The Duke of Ice

by Lisa Andersen

*****

  “You are so timid, like a tiny little stick. Yes, an utter stick. I wonder if you would snap. Would you?”

  “That is a strange thing to say, my—”

  He fell upon her like a wolf. Lyla had never been in the presence of such violence, much less the target of it. Pain assailed each part of her body, and she felt utterly trapped. The weight of his body pinned her to the floor. He was breathing heavily. Thick breath engulfed her, invaded her nose and mouth. She coughed, stifled, but the smell would not dissipate.

  Then – it happened.

  She left her body when it was happening. It was too painful to remain within. She floated up, up, above the gardens and looked down from above. The man was an animal. He took what he wanted, and when he was done, he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He rolled aside and laughed, and then began dressing himself slowly.

  Lyla was shaking. She descended and once again inhabited her body, which felt weak and rickety, as though her bones might collapse. Pain stabbed all over. She looked down at herself. She was a mess. Her dress was torn. She patted it down, moved it around, to cover the area, and then looked across at the man, at him, at the Devil.

  “Well,” he said, as he pulled his shirt over his head, “you are no stick after all. You didn’t snap.”

  Lyla didn’t say a thing. This was the part all the stories about her got wrong. They thought that she and he were having an affair, and there had been an argument, and she had pushed him into the flowerbed where he cracked his head against the rock. But that was not what happened. The man had ingested some kind of toxin, something to alter his mood, but suddenly it began to alter his body, too.

  He keeled over, vomited, and stumbled forward. He looked lost, with his arm extended, pointing at nothing, and then he fell to his side. His head cracked upon the rocks, and blood pooled, and Lyla was left standing there like a child stranded in a crowd of strangers. The cracking of his head must have been loud, for presently the main bulk of the guests were standing as spectators, peering at Lyla in her state of undress. Some were laughing, some were sneering, and then they spied the corpse. Some started screaming.

  Monica and Marie were in the crowd. Marie was screaming; Monica was sneering.

  Lyla remembered little after that. She must’ve fainted. She awoke at home, her home, with Mother sitting at the end of the bed. She receded into herself. She heard Mother’s words, but nothing else. The word trial was mentioned, over and over, and killer.

  No, Mother, Lyla wanted to say. I am not the Devil. He is.

  But the words wouldn’t come.

  *****

  Thornton sensed that she was tired after this. He helped her to her feet and escorted her to a bedroom. It took Lyla a moment to realize that it was not her bedroom. Her heart began to beat, but then Thornton laid her down and looked into her eyes. “Not that,” he said. “I will sleep on the chair. I only wanted you close. That – what happened – I – there are no – I am so, so sorry, Lyla. So very sorry. Not just that it happened, but for those first months of our marriage, where I shunned you. It was wrong of me. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I already have,” Lyla said sleepily. She felt as though a parasite had just been pulled from her being. Her chest felt lighter. She could breathe easier. And the dark eyes laughing behind the icy wall were no longer so intimidating. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. Soon, she was sleeping.

  She woke late when the room was pitch-dark. Thornton snored softly from the chair. His chin rested upon his chest. Lyla sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t there: the darkness. The darkness was leaving. It was almost supernatural. The pain was still there, and the regret, but the darkness was leaving her. The darkness that told her she was wicked, she was in the wrong, was departing. In its place was a conviction that she had been wronged, and she was a victim. He was right about one thing. I will not snap. I will not break.

  Softly, she walked across the room to where Thornton slept. She leaned down and kissed him upon the forehead, where he had kissed her. She was about to turn back to bed when he touched her hand. “It is morning?” he said, his lips just barely visible in the moonlit room.

  “Not even close,” Lyla said.

  “Are you okay?”

  Okay?“I am better,” Lyla said. “Because of you, Thornton, I am better. I am not healed. But I think I can be healed.”

  “Good,” Thornton said. “I love you.”

  It was said matter-of-factly, as though he said it all the time.

  Lyla kissed his forehead again. “I love you, too.”

