demmed tree! I will kill scores of Frenchies…
A sad smile pulled on his lips at the memory of him, Derek, and Tristan battling one of the oaks on his father’s property. How hopelessly naïve they’d been. “Shooting a man in the midst of war is very different than shooting at a tree.” His ears flooded with the bloodcurdling screams and the thunderous booms of cannon fire.
“When a flintlock is fired, it sprays a shower of sparks forward from the muzzle and another sideways out of the flash hole. In battle, a soldier fires in volley to ensure one soldier’s spark does not ignite another man’s powder as he is in the act of loading.”
Prudence stilled. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
She knew.
Yet it needed to be spoken into her existence, so she truly knew. “Der—Blackthorne,” he said, the agony ripped through him with a vicious ferocity. The pain of regret as sharp now as it had been then. “While he loaded his weapon, I fired, and his flint exploded in his face.”
A gasp slipped past her lips.
“He i
s…” He shook his head once. “Was, the second son of a duke.” Christian dug his fingertips into his temples to blot out the dark reminders of those early days when he’d returned from war. “Society whispers about him. They call him the Beast of Blackthorne.”
“That is horrid that Society would be so cruel.” A spirited gleam burned in her eyes. Ah, that was just one of the things he loved about her. She spit in the face of Society’s cruelness.
He let his hands fall to his side and then balled them. The man reviled as a beast had been made that way by Christian’s mistake. Desperate to be done with the telling, he continued in a gruff voice. “Both his father and brother died and he found himself duke.” Christian stared over the top of her head, unable to meet her gaze. “He does not leave the confines of his townhouse.” His telling was met with a long, energized silence. “And now you know the man you married, Prudence.”
His arms hung uselessly at his side and he waited for the moment she retreated in loathing at the coward she called husband. “I owed you these truths before you married me,” he said flatly. Yet he’d proven a coward even in that. “I was not supposed to care. I did not want to find a woman who cared for me and respected me, but you were always there and I always wanted you to be there.” Always wanted her to be forever at his side.
She searched his face with her unfathomable eyes. “Oh, Christian.” Leaning up on her tiptoes, she placed her lips to his.
Chapter 23
Lesson Twenty-three
Many times a gentleman needs a lady to make him see reason…
She kissed him. And in that kiss, she infused all the love, hope, forgiveness, and joy her husband deserved. And while she kissed him, her heart broke and bled for a man who saw no worth in his life. A man who, with his dignity and self-guilt, had more honor than anyone else she knew. And she kissed him for the loss he’d known.
Captivated by a Lady's Charm Page 27
