Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  But Bly did not get to claim Rhys as his so easily.

  “My son.” Even though it was a mere whisper, her words were pointed.

  Bly bent at the foot of the bed, pressing his hands into the mattress, caging in her feet. She drew her legs back as he peered up at her, pain heavy at his brow.

  “Our son. Don’t take him away from me. I’ve only just found him.”

  “So you will send me away? That is why I did not tell you. You will keep him to yourself until you tire of him as you did me and the children.”

  She watched as anguish pulled at his features, drawing down his shoulders and eyes, until he was bent in half at the foot of her bed, bent as if he were being crushed by the weight of the world.

  “You have such little faith in me. As if I could be capable of separating a mother from her child.”

  “I do not know you or what you are capable of. Not fully. But from what I have suffered, I can hazard a guess.”

  Bly gnawed at his lip until he finally stood and walked to the fireplace.

  “This woman,” he said in a deep voice, pointing up at the sad portrait, his words terse. “This woman,” he repeated, “suffered that fate.” His hand dropped to the mantle. “I suffered that. I would never want you or Rhys to know the pain of such a separation.”

  Clara saw it now. The woman with eyes like Bly’s, only sadder and blue. It looked as if she were crying, but her thin lips were spread into a smile charged with happy lies. Her hair was black and worn in loose curls, her pale shoulders draped in soft pink satin. It was a beautifully haunting portrait, even more so as her son stood below it, searching for an answer he would never receive.

  *

  “I was the one who found her in the pond,” Bly whispered. “She drowned herself.” The words were thick in his throat.

  He felt Clara move in the bed as if she was trying to close the distance between them. He did not want her comfort, not after what she had said.

  “I was returned to England after it was discovered I had a will of my own in India. Apparently, I took away from my father’s favorite pastimes. I was kicked out of a dozen other schools before Eton for bad behavior,” he continued, clearing his throat. If Clara could hate him so easily, then she could hear the part of his past he never wished her to know.

  “I only wished to return to Burton Hall, you see. So, I continued acting the role of the hellion until I was chased out of Eton as well. I was sent here until it was decided what to do with me. When I arrived, my mother didn’t recognize me. I hadn’t seen her since my father took Walter and I to India when I was five.”

  Bly tapped his fingers against the mantle in a busy rhythm, numbing away the pain that threatened to erupt from within. He paused for a moment and swallowed, casting his eyes to the floor. If she believed him to be the devil, then here was her final proof.

  “The changes in my mother were more than those brought on by the passing of years. She had a wild look to her eyes. She lived in a world that was not living. Her body roamed Burton Hall, but her mind was elsewhere. She drifted from room to room, Clara, dressed in her favorite ball gown, wearing every piece of jewelry she owned, acting hostess to an imaginary ball. My mother was mad,” he said in disgust, finally looking to her for some ounce of understanding.

  “Why is her portrait kept here instead of the portrait gallery? She does not deserve to be hidden away, Bly.”

  “They’ll be unkind. They’ll make a mockery of her.”

  “Who will?”

  “Anyone who sees the painting. The story does not end with her being mad. It ends with me finding her in a pond after she weighted her skirts. It ends with me never finishing school and buying a commission into the army. It ends with my brother and father continuing on as if nothing happened. She never existed to them. It ends with my aunt being made the laughing stock of London because madness ran in her family. She was thrown off by a duke and left a spinster. The Ravensdales are blackguards and the Napiers are lunatics. I’m the result of both. Completely cursed, ruined by a name.”

  “You were a child.”

  “I was sixteen. I allowed it to happen. I thought she would be better off under the care of Tilly than in some asylum.”

  “You were a child,” Clara insisted again. “You cannot blame yourself for what happened.”

  “I killed my mother,” he confessed. He had never spoken those words before now, but there it was—the truth. He was unworthy of everything, including the woman sitting opposite him. She deserved a man capable of care, one that had not fought without rules and taken the lives of others without pause. Killing his mother had only been the first life that fell at his hands.

  “Sometimes I wonder if there was a valid reason why my father took us away, and I hate myself more for swaying to his side. He was a selfish man, worse than me if you can believe it.” A heartless laugh escaped him as looked to Clara, her hand pressed against her chest, her eyes wet and dull. “My father took us because he could. He broke my mother’s heart and humiliated her. He robbed his sons of their mother, and because I was selfish, I stole away her life.”

  “I wish you would stop saying that,” she said, closing her eyes tight. “It was never your fault. You must stop believing that.” Her voice cracked and Bly realized he had hurt her with his confession, as he feared; maybe as he intended.

  Clara gazed down at Rhys and his heart tugged uncomfortably in his chest. To think she thought so lowly of him—that he would take Rhys away—well, his proposal would need to wait.

  “I hated her for so long,” Bly said, moving across the room. He pulled the chair close to the bed and sank into the seat, unable to believe what his father was thinking those years ago. He suspected the main difference was his father never cared for his mother. His father only cared for his string of mistresses and his wicked debauchery.

  “You are still her son and she never warranted what happened in her life. She was a victim. You—” she swallowed, her eyes shining.

