Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11)

by Arietta Richmond

  He pushed that thought aside too – an unsolveable problem. They reached the side of the North wing, and he opened the door for her. The dimness of the corridor swallowed them, cutting off the bright light of the sun, and the heat that reflected from the paving. It seemed like his life – moments of light and warmth, quickly swallowed by cold and darkness.

  They paused whilst Mills lit the lantern, then Gerry opened another door, into the servants’ corridors, then another, revealing a set of steep steps, going down into darkness. The chill of the earth surrounded them as they descended. Lady Alyse stayed close against him as they moved downwards, almost touching, feeling her way in the dim light of the lantern.

  He could feel her warmth, and her scent surrounded him. It would be so easy to take her arm, to reach out and touch her shoulder, all in the context of making certain that she did not miss her footing. He forced himself to do neither, to simply descend the stairs beside her.

  They reached the bottom, and went through the old wooden door, the thickness of its timber the only reason that it had not rotted away decades, if not centuries, ago. He moved to the middle of the room, and then allowed himself one touch upon her arm.

  “Stop, my Lady. Mills, stand near the doorway, and hold the lantern high.” She stopped, staring ahead of her in the darkness. “Lady Alyse, please turn around, and look back the way that we came.”

  ~~~~~

  The walk down the stairs into the cellars, with him so close at her side, had been a delicious torture. So very close, that she could feel his warmth, hear his breathing. Her heart beat so hard that she wondered that he could not hear it. She had been tempted, oh so tempted, to allow herself to stumble, to give him reason to touch her, to assist her. But that would be manipulative – and she could not bring herself to be that way, certainly not with this man. If he touched her, she wanted it to be by his choice. So she had breathed deeply, taking in his scent, mingled with the musty odour of long disuse in this part of the Castle, and repressed her longing.

  When he stopped her, she simply stood, uncertain.

  But when she turned at his urging, she nearly stumbled in truth. What met her eyes was truly remarkable.

  In the wavering light of the lantern, the carved roses seemed real, as if they moved in a slight breeze. The detail with which they were carved was extraordinary. She stepped forward, pulling her journal from under her arm, fumbling for a pencil, the need to capture what was before her intense. Sketching standing was difficult, but she could manage.

  Moments later, her concentration was broken by a scraping sound beside her. Lord Tillingford had managed to produce, from somewhere, an old worn table, and a somewhat rickety looking chair. She sank onto it cautiously, dropping her journal to the tabletop. When the chair held her successfully, she went back to sketching at a feverish pace.

  ~~~~~

  Gerry stood behind her, unable to make himself move away. He was fascinated, caught by her rapidly moving hand, as a faithful replica of the carving began to appear on the page. What must it feel like to have such skill? He shuddered – what skill had he, but that of successfully hurting people? His dreams reminded him every night of the monster he was.

  Watching her reminded him what amazing capabilities people could have, it made him feel simultaneously warmed and chilled by how different he was from normal. He should step back, yet he could not force himself to – he ached to be near her, to have her delicate lily of the valley scent surround him, to have a few moments of forgetting.

  There had been a message that morning, from the Dowager Duchess, about the plans for Lady Sybilla’s wedding. It was full of joy, and enthusiasm for the magnificent ballroom at Dartworth Abbey. Hunter and his family were cheered by it, glad that their sister and mother had reached agreement.

  Gerry found himself feeling bitterly out of sorts as a result of hearing its contents. This year had already been agonising, with Charlton’s wedding, followed by Geoffrey’s wedding, and the news of Raphael’s and Bart’s to come. Hearing about it in great detail brought home to him again what he would lose, by never marrying. He struggled with the feeling, and had simply turned and left the room, unable to remain and be polite. Hunter had watched him leave, but said nothing.

  Now, watching Lady Alyse draw, all of the bitterness, the envy and the loneliness rushed in on him again. He simply stood, wanting to touch her, torturing himself – as seemed only right – by allowing nothing but observation. For the rest of her stay, he would need to somehow avoid their daily excursions about the building – for it was harder each day to maintain any distance, when all he wanted was to feel her in his arms. Worst of all, he had begun to suspect that she wanted his company, as much as he wanted hers. He could not let her throw herself away on one as worthless as he.

  For the rest of their stay, he would find excuses to stay with Charles, or Nerissa, as they established the plans that would transform his home and estate – it would be far safer that way.

