Valor shook his head, rubbing at his temples once more. “I am tired, milady,” he said. “I cannot speak of it now.”
“Milord,” Godfrey said, entering the room. “This has just arrived.” Godfrey held a silver tray toward Valor. On it lay a rolled parchment tied with black ribbon.
“Thank you, Godfrey,” Valor said, taking the parchment. He loosed the ribbon and read the contents of the correspondence. “Answer at once that we accept, Godfrey. Though as tired as I am in mind and body this night, I wish avoidance were a choice.”
“Yes, milord,” Godfrey said. “Milady,” he bid to Coquette before clicking his heels, turning, and leaving.
“We will attend Lord Dickerson’s dinner in two weeks,” Valor sighed. “It will be your first official appearance as Lady of Roanan.”
“Lord Dickerson?” Coquette asked, though she remembered well enough the man who had witnessed her strange marriage.
“An old friend of my uncle’s…now my friend as well. You know him,” Valor answered. He suddenly looked overly fatigued as if he hadn’t slept in days. Yet Coquette had slept but hard the night before and awakened to find him at her side. Why then did he appear so fatigued?
“Are you indeed well, milord?” Coquette asked. Her heart raced with sudden concern for his well-being.
“I-I am but distracted and fatigued,” he said. “And please do not play at concern for my well-being. It will not save you from my advances this night.”
“Save me from your advances?” she asked, vexed he should think her concern was pretense.
“Yes. No pretended concern will keep me from finding you in my chamber again if I demand it be so,” he said.
“In the first, I do not make to pretend to be concerned,” she told him. “You are weary—it is purely obvious. I only meant to—”
“I will expect you at eight,” he said, rising from his chair. “Be prompt. I have no patience this evening.”
“You have no patience any evening,” Coquette mumbled under her breath.
He glared at her. “For that you will meet me within the hour, woman!” And he stormed out of the room.
“As you wish, beast of a man!” Coquette grumbled. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she mumbled, “But I will not drink the warm milk you offer if you offer it. Let us see what transpires then. Tonight I will see beyond the beast to the very core of your blackened soul—whatever it may cost me.”
Coquette rose from her chair. Glancing at the letter in her hand, the letter from her father, she tossed it into the chair she had only just abandoned. Her response to her father would wait, for she meant to spend the night in Valor’s company—spend it in full consciousness no matter the consequence.
To Soothe the Beast
“Victoria!” Valor called, storming through the kitchen doors. “At once, Victoria! Brat of a girl,” he grumbled as Victoria rose from her chair at the kitchen table.
“What is it, milord?” Victoria asked.
Valor looked from the startled face of one cook to the other. Such matters could not be discussed in their presence.
“I would have a word with you,” he said.
“Of course,” she obeyed.
Once they were alone in the small parlor adjoining the kitchen, Valor growled, “You will prepare your tonic once more for milady, Victoria. And this very night!”
“Only…only once more, milord?” Victoria asked.
Valor ran a hand through his hair—ground his teeth for a moment. He had sworn he would not give her the tonic again. After spending the night astride Goliath, Valor had sworn he would not use the tonic to further deceive Coquette. He had vowed to keep himself from her—forever if needs be. Still, the impertinent woman had vexed him, provoked him to threat, and he knew not what else to do. He had woven a thick web of deception in order that Coquette would believe their marriage was consummate while simultaneously preserving her virtuous innocence. Yet how she vexed him! How she provoked! How thoroughly her very presence tempted him! In that moment, he was bemused at what other path might appear. And so, in a fit of temper, in having to hear her defend her loathsome father yet again, he had threatened. And now, the only choice before him was Victoria’s tonic.
“Only once more, Victoria,” he confirmed. “It will not harm her to have it administered two evenings consecutive, correct?”
“Of course not, milord,” Victoria said. “You have consumed double her amount before she arrived and after, when you worried for her. And you were not ill affected.”
