by TYNER, LIZ
‘Are you asleep?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I have been for this past hour.’
She laughed. ‘Then I had best leave before you wake because I don’t think I will be able to survive much more.’
He hugged her close, giving him a completeness he’d never felt before.
‘You feel so strong,’ she said. ‘As if you are twice my strength.’ Her palm flattened and stilled.
‘You jest,’ he whispered and rolled, keeping her in his arms to stop above her. ‘I am three times your strength at least. Four on a good day.’
She pushed at his chest, but he swooped down to cover her face with kisses before he rolled to his back again.
This was not working as he’d hoped. In truth, he didn’t feel stronger, but weaker. He could not force himself to roll from the bed.
‘Is this not better than being a governess?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know it is that much different,’ she said. ‘My charge is just much more difficult to command. Did you not learn when you were a child that you must obey the governess?’
‘No. I am quite certain only my sisters had a governess. I had a tutor. My father would step into the room as I studied my lessons and make certain to check with the instructor to ask what I was being taught. He was always enquiring if I had learned my numbers that day. Sometimes my mother would insist the tutor work with my sisters. Father would bluster that they didn’t need to learn, because they were to marry. She would tell him that their husbands might need help understanding the sums.’
‘I think I would have liked your mother.’
A grunt of agreement. Both his mother and father had seen that his days were filled with learning and responsibility. At least until his mother became ill. When she failed, the world changed. When the Viscount lost his wife, he lost all care for the world.
‘We’d just finished a portrait sitting when my mother became ill. The paint wasn’t dry. Immediately after her death, my father commissioned a larger portrait just of her. It still hangs in the library.’
The portrait was impossible to miss. His father had sat in the room days on end staring at the likeness, twisting her handkerchief in his hand. William had hardly ever entered the room. Seeing his mother’s face had been like having a blade in his stomach. It reminded him that she was no longer with them. Seeing his father sitting there, dazed, lost to them, willingly, had been worse than his mother’s death.
‘I don’t like to talk of it,’ he said. ‘The past is gone. It was not that hard for me to put it behind me. I loved Mother dearly, but it just was not the terrible tragedy for me that it was for my sisters. Oh, they carried on so.’ He bumped his head against hers. ‘You would not believe the tears. Rosalind was six and giving in to grief too much and would not leave her room, just as Father would not leave the portrait. We had to do something. Sophia and I picked Rosalind up. I had her under the arms and Sophia her feet and we carried her down the stairway. It is a wonder we didn’t kill ourselves. Sophia had tears rolling down her cheeks. Then we locked Rosalind out of the house and told her she could not return until she stopped crying.’
‘Did it work?’
‘She totally destroyed the window, but she was not crying when she found us and told us we could not lock her out of the house. She said she would burn the house down before she let us do that. I believed her. Rosalind is strong-willed. The fuss upset Harriet. I had to drag her from under the bed, then she was afraid the house would catch afire while she was asleep and the nursery maid would not wake and we would all die. So she would not sleep unless Sophia and I were with her and then Rosalind had to be there as well because…I cannot remember why. Oh, yes. Harriet was afraid that if we let Rosalind sleep anywhere else she would start the house afire. She convinced Rosalind to stay with her and things got better.’
For three months his sisters had all slept in one bed and he had put two chairs together and tried to sleep. He’d hardly been able to get any rest. Then he’d started leaving the house after his sisters slept. He’d felt guilt for leaving that first night, but his father had remained staring at the portrait and William had not been able to stand another moment of the grief. The men at the tavern had welcomed him and they’d all known his mother had died. They’d drunk to life and laughter and pretty lasses.
Isabel’s arms tightened at his waist. ‘You were so young to deal with that.’
He snorted. ‘I was not. I was a man at thirteen. When I was fourteen I discovered that my mother’s cousin had diverted nearly four hundred pounds of my father’s funds. Then, when I was away at university, at first Sophia would help me keep an eye on Father’s affairs.’
Things had changed while he was at university. Rosalind and Harriet became more interested in the funds, particularly after he let them keep a portion of all increases to themselves. That had been a profitable decision. Rosalind had signed their father’s name on to a letter hiring a quite good land steward.
‘Rosalind became quite good at forgery and understanding accounts. Harriet reads all she can find about crops and livestock, and shares the information with the tenants. Harriet knows the number of eggs any breed of chicken should lay in the first year and how much the amount of eggs will decline in the second. She has also informed me that if a chicken starts laying eggs with thin shells, a solution is to crush eggshells and put them about for the chickens to peck. Father barely knows how the eggs get on the table.’
William turned to Isabel. He brushed a kiss on her nose, gave her a squeeze to pull her close and then rolled from the bed.
The most fortunate thing of the night had happened when he talked of the past. ‘I cannot sleep this early.’ He dropped another kiss on her forehead, softening his words. ‘Goodnight, Songbird.’
Those last words were safe. They sounded pleasant, but meant nothing. He would go to the club and possibly visit Sophia later. One didn’t want to start a habit which might be hard to break.