  What he would give to hold Clara again.

  “You did what you thought best. You did not kill her and I would say you love her, even when you did not think that was possible. You must make peace with that, Bly.”

  He reached over and placed two fingers into Rhys’s small hand.

  “I did,” he admitted, much to his surprise. “I begged for her help the night I returned and found you dying. I…I forgave her when I saw you breathing the next morning.” His voice was just a small whisper to hide the embarrassment. His confession was a small secret between him, his heart, and that horrible night. He never intended to tell Clara.

  “Life is too short to be burdened with hate.”

  The conviction in her voice rang through the room louder than a firing cannon.

  “Who have you hated?” he dared, knowing the answer.

  Clara looked up, her eyes wide and gray. “You,” she said after a long pause.

  “I deserve it.”

  She must have agreed because she only averted her gaze. “Don’t take him away.”

  Still, after everything he told her, she doubted him.

  “No one is leaving, Clara. Not even me. Not even if you wish for it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Clara was happy to be out in the late spring sun. After being shut away for so long, the warmth was rejuvenating. As was the smell of the air, rolling over the vast moors and carrying the sweet perfume of spring flowers.

  She sat on her knees, the damp earth staining her skirts. None of it mattered as she hummed and clipped another anemone for a bouquet to adorn her new writing desk. What a surprise it had been to be moved from her sickbed to a new room a week ago, a grand room actually, facing the back gardens and fountains.

  Her basket was becoming full of fresh-clipped blooms. She paused as Bly stepped down from the back pavilion and strolled her way. She pretended that she did not notice and continued to gather flowers, but it was impossible to ignore his presence, though she had tried since that aw
ful night he had confronted her about Rhys.

  Well, awful wasn’t the correct word. It had been meaningful and honest. But in his confession lay his feelings for her, feelings she did not think she could ever return now. Clara had tried her best to avoid him after that night, asking Mrs. Gibbs to sit in with her instead.

  His shadow eclipsed her in the garden, depriving her of the warm sun. She clipped her shears through the woody stalk of a peony stem.

  “Hello, Clara.”

  “Hello.” She placed the blush-colored bloom into her basket, mindful not to look up.

  “It’s a lovely day,” he said.

  His feet shifted in front of her, but she continued to look at the ground. “It’s pleasant.” She had no interest in discussing the day’s weather.

  “I just returned from a ride.”

  “Have you?”

  He took another step, purposefully blocking the basket from her reach.

  “Was it enjoyable?” she asked, shaking the annoyance from her question.

  “It was.”

  She continued to clip flowers and hold them in her hand when Bly refused to move away from the basket.

  “Would you care to go for a short walk?”

  “I’m busy,” she retorted quickly. Perhaps it was a little too quickly, because Bly moved his foot to step on her skirts to keep her from her task. She tossed down her shears and glared up to at his imposing body, the sunlight beaming from behind, blocking out his face.

  “Just a short walk,” he insisted, as if he was not purposefully holding her attention with his boot on her hem. “We can go to another garden and gather more flowers if you wish it.”

  “I have picked enough to serve my purpose. Please remove your foot from my dress.”

  Bly stood his ground.

  “I cannot stand if you do not remove your foot.”

  His boot slowly moved to side before snapping back to her skirts. The devil!

  “Bly!”

  His foot moved to the side. She grabbed her basket and rose, setting off toward the house without a backward glance.

  “Clara,” he called after her. “I thought we could walk in the other direction.”

  “I never promised to walk with you. I simply asked for you to remove your foot.” Her breath shortened, but she pressed on. She did not need his sympathy as well. If she appeared weak, he would lock her back up in that sickroom to waste away all summer.

  “Come on now,” he shouted. Bly caught up to her easily, but she did not stop. She needed to get as far away from him as possible. “Why the sour mood?”

  “Leave me alone!” she snapped.

  He gripped her shoulder and swung her around to face him. She looked up, startled, at his quick grasp of her.

  “Bly,” she warned. “Let me go.”

  “Answer me one thing.” His eyes were dark, his voice suddenly sober.

  If she were being honest with herself, which she rarely was when Bly was concerned, she would admit that he looked very handsome in his riding attire. He looked virile and flushed from the afternoon’s excursions. His lips looked incredibly kissable. Most damning of all—his attention was meant in kindness and she hated him for it.

  “What?” she asked. There was no point in politeness. She pulled herself free and squared her shoulders.

  “I don’t understand what has changed between us.”

  She tried his words on her lips, feeling their bruising power. “Nothing has changed at all.” That was not true—everything had changed between them.

  “Are you sure? I believe something has changed. You can’t stand being around me.”

  “I am polite to you.”

  “I don’t want your politeness, Clara.”

  “Then what do you want?” she shot back.

  “I want to…that is, I would like to know if—”

  “If what?” she challenged again.

  “You’re damn prickly today.” His brow furrowed. “Very well.” He turned to walk away, but Clara was not satisfied. He succeeded in making her angry and she would not see him escape a fight with her. Perhaps he would finally leave her alone after they did have a row.