Valor felt a sickness rising in his stomach. He was loath to give her the tonic again. Yet what other choice lay before him? Truth? Certainly not. Still, Valor’s self-loathing only increased, for he knew he had become the equivalent liar to her father. But he could not resist her otherwise. He was certain of it.
He considered other venues. He would go to her, begin an argument, leave his chambers in a fury. Still, it would not serve. He would not triumph in her eyes that way. He must allow Victoria to brew the tonic once more.
“Bring it to my chambers at the half an hour,” he said. “No, wait.” He must triumph. Coquette must understand she belonged to the dark Lord of Roanan, to Lionhardt the Heartless. “No, Victoria,” he said. “You will not bring the milk to my chambers. But at half the hour, you will bring it to her own.”
“Yes, milord,” Victoria said. “I will bring the nutmegged milk to milady’s chambers at half the hour. I will bring it to you, milord.”
“Thank you, Victoria,” Valor said. He would triumph. He would! One way or the other, Coquette would come to know she must forsake her lying father—forsake him in favor of her lying husband.
He grimaced, disgusted with himself for his treachery. And he tasted it bitterly, tasted it with intention. He was a beast, and a beast he would remain.
Coquette sat at her vanity before her looking glass, brushing her hair. Still she was vexed with Valor’s behavior after dinner. Her anxiety in anticipating being in Valor’s presence, in spending the night in his chamber, had begun to lessen. The beast roared of having his way with her yet put her to sleep in the next breath, and Coquette was determined something was amiss with him—something beyond the beast he had become—and she was curious as to exactly what was amiss.
“For that you will meet me within the hour, woman!” she growled at her reflection, mimicking Valor’s last threat. “Hmph!” she breathed. “Well, dark Lord of Roanan, tonight we will see, will we not? Tonight we will see—”
Coquette gasped, fairly leaping from her chair as the doors to her bedchamber suddenly burst open. Valor stepped through the entrance, swiftly closing the doors behind him.
“Ah,” he said, as if he had simply happened into the room to find her there. “There you are.” He strode into the room, looking this way and that as if he had never before seen the furnishings therein. “I favor red,” he said. “It speaks so strongly of passion. Do you not think so?”
“I thought I was to meet you in your chambers, milord,” Coquette said. At once, she was ill at ease over her attire. Certainly she had appeared before him twice previously—dressed in the nightdress of a recent bride. And though the soft white nightdress she wore this night was as modest as any other he had seen her wear, his being in her chamber rather than his unnerved her.
“But you were,” he said. “Still, I cannot have you assuming you are safe from my attentions simply because you have your own chambers in which to retreat, now can I?”
“Am I to have no privacy then, sire?” she returned, attempting to convey more courage than she actually possessed.
“None,” he said. He fumbled with the sapphire cravat at his throat, stripping it from his neck and tossing it into a nearby chair. “This is my house,” he said as he removed his coat and vest. Coquette watched as they too found residence in the chair. “Everything in it belongs to me. Including you.” He unbuttoned his shirt, and Coquette’s eyes widened as he swiftly stripped it off over his head
in one smooth motion. “What? No argument?” he asked, running a strong hand through his nut-brown mane.
“What argument could I offer, sire?” Coquette said. “I have joined the long list of your possessions, and I am well aware of it.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her with suspicion. “There is the softness of a woman in this room,” he said as he looked at her.
Coquette swallowed the lump in her throat, for he did not take his eyes from her as he moved ever nearer.
“Cast-off stockings in the chair next to the bed…timid candles aflame on the mantel…the light fragrance of the vanilla bean.” His voice had dropped to a low, alluring tone—a quality of voice to cause goose pimples to break over Coquette’s arms. “Did I not know the better of it, I would think you endeavored to lure me here for your own purposes at seduction.” He reached out, placing one strong hand around her neck.
Coquette’s courage began to abandon her then, and she stepped back and out of his grasp. “It is…it is thus every evening, milord,” she said.