*
Isabel sat in front of the window, letting the evening light shine on the paper so she wouldn’t have to have a lamp.
William had arrived home around midday. She’d heard his footsteps and then the door of his room closed, and nothing else.
Having him home pleased her, but she wished it didn’t. It would be best if she celebrated his leaving.
Sylvester’s words returned to her. William had taken care of his sisters when he should have had someone caring for him. The memories of grief and responsibility had blended, causing him not to wish for children.
A maid opened and closed a door, bringing Isabel her tea.
‘French apricot biscuits,’ the maid said. Isabel nodded.
The maid opened the door to exit, holding the empty tray, then stepped sideways to give William room to enter.
Looking at the paper, she ignored his presence and gave a puff, pretending to dry ink.
‘You should put on a performance for my sisters. I would like to see it as well.’
‘I wasn’t married when I wished to sing. I was younger.’ Something had changed after the night at Wren’s. The way the men had watched the singer. Before, she’d not minded the eyes on her. Loved the attention. After watching the singer warble and the men leering, now she could only think of the faded shading and the filth in the corner and the scurrying of insects. Just the thought tightened her stomach in the most unpleasant way.
Her eyes locked on his boots.
He knelt, holding her desk with one hand to keep himself easily balanced, but his face was now lower and she couldn’t escape his examination.
‘Sing a quick song. Just for me. Nothing particular. A lullaby.’
She shook her head and brushed across the papers with her fingertips.
‘I can hear you hum when I am in the hallway.’
‘I don’t hum.’
He stared at her.
‘I tried to sing for your sister Sophia and I could not. Never before had that happened. Not ever close to that. But the words
were frozen inside me.’
The night she’d been attacked, she’d feared Wren might destroy her voice with the knife. He hadn’t, but the blade had reached into her spirit and taken away her wish to sing.
‘Isabel. You can’t lock that voice away. It is a part of you. You must let others hear it as well.’
‘No. Just the thought of singing in front of people now…’ She touched her stomach, trying to brush away the coldness.
Chapter Twelve
He was a fool.
He let himself out the door and walked to the mews, escaping his house. Before, he’d wanted to go to the taverns and clubs, but now he felt forced away. Because he knew what would happen if he stayed in. He’d not be able to turn away from her as easily as he’d turned from the drink.
He wasn’t deserting Isabel, but he could not bear the thoughts buffeting himself another second. He had one foot in the memories of the past and another dangling in Isabel’s direction to be pulled even deeper into the strangling world of emotions.
He had a chamber that had a suitable bed and he could have used it. He just didn’t want to be mired in thoughts and when Isabel was near he acted on impulse, and then his mind followed. The actions he liked; the thoughts he could do without.
He ran his fingers through his hair and ignored the darkness around him, reminding himself of the saying that it was darkest before the day dawned. But it was also dark in the light when grief took the day and choked it lifeless. If not for the nights of drinking and revelry, he could not have survived the past.
Three grieving sisters trying to find their footing and a father who could not move didn’t spread joy and sunshine all about.
Some things were best forgotten. Thinking of the past only put one back into it. Life wasn’t to be lived in memories, but in experiences. Forward at full rush, letting the wind of revelry breeze the thoughts away suited him best.
He owed Isabel nothing, other than material things and, of course, not to bring her public disgrace. He had saved her and in return had had little choice except marriage.
All in all, he felt rather fortunate when he truly considered the options of a wife other than Isabel. In fact, the one good thing of this was that Isabel would have been his choice had he wished to marry, but he hadn’t.
He planned out the next few days of his life. He would work to get the horses back and he would spend an enjoyable time doing so. A few nights with his friends at the clubs should clear his mind.
*
‘Are you going to stare at the cards all night?’ Sylvester asked.
With a small shake of his head, William pulled a card from his hand and put it on the table. He’d lost again. He didn’t care.
Lord Robert, younger brother of the Duke of Wakefield, made a rude jest. Sylvester laughed. The Duke didn’t. William hadn’t thought the comment insulting Sylvester humorous either.
The ale tasted off. He kept hearing Isabel’s voice, and the tune she hummed. He stood. ‘I’m finished.’
Sylvester looked his way, smiling. ‘Leaving early?’
‘I just want to go. My luck with cards is dismal tonight. Next time should be better.’ He’d spent the last few nights running around the clubs with Sylvester and staying up all night.
When he returned home to sleep in the day, Isabel had been moving about in the house. He was certain she’d known he was trying to rest and had strolled about slamming doors. One could not accidentally create that much noise in the hallway outside his bedchamber door.
‘I imagine you do,’ Sylvester said. ‘Ready to beg her forgiveness. You’ve not fooled me. I know she’s got her chemise knotted around your private parts. You’re going to be wearing a bonnet if you give in.’ He leaned towards William.
‘I told you we didn’t have a disagreement,’ he said. ‘We are getting along quite well. She has no complaints of anything I say or do.’
‘Unlike the rest of us,’ Sylvester said. ‘But go along home. You’d best enjoy the fruits of marriage if you have to wear the fripperies. If a woman such as she asked me to wear a bonnet, I would ask which colour was her favourite.’ He paused. ‘Which colour do you choose, Will?’