  Her Daring Gambit

  Her friend was leaving. This much Roma Burrows was sure of. Rebecca Cronk had never been overly enthusiastic about the bookstore, and now that she had inherited a great deal of money, she would be gone. It would just be Roma, struggling as a lone woman in London to make a dying business breathe. She leaned back at her desk and looked at the ceiling. Even the structure of the building was dying. Floorboards creaked each time a step impressed upon them, and the walls were a dark, damp color that made Roma shiver, even in the height of summer. Dust particles intermingled with the midday light, and Roma couldn’t help blaming the particles on her friend. Rebecca was rich now. Why not stay here and keep the bookstore?

  Presently Rebecca entered, a wicked smile on her face. “Roma!” she cried. “Roma! I have just discovered that it’s twice as much as I previously thought. Oh, I will have to behave as though I am upset; an uncle dying is such a sad, sad thing. But thank the heavens that I am the last Cronk alive! I will be able to go anywhere on this, do anything!”

  “Excellent,” Roma said, trying to keep her voice light.

  “Oh, Roma,” Rebecca said, striding across the room, “don’t be like that. I’ve said it before, and I will say it again. Come with me. We can travel the world, see everything, do everything. We’ll be like characters from one of your books. Yes, don’t just read about it. Do it!”

  They had talked about this a week ago, when Roma first discovered she was about to become inordinately wealthy. Roma would not go. Her heart was in the bookstore. If she fled, she would feel as though she was fleeing herself. The business was waning, but it was not quite dead, yet. Running now would ensure its demise. “I cannot,” Roma said. “I must stay here.”

  “You could always ask me for a loan,” Rebecca muttered.

  “I would never pay it back,” Roma said. “Except by a miracle.”

  “You could always let me give you some money, then, my love.”

  “No!” Roma recoiled from the idea. “That is your money. I could not gamble your money. I would feel dreadful should it fail. And make no mistake, buying into a bookstore is the biggest gamble one can make.”

  Rebecca sat opposite her and looked down at her hands. “I do not know what to say, then,” she said at length.

  “Neither do I,” Roma said.

  They spent the afternoon sorting and ordering the books. With few customers, this was mainly what Roma occupied herself with: shuffling here and there, creating arrangements, destroying arrangements. Three customers came in. One bought something. About three hours after their initial conversation, Rebecca touched Roma’s elbow.

  “I have an idea,” she said, barely able to contain her excitement. Roma felt something rise within her. Since their late teens, when they had met, Rebecca’s daring nature had always been infectious. One did not end up in the Thames in just one’s nightclothes if one did not have an adventurous nature. One did not kiss men at parties one had no desire of marrying. Yes, Rebecca was a wild child. Roma was not quite so wild, but some of her friend’s wildness was in her now.

  “What?” Roma said. “That look makes me scared.”

  “How about a little bet?” Rebecca said.

  “A bet?”

  “Yes, a bet! Oh, it will be fun!”

  “What kind of bet?” Roma said uneasily, as she locked the door and turned the sign to display closed.

  “
You know Casper Bates?”

  “Vaguely. I think I’ve heard his name here and there. The American?”

  “He’s not American,” Rebecca laughed. “He’s planning to go to America. His father recently died, and he’s come into a tidy sum. He’s planning to make it even tidier in America. Investments and blah-blah, you know how these men think. Well, he’s throwing a bash two days hence.”

  “Oh, yes,” Roma said. She walked around the desk, opened the draw, and pulled out an invitation. “I’ve been invited. I’d completely forgotten.”

  “So have I,” Rebecca said. “So, here’s my bet. You should walk into the party and kiss him, in front of everybody!”

  “Rebecca!” Roma cried.

  “Wait, wait,” Rebecca said, rushing her words. “I haven’t told you the grandest bit yet. If you do this, I will pay you two-hundred pounds. It is not charity, or a loan, it is a bet.”

  “Miss Cronk!” Roma cried, rising from her seat. “You—you are positively a wild woman! You belong in a jungle somewhere, away from civilization! You are the craziest creature who ever lived, I say!”