  He made himself step back. She glanced up at his movement, and her hand moved, as if to stop him. Then her eyes darkened, and she let her hand fall back to the page.

  ~~~~~

  Cunningham watched, over that week, where the visitors went, and what they did, as well as what Otford did. Perhaps there was leverage here – he would know soon enough by watching. He found tasks that took him into the courtyards, and through the lower rooms of the house, and watched – everything.

  Each day, Otford went about for part of the day with the young woman. She was beautiful, obviously a woman of the quality, her clothes on any one day worth more than Cunningham had earned in a month in the army, if not more. Another thing to resent – that Otford had access to a woman like that. Over the period of a week, watching them, Cunningham saw, in Otford’s behaviour, something that made him lick his lips with anticipation.

  He was quite certain that Otford desired the woman, cared about her far more than he cared for any of the other people present. For, when they were together, Otford watched her all the time – she seemed unaware of it, but to an outside observer, it was obvious. He rarely touched her, yet his hand often hovered at her elbow, ready to steady her if she stumbled. She would do nicely, as a tool to exact his revenge. And he might even enjoy himself in more than one way, with such a pretty piece in his grasp.

  After four years of waiting, he was not going to make any mistakes. Revenge would be sweet. He kept watching, and began to plan, seriously.

  The woman began wandering about with only a footman attending her, and Cunningham readied himself. He only hesitated because he had not yet decided where he would hold her, once he had her. Then, as he carefully began to explore parts of the cellars, in the hope of discovering a suitable spot, he heard gossip in the kitchen as he delivered more firewood – the guests were leaving in the morning.

  He was not ready! He could not let her escape… yet, he could not make a mistake – he would have only one chance. He ran back to his small room above the stables, and sat, shaking with rage, wanting to dash through the Castle, find her, and drag her away screaming. Just enough rationality remained to stop him, the cold hard centre of his need for revenge telling him to wait, a better chance would come. Once calm, he went about his duties again, his mind still working feverishly.

  Chapter Six

  Alyse remembered that moment in the cellars as a turning point – in the wrong direction. For after that moment, he had seemed to be avoiding her. The week went by slowly, her days somehow duller without his presence. Mills faithfully guided her about, wherever she expressed an interest in going, but Lord Tillingford had excused himself from his promise to guide her, using consulting with Charles and Nerissa as an excuse. Alyse knew that it was an excuse – she just did not know why he felt the need to avoid her, to her intense frustration.

  Every time they were close to each other, he would move away. Only at dinner time was he unable to avoid her proximity. She delighted in those moments, barely noticing the food on her plate,
soaking in the sensation of his presence at her side while she could. When he spoke of things he cared about, with respect to the estates and the plans that had been created, he was bright, positive, genial, his face lighting with enthusiasm to a handsomeness that stole her breath. Yet when she spoke of other possibilities in life, that changed.

  It was as if the thought of any happiness, any opportunity, beyond the growth of his estates, made him surly. His face would still, his eyes shutter, and his words become dismissive, cold and negative. The contrast was stark. It only intrigued her more. She was sure that the bright man was the real person, and the cold man a mask that he put on, for some reason she did not understand. Yet. For she was determined to discover the truth behind it.

  Like all of her family, she was stubborn. If he thought to turn her attention aside by his terseness, he would fail. Perhaps she would ask Hunter – if she could raise the courage to let Hunter see how strong her interest was.

  The week dragged on, and the day of their departure drew closer, with Alyse having discovered nothing further of the reasons behind his manner.

  On the second last day, she wandered deep into the cellars under the oldest part of the castle, greatly daring, alone, for Mills had been busy when she had come downstairs, so she had simply taken the lantern, and gone by herself. Much of the rooms under the Keep tower were bare, musty, with little carving or texture anywhere, save that of the huge blocks of stone that formed the foundations of the place.

  After some time, when she was considering turning back, and seeking luncheon, she came to a room where there was, along one wall, a stack of wine barrels. They were aged, and when she tapped on them, some seemed to still have contents. She drew them, the shadows from her lantern giving them depth, emphasising their curved shapes. Then she noticed the pile of boards and wooden blocks beside them.

  Intrigued, she turned to them. They seemed the sort of thing that was often used to create temporary shelves, and were a jumble against the wall. She reached out, and touched the old dry planks, wondering why anyone would simply leave them there, when they could have been used elsewhere. At her touch, the balance of the pile shifted, planks sliding down with a clatter. Alyse jumped back, startled by the noise in the close space.

  The slide of timber settled, and where it had stood, the wall revealed was not even. Alyse stepped forward, holding the lantern high. There appeared to be a space, an alcove, perhaps a passageway. She reached out carefully, pulling the last of the planks away from the wall, and then eased herself into the narrow space. It did not occur to her to be afraid, she simply wanted to explore.

  The alcove contained a passage off to one side, so she followed it, her lantern casting a flickering light across the uneven walls and floor, and then the ancient wooden door at the end of the passage. She pushed on the door, and it slowly opened, the rusted iron hinges creaking as it did, loud in the silence. Holding the lantern high, she moved into the room, wondering how long it had been since anyone had stepped through that door.

  What greeted her brought her thoughts to a standstill, and she gasped, pulling back, the wild movement of the lantern light which resulted making the contents of the room seem to loom and reach for her. She refused to turn and run. She would not be so weak. It was just old things in a cellar! Her heart beating hard, she made herself step forward again.

  Once she examined it more closely, the lantern held steady, the contents of the room became clear to her. It appeared to be a dungeon, a torture chamber, like something out of the worst kind of gothic novel. It was, she supposed, not such an odd thing to find, under a building which had been there for more than 800 years. Long ago, people had been far more brutal in their ways, more prone to warring, she thought.

  Now, standing there, still and considering, the objects ceased to be so threatening, although she was careful not to think too much upon the purposes of individual items. What she began to see was the shapes and textures, the surprising craftsmanship in how some of the objects had been made. Setting the lantern down on the old table which stood in the middle of the room, she opened her sketch journal and began to draw.

  She was, in a way, intrigued by the dusty remains of past suffering. She saw it as a reminder that everything passes – no power is forever – those who tortured and those who were tortured were long gone, and the long term impact on the world was minimal. This room had fallen to dusty disuse many generations ago, and now, it seemed probable that no one remembered the names of those who had hurt, or been hurt here. For the first time, her sketches became about capturing a message as much as simply capturing fascinating detail.

  Perhaps it was morbid, and even unhealthy, to be so fascinated by this – it was not something she would mention to anyone, yet she could not help but be captured by it. It gave her faith that even the most terrible things in the world were transitory, and she sought to capture the sense of that in her drawings.

  Finally, when she had drawn almost everything in the room, she gathered up the lantern, and stepped back into the passage, closing the door behind her, and went in search of the warmth and light of the open air.

  As Alyse stepped out into the courtyard, brushing the dust from her skirts, she realised that she had explored but a small portion of Tillingford Castle, yet her current sketch journal was almost full. She knew, already, that she would wish to return, to dig further into the building. And, the thought came, to spend more time in Lord Tillingford’s company, no matter how distant he might be at times.

  She could cope with those times, for the pleasure of the moments when he was unguarded, when she saw the light of warm interest in his eyes, before he pulled himself away again. But, beyond asking Hunter, how could she come to understand more of him, to discover the reason for that repeated distance that he enforced upon himself? Perhaps they could find reason to come back?