  “No, please continue,” she prodded. “I am interested in what you have to say on the matter of us, as you say.” Her words dripped with bitterness.

  “You can’t stand the sight of me.”

  She leaned back, her hand settling on her chest. “I could before?”

  “You made no objections to me being in your sickroom.”

  “I was unable to move. Escape was not possible.”

  “Escape? Am I that awful?” He stretched out his palm toward her and sighed. “No, don’t answer that.”

  “I cannot stand the sight of you,” she said, ignoring his plea. “I am well now. I do not need you to coddle me. I would prefer you leave me alone, in fact. I will look for a new position with another family. It’s no longer appropriate for me to be here now that you have returned. The village is full of enough gossip…”

  He took an angry step forward and grasped her arms in his hands. Clara quirked an eyebrow, urging him on. She would show him that he meant nothing to her, even if that was not the truth.

  “You’ve grown cold and bitter,” he said in a menacing voice. “I don’t believe a word you say.”

  “I don’t care if you believe me, Bly. If you would like gratitude for your care of me while I was ill, then thank you. I never asked you to act as my nurse.”

  “I never sought after your appreciation. I was there because—”

  “Why? From guilt? Responsibility?” she cut in. Her voice had grown heated; the air wheezed within her chest, painful.

  “Damn you, Clara.”

  She laughed at that. “You can take your hands off me now.”

  “What do you need from me? A flowery speech?” He released her from his hold. “For me to get down on my knees and beg?”

  She continued her cold stare, refusing to speak.

  “I apologized,” he ground out.

  Tears pricked her eyes, but she would never allow him the satisfaction of seeing how he affected her. “I have made peace with the past. I do not need an apology to move forward. I do not seek to be in your good opinion, nor do I wish to be in your company longer than necessary. I am happy,” she found herself almost to the point of yelling, but refrained, dropping her voice. “For the first time in my miserable life, I have found people who need…and love me. I have the love of Rhys. That is all I need.”

  Bly stepped forward; Clara fell back a few steps.

  He reached for her and she stumbled backward. “Tell me, if you are truly as happy as you say, why did my aunt abandon you?”

  “It was a kindness, Bly. I should have been dismissed and left to fend for myself. Shunned for the sin I committed.”

  “Kindness? The house is as much a mess as I found it three years ago. The window in your pathetic excuse for a room wouldn’t shut, and there was a hole in the rafters above to the roof. Don’t think I haven’t seen the rags you stuffed there to try to keep warm. That’s where I found you.” Bly’s anger shot to the surface.

  “I was forced,” she continued, fighting back the urge to slap him, “to tell your aunt that I would no longer be able to stay in my post when I learned I was with child. She wanted me gone, of course.”

  Breathing was becoming impossible, but she pressed on, her voice soft and full of emotion. It did not help that he made a choking sound in his throat. She never wanted to see his reaction to this news. “I was forced to deal with that humiliation. I stayed on b-but I—”

  Bly rushed forward and braced his hands on her arms, knocking the words from her lips. Clara tried to pull herself free but he did not loosen his grip. He only pulled her tighter against his body, only strengthened his grip around her shoulders until there was no space, no air between them, and his lips came crashing down onto hers.

  His lips moved over hers with purpose—licking and sucking until she had no choice but to open
her mouth and welcome the caress of his tongue and hold her steady as her legs wobbled. Her shoulders writhed and she made an undignified response in the back of her throat, desperate for him to stop, but Bly was merciless. He kissed her vehemently until her body stilled and instinctively melted against his.

  Clara realized then that he had won.

  He refused to admit his affections and so did she, so their words left them once more at an impasse, but their kiss betrayed them both as soon as she kissed him back. Minutes passed before the spinning stopped and she caught up to her traitorous heart. Her hands moved slowly up between them, pushing against his chest in a perfect mirror as his hands moved from her waist and curled around the back of her head.

  He gazed down at her appraisingly and loosened his grip, just as she struck her hand across his face.

  “I was wrong,” he said, his fingers tracing over her handprint.

  Her body shook and her chest heaved as it struggled for air. Her whole body felt as if it were sparking. Bly massaged his red cheek.

  “Entirely,” she leveled as she grabbed her dropped basket and stormed back toward the house.

  Of course, he was wrong about nothing. In fact, he had been very right in all of his assumptions, but she refused to tell him the truth. Confessing such would mean he had her heart once more and she was not prepared to surrender that again, especially to him.

  *

  It looked as if someone took to the sky with a set of watercolors as the day’s light waned through the windows.

  There was little which could distract Clara from the quarrel she had with Bly that afternoon. She neglected to join the others for dinner. She would go to the nursery later when the rest of the house settled away for the evening. She would hide under her bed if she had to, if only she could escape Bly and his questions.

  Clara had passed the last hour staring blankly at the bouquet on her desk. She flicked a petal of a peony blossom, inhaling the sickening perfume until she was dizzy. She pulled a daisy from the vase next, plucking a petal off with the passing minutes or hours; she could not tell, really. She should start looking for another position, she thought, as she plucked free another petal.