“Then it is every evening you wish to lure me to your own purposes?” he asked, reaching for her again, this time with both hands encircling her neck.
“I assure you, I meant no lure,” she said, suddenly breathless as she gazed into the warm amber of his eyes.
“Your existence in itself is a lure, milady,” he said.
“You own me, milord,” she said. She was both hurt and vexed he should toy with her. “As you have reminded me only a moment ago, there is no need for you to play the attentive lover.”
His brow furrowed then into the deepest of frowns. “As you wish, milady,” he growled. The next instant, she was in his arms. He held her body firm against the warm flesh of his bare chest with one hand, while his other, fingers woven through her hair, held her head to his as he kissed her.
At the first touch of his lips to hers, all vexation, all rational thought, fled Coquette’s mind. A tonic in himself was he—savory, intoxicating—and she felt her knees weaken as he held her. No beast could kiss her thus, evoke such blissful feelings in her. Surely the adept mouth sealed to her own was Valor’s, not that of some brutal beast. In the flavor and feel of his moist kiss, she knew this to be true!
Breathless, ravenous in her desire for his affections, Coquette felt her own arms return his embrace, reveled at the warm, smooth feel of his skin beneath her palms. With no tainted spiced milk to dull her mind, Coquette drank deeply of the passion Valor drizzled over her, evoked within her. Yet even for her euphoria, her pure joy at being the object of his passionate attention, a painful pang of regret traveled the length of her body—regret in that she had not instantly defied her father three years previous—regret in not having spent each day since rapt in Valor’s affections.
She was bewitching him! By matching his attentions, reciprocating his kiss, Coquette threatened to destroy Valor’s oaken will! He drank deeply of the affections of her mouth, reveled in the feel of her body in his arms, her soft hair between his fingers. Where was Victoria? He would be undone in one minute more—undone and unable to keep himself from her!
He tried to call on his pain of three years previous—the excruciating pain left in him when she had chosen her father’s will over his. He thought of the heart he once owned, the breaking of it at her hands. But it was of no consequence, for the beloved beauty in his arms threatened to soothe the beast.
Though she heard it, Coquette did not heed the knock on the door. She wanted nothing, save to stay thus with Valor forever. Yet he broke from her instantly, almost—she fancied—desperately.
“Victoria,” he breathed as he rather stumbled toward the door. “She will have brought warm milk to us.”
Coquette stood breathless, nearly panting as she watched Valor open the door. Victoria stood without the room, a silver chalice in each hand. She bore them on no silver tray as she had twice before, and Coquette felt her own brow lift with curiosity as Victoria handed one chalice to Valor, saying, “I have brought you the warm milk you requested, milord.”
“Thank you, Victoria,” Valor said. Coquette did not miss the breath of utter relief he released next.
“And for you, milady,” Victoria said, offering the other chalice to her. Victoria looked quickly to Valor, whose attention was drawn to the chalice as he drank. Nodding with reassurance, Victoria winked at Coquette, bidding she accept the chalice.
Coquette understood at once. Victoria had promised only that very morning—promised she would never again deceive Coquette. However, she had made no promise concerning her master. Whatever had been added to Coquette’s milk the two occasions previous now lingered in Valor’s. She wondered for a moment, was it safe for him to consume? Yet Victoria’s gentle nod as Coquette accepted her own chalice reassured her.
“Leave us then, Victoria,” Valor said.
“Of course, milord,” Victoria said, turning to walk away as Valor closed the door behind her.
Valor tossed his empty chalice to join his discarded clothing on the nearby chair.
“Drain your cup, milady,” he demanded, “and with haste.”
“But such a sweet drink, should it not be savored?” Coquette asked. She studied him as she sipped from her chalice. She fancied he was far more unsettled than he wished her to know.