William clamped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘You should be so fortunate as to wed someone like Isabel.’
‘I married a dainty little doll,’ Lord Robert said, ‘and the next thing I knew she had feet bigger than mine and had filled the house with crying babies, plus all her cousins and her mother, grandmother and grandfather.’ He mused, almost whispering, ‘I married one woman and ended up with a village under my roof.’
The Duke of Wakefield didn’t raise his eyes. ‘You just didn’t find the right woman.’
‘Because she does not exist,’ Lord Robert grumbled, thrusting a finger under his eyepatch and rubbing at the eye he’d lost long ago. ‘Even my mistress is more trouble than she’s worth. I had to tell her I am with my wife tonight just so I can get some respite from her.’
The Duke of Wakefield stood, his chair clattering back, tossing his cards face-up on the table. ‘I can see why you men prefer each other’s company instead of a wife’s.’ His voice choked on the last word. ‘A woman might expect something out of a conversation.’ His eyes misted and he turned on his heel and stomped from the room.
‘Blast,’ Lord Robert said. ‘He’s acted like he’s wearing a coat of brambles since his wife passed away.’
William stared after the Duke. Wakefield’s loss had been months before. Months. In the early part of the year.
Lord Robert adjusted the patch, stared at the disarray on the table and then sorted the funds from the cards. ‘That was a winning hand he forfeited. You can tell that my brother has never met my mistress. She doesn’t expect anything out of a conversation.’
‘Neither do my horses,’ Sylvester said, glancing at William. ‘I’m planning to dash off to see them. Autumn is a good time to visit the country. Marvel and Ivory should be ridden and not just by stable hands. If you want to see how they’re faring, and take in the countryside, you might trot down to the estate with me, Will.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ William strode to the hallway, leaving—going home. He had no desire to go to the country, but he kept remembering the pain in Wakefield’s voice. The Duchess had been rather insipid, in William’s opinion. Love had altered the Duke’s mind.
The night air had cooled, giving a liveliness to the darkness. His mood lightened as the sharper air hit his face. He had no wish to be anywhere else. In a few moments he would be home and he would not have to see Isabel, but surely it would cause no harm to speak with her.
He frowned. He was rushing home like some besotted fool. A few more times of such and he would be strangled by those corset ties.
When he stepped into his house, his butler met him with a note, then whisked away.
Isabel had written to tell him that she was spending the night at Sophia’s and would return later on the morrow than she expected. Of course, Sophia had invited him, too. He crumpled the paper and let it fall to the floor. Just as well.
He bent and swept the paper into his hand, smoothed and folded it. He’d have enough for a bonfire by Christmastime.
Walking up the stairs, he stopped at his room only long enough to add the notes to the rest, then he moved down the hallway. At her chamber, he opened her door and peered inside, just to make sure she hadn’t returned. He knew full well the butler would have told him if Isabel was at home, but perhaps she’d returned and the servant hadn’t seen her.
He inhaled, enjoying the soft scent. Roses again. Taking off his coat, he tossed it over a chair and added his waistcoat. Sitting on the dismal bed, he flattened his hand and pushed into the mattress. It should have been replaced years ago, but he’d had no reason to do so in the past.
Removing his boots, he let them fall to the side. Stretching, he lay down. His feet dangled at the end of the bed.
He had to find a way to cleanse her from his thoughts. He remembered staring at
the glass of amber liquid. The feeling of power when he no longer wanted the taste in his mouth and could stand and walk away.
In her room, the presence of Isabel engulfed him. He breathed in deeply, noting only the barest hint of roses in the air. He imagined the taste of her, the lightness of his knuckles brushing against her skin and the way her eyes reflected the blue of the sky.
He imagined her twirling, taking in the world like a flower taking in the morning rain and savouring the drops on petals and the flourishing moments of being alive and at the height of a bloom.
He ached for her.
He rolled from the bed, grabbed his clothing and strode from the room, shutting the door with a slam which was much too muted for his own comfort.
*
He could hear Isabel at the stairway. She had not jested when she’d written that she would be home later than expected.
The paper tightened in his grasp. Footsteps tapped. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap. He could imagine her stopping. One could almost read her thoughts by her movement. She would come in and beg his pardon for being about while he was at home. He was certain of it. Isabel was a generous-spirited person.
He lowered the paper and peered over it.
She stopped long enough to glance in, wave a parcel in his direction and then strolled by the door. A maid followed her, bowing under the weight of her load. He folded the paper, rolled it and popped it against his knee.
He would get someone to summon her. Or send her a note. They must talk. Not a single one of the parcels could have been a larger bed. Perhaps he should just move the little puff of furniture out of the room himself.
The soft voice jolted his reverie. ‘Are you ill?’ she asked. He’d not heard her step into the room. He looked up. She closed half the distance between them and peered at him with wide eyes.
He forgot. He forgot what he was so angry at her for.
‘I am fine,’ he answered. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘It is rather early for you to be awake.’