  ~~~~~

  Finally, the day of their departure arrived. Gerry was torn – he wanted Hunter, Charles and Nerissa to stay longer – that was simple – but he desperately wanted Lady Alyse to both stay and leave.

  He wanted to be close to her, no matter how much that made him wish for things he could never have, yet he wanted her away, taking temptation and pain with her.

  It was not his choice to make.

  They stood at the foot of the front steps, taking their farewells. He felt awkward, and tried to cover it with conversation.

  “I must thank you all for your company, and your excellent advice. I am quite certain that, by this time next year, Tillingford Castle will be restored to its best, and the farms will be more productive than ever before. If, at any time, you should wish to visit again, know that you will be most welcome.”

  Lady Alyse’s eyes lit at his words, and his stomach churned – what had he done? He knew, in that instant, that she wanted to return, and that he most desperately wanted her to, no matter what her presence did to his peace of mind.

  The morning sun was warm on his face, and it lit her hair to a confection of spun gold. He wanted to touch it, to touch her. Hunter’s voice drew his mind back to the conversation.

  “… and I am sure that another visit can be arranged. After Sybilla’s wedding, perhaps, when the chaos that is causing in the family settles a little.”

  “Whenever is convenient for you – the place will seem empty without you, after your presence this last few weeks.”

  “I will make sure to send the tradesmen we discussed to speak with your blacksmith, and the farmers, as soon as possible – I am most interested to see how fast we can improve the production from those lower fields.”

  Charles’ genuine enthusiasm for farming innovation echoed through his words.

  “My thanks, again.”

  “I also would be happy to return – I have barely begun to discover all that there is here, which I would wish to draw. The thought of exploring further is very appealing – although I will need to bring extra journals to draw in!” Lady Alyse spoke quietly, yet firmly. She hesitated a mom
ent, then went on. “I thank you for your company, whilst we have been here. I greatly enjoyed exploring with your guidance, and would hope that there will be a future chance for you to show me what you discover, between now and then.”

  A blush had risen in her cheeks as she spoke, but her eyes met his. The world around them faded away. The warmth in her eyes was unmistakable, and she nervously drew a lip between her teeth, worrying it to cherry redness. His body tightened, and his imagination ran riot for a moment, considering those lips. He forced his eyes away, to discover Hunter watching him, a half smile on his lips.

  That would not do at all – Hunter was far too perceptive. Gerry pulled his scattered thoughts together, and forced words from his mouth.

  “I would be honoured to assist, Lady Alyse, if you truly think the dusty corners of this ancient pile of stone worth digging into further.”

  She smiled, derailing his thoughts again. His heart was racing, his mouth dry.

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to Nerissa, and spoke of the gardens, his heart returning slowly to its normal pace as he did so. A few minutes later, with polite conversation completed, their carriage drew away.

  He stood on the gravel, watching it as it disappeared down the long drive, painted gold by the late morning sun. Unnoticed by Gerry, Shackleton stood at the door, patiently waiting to open it, watching Gerry watch the carriage, a small smile on his normally impassive face.

  ~~~~~

  As Gerry watched the carriage, someone else, as well as Shackleton, was watching him. Cunningham, a hat pulled down over his face, pulled weeds from the rose beds which formed a barrier around the curve of the drive to each side of the portico.

  No one noticed gardeners. He had been able to overhear the entire conversation. By the end of it, he was smiling – a grim expression, which did nothing for the appeal of his face.

  He was elated – they would return. The girl had specifically asked it. And Otford most definitely cared for her, and, it seemed, she for him, if the expression on her face, and the blush on her cheeks, was anything to go by.