“Passion is to be savored, Coquette!” he growled. “Not spiced milk.” A delightful shiver passed over her at the sound of her name spoken from his lips. He had not referred to her by name since her coming to Roanan. She wondered then if the tainted milk were already affecting him.
“Very well, milord,” she said, swallowing the last mouth of milk from her own chalice. Slowly, she set the chalice on the nearby vanity and waited. What next then? she wondered, trepidation and exhilaration battling within her.
He advanced upon her then, taking her arm and pulling her against him. She fancied he winced as he looked at her, and there was regret, sadness, reflected in the lion-amber of his eyes.
Raising one hand to her face, slowly caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers, he mumbled, “You are yet more beautiful than even I remembered.” Taking her chin softly between his thumb and forefinger, he kissed her tenderly once, then twice. Letting his mouth hover to hers, he whispered, “Once you cared for me, Coquette. Remember?” His speech was slower, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
Coquette knew whatever tainted the milk was fast overtaking him. Suddenly, she regretted it, She did not want him to fall into such a deep sleep as to render him unable to whisper to her, touch her, kiss her! Still, as the light in his eyes began to dull, she knew it was already too late.
“I remember it,” he whispered against her mouth, kissing her lightly. “I remember the way your eyes flashed when—flashed like emeralds on fire—the way they flashed when I took you in my arms. I remember when you gave your mouth to me…kissed me freely…because you wanted to. Do you remember it, Kitty?” He grimaced, as if some pain had momentarily taken his breath from him.
She said nothing, only fought the tears suddenly springing to her eyes. The beast was soothed, and Valor spoke to her now. The tainted milk had turned his mind to the past, and her heart ached that he did not care for her now—broke in knowing he was hardened, vengeful, and did not love her. When fully conscious, he was a beast incapable of positive emotion. Wasn’t he?
“Do you remember it, Kitty?” he asked, his body slightly swaying. “Do you remember when you…when you loved me?” he whispered as he kissed her.
He struggled in keeping his eyes open, and guilt washed over her. Certainly he deserved this—the same treatment she had suffered at his hand. Certainly he deserved it. But she had loved him once—loved him so desperately she had often thought she might die from it. And she loved him still—the Valor he had once been. And though the inward admitting frightened her, she loved the beast he was!
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do remember.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, a sad smile curving his lips. Coque
tte gasped, guilt-ridden and anguished, tears flooding her cheeks as she saw a single tear escape his eye, slowly trickling over his cheek.
“That is good,” he whispered, releasing her and stumbling toward her bed. He attempted to steady himself, gripping one bedpost weakly for a moment. Putting a hand to his forehead, he mumbled, “I-I know what you have done, Kitty.”
Coquette wept as he collapsed onto her bed, struggling to turn onto his back. Frantic, she went to him, worried for his well-being.
“I am sorry, milord,” she whispered, placing a hand to his forehead to ensure he did not suddenly burn with fever. “Only…you did no less to me.”
“It is the beast residing in us all that finds us weaving such webs. And ever we find ourselves caught up in them.”
“I am sorry,” Coquette said, brushing tears from her cheeks.
“I know what you have done, my beauty,” he repeated. “And…and I want you to understand…I want you to know…” he stammered, his speech ever more slurred. “I want you to know that I do not think ill of you for killing me, Kitty. For I more than deserve it.”
“Killing you?” Coquette gasped. “How have I killed you?” she asked. Had Victoria misjudged her concoction? Panic overtook her then. “Valor! You are well! Tell me you are well!”
“I can feel it,” he whispered. “Whatever tonic you put in my drink…it is killing me now. I can hardly keep unconsciousness at bay.”
“No, no, no,” Coquette said. “The chalices were only exchanged, Valor! You will be well come morning. As I ever was.”
“Hush, Kitty,” he mumbled, another smile spreading across his handsome face. “All is well. You killed me before…and this time it is less painful somehow. I-I thank you for it.”
The Whispered Kiss Page 12