  “Perhaps,” Rebecca said, “but two-hundred pounds is two-hundred pounds, and I so would like to see that. It would be too perfect for words. Imagine their faces! Imagine his face! You are only nine-and-twenty. Do not behave as if you’ve never kissed a man at a party before!”

  “But I haven’t!”

  “What about Boss Simms? Everybody has kissed Boss Simms. He has a reputation for it.”

  “He tried to kiss me once,” Roma said, “but the smell of liquor was so strong, I feared I might vomit upon him.”

  Rebecca let out a cackle. “The offer is there, dearie,” Rebecca said. “Two-hundred pounds for a kiss. I do not believe I have ever heard of an easier dare.”

  “It would be quite the gambit, would it not?” Roma said, smiling at her friend despite herself. “Much more original than a ‘how-do-you-do’.”

  “Ha! Precisely! So you will do it?”

  Roma looked around the crumbling bookstore, the shelves dusty, the wood worm-eaten, the chairs old and rickety. It would be nice to walk across the floor and not hear a thousand mice squeaking beneath me.

  “Would it …” She trailed off.

  “Hmm?”Rebecca urged.

  “I mean to say, would it … Um, would it have to be here?” She touched her lips with her fingertips. “Or could it be a friendly greeting upon the cheek, as children often do?”

  “No, no,” Rebecca said. “It would definitely have to be here.” She touched her own lips.

  “Oh, blast it,” Roma said, looking once more around the store. “You are a monster.”

  “You agree to the bet?”

  “I agree to the bet.”

  Rebecca giggled like a girl, and after a few minutes, Roma was giggling with her. After all, it would spice things up a bit.

  *****

  The party seemed to shift time, and before Roma had a chance to acquaint herself with the madness and the consequences of the bet, it had arrived. As she dressed, her heart pounded heavily as though some beast was trying to break her ribcage. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. She had not yet lost her youth, and it pleased her. Her eyes were dark brown and supercilious as though the whole world was a joke to her (which it wasn’t, and could result in some awful misunderstandings). Her skin was pale white from spending so much time amid books. Her cheekbones were high, and her face was just shy of being gaunt. Her hair was shoulder-length, wood-brown, and curly.

  “Are you ready?” Rebecca said from the doorway, her voice full of giddiness. “The hansom is here. The hansom is here to take you to a handsome man. Ha! I really should have been a playwright. That Wilde fellow would have had some dangerous competition.”

  “Oh, you would have taken the world by storm,” Roma said as she rose to her feet.

  They climbed into the hansom, which seemed set on taking them to the party as quickly as possible, as though the driver knew that Roma desired some time to think, to steel herself, to strategize. All too soon, they were at the party. The room was not yet full. Roma saw Bonnie Dukelow and Isabell Pollock and Maye Gordon—all of whom were suffragettes, and half-despised Roma for retreating into her books and not joining the movement. In the corner smoking a pipe was Boss Simms, the profligate kisser. Timothy Duvall, the banker, stood in the opposite corner with Kyle Frith, who had recently left the navy. And in the center of the room, turning at her entrance, was Casper Bates.

  He was a fit-looking man, with a fine build, and a beard upon his face. His arms were big and muscular through his shirt, and his eyes were a blue so pale they reminded Roma of snow. His hair was short, making his beard look all the longer. He held a cup of wine in his hand.

  *****

  Casper turned at the sound of more guests arriving. He had met Rebecca once before, at a party Mr. Simms had thrown, and at which there had been much scandal. He had never met Miss Burrows. But he had heard that she was a smart, erudite woman and quite a beauty. Whilst he could not speak of her intelligence or erudition, looking upon her now he saw that she was beautiful. For some reason, she was staring at him in the strangest way. Her bottom lip was trembling, and her hands fidgeted as though playing an invisible piano.

  “My ladies,” Casper said, in his overly-grand way. He found it easier to entertain when he played the patron. “Please, do not stand there. Come in. We’re all friendly. Except for Mr. Simms, of course, who is a scoundrel. Look, that is why I have relegated him to the corner.” There was general laughter at this. The only person who didn’t laugh was Miss Burrows. She looked as though she might scream. “Please,” he said. “Come in, come in.” They had not yet moved from the door. Rebecca had a mischievous expression upon her face. She nudged her friend in the back.

  Then Miss Burrows took a deep breath and walked straight to him. Not into the room in general, but straight at him, as though she was an arrow flung from a bow, and he was the target. He stood still and watched her curious behavior. He had been to his fair share of parties since Father died – suddenly everyone was his friend – but he had not seen a woman act as strangely as this.

  He blinked, and then she was standing before him. She was a head shorter than he and looked up at him through dark-framed eyes. She looked somehow vulnerable though everything about her indicated otherwise. Her eyes peered at his as though for assistance, and he found himself wanting to assist her, even if he didn’t know what in.

  She stood on her tiptoes. Does she mean to whisper something? The entire party was watching. He leaned in to give her his ear. Perhaps there was something important she had to say. He tilted his head, facing his ear to her, but then her face met his, and she leaned in even closer. All of it seemed unreal. He had no clue why this beautiful woman would do this, now, with a man she had never met.

  Their lips touched. Casper had never felt such a stirring within him. His whole body burned with the pressure of the kiss. She seemed about to pull away, but then he began to kiss her back, and she stayed where she was, uncertain of what to do. After a pause, she threw herself back into the kiss. He touched her hair and pulled her face into his. His pulse was soaring. Her hair was so soft and warm, and her lips were so shy, and yet so brave. Their tongues touched. They were close to tipping into animalism. Casper was quite sure that if they had been alone, they would have.

  Then she pulled back, breathing heavily. She looked at him with wide, surprised, dissatisfied eyes. “Miss Burrows—”

  She turned swiftly around and paced for the door. After a moment, Rebecca followed. The sound of the door closing was clear in the silence. Casper looked around the room. Everyone was looking at him expectantly as though he could explain what had just happened.

  “Friends, I am just as confused as you,” he said.

  And not a little intrigued, he thought.

  *****

  The kiss—more than a kiss—unexpected pleasure—euphoria. She had lost herself. Of that much
she was sure. She had gone into the party on a dare and had lost herself in Casper’s embrace. She had expected a quick peck, to steal a kiss and then flee two-hundred pounds richer. Instead, there had been a pleasure, utterly unexpected, mad pleasure. Two weeks after the party, Roma was still going over and over that mad afternoon.

  Rebecca had left for France. She had paid Roma and the improvements for the bookstore had already begun. She had even paid to have an advert placed in the newspaper, which had resulted in a substantial increase in her customer base. All in all, the bet had been worth it, financially and … and what? She tried to use reason to assign a label to what had happened within her, to search for the meaning of the response her body had yielded up readily and eagerly. It was as though she had been taken over by some alien force, as though a long-dormant part of her had sprung up, ready to be used.

  As absurd as it was, she was angry at Casper. She was angry at him for provoking this reaction within her, for turning what should have been a simple bet into a momentous event. They were a set that lived rapidly, she decided; Queen Victoria would be astounded indeed.

  Two weeks and one day later, she received the card. It was from Casper, and written as though a connection had not formed between them in that intimate and world-shattering quarter-minute.

  Miss Burrows,

  May I call upon you at the bookstore, or wherever is convenient to you? Any time is fine for me.

  Casper Bates.

  “That man!” she muttered as she folded up the card.

  Twenty-five customers entered the store that day, and over half of them made purchases. It was looking as though she might, for once, turn a profit. She still had one-hundred pounds left after the store underwent its renovations. The workmen had been thorough and quick, and now Roma sat in a transformed palace of knowledge. The wood was fine and strong, the floor untarnished, the windows clean and full of light. The door no longer creaked and the floorboards were silent. Yes, the bet had been quite worth it. She should retreat into her newfound success and forget all about Casper Bates.