Stronger Than Magic, page 30
Picturing his face as it had looked the night before as he’d delivered a particularly droll quip, she again wondered what had wrought his drastic change. Could it be that his soul had not only not grown as much as she’d thought, but that something had happened that had made it start to shrivel back to its previous wasted state? Her abating anger cooled to a chill as she considered the devastating consequences of such an occurrence.
As if sensing her foreboding thoughts, the hob paused from removing his cooled curling papers to meet her gaze in the mirror. His tone surprisingly gentle, he said, “Just because he’s being a grumpity-growl don’t necessarily mean that there’s something wrong with his soul.”
“There has to be,” she moaned, shaking her head. “What else could make him behave like such a beast?”
“Seems to me that yer expecting an awful lot from old Tight-Arse.”
She frowned, puzzled by his odd remark. “Whatever do you mean?”
He shrugged and resumed his task. “Just that he’s human, and that humans, even saints, carry on like sods sometimes. Saw yer goody-good Lucan throw a few tantrums that’d put a troll to shame.”
“So?”
“So. It don’t usually mean nothing when a human acts crazy, it’s just their nature. They’re a difficult bunch of snarly-snots … moody and unpredictable. I avoid ’em as much as I can.”
Alys eyed him thoughtfully, too struck by his logic to take offense at his scathing appraisal of her race. For once he made sense. Lucian was human, and as such could be expected to succumb to the dark moods that plagued all humans. In her urgency to heal his soul, she’d lost sight of that fact.
“If ye ask me, and ye never do”—there was a note of condemnation in the hob’s voice as he uttered those last four words—“something’s touched a new part of him, something he don’t like. As ye know, his lordship don’t deal so good with new feelings, especially those that ain’t comfortable. Remember what a cross-patch he was back when ye first started working on him?” Having had his say, he turned his attention back to his hair.
Alys lay in silence for several moments, watching him finger-comb his curls into a fashionable tousle. Though what he said made sense, she was unable to think of a recent incident that might have evoked an unpleasant new feeling in Lucian. Unless …
Her heart skipped a beat. Unless he was out of sorts over Diana’s return to Sussex. The more she considered the possibility, the more certain she became that that was the case.
Of course he missed Diana. How could he not? At her insistence the woman had been their almost constant companion during the past few weeks and, according to Lucian, a most excellent one. “As good of company as one could wish,” he’d pronounced her on several occasions, then had gone on to express his gladness that she found her so as well. That all being as it was, what else but her absence could have put him in his current pet?
What indeed? She remained frozen with jubilation for a moment, then bolted up from the bed, gasping, “Oh, Hedley! I just might succeed in my mission after all!” Executing two pirouettes and a hop, she danced over to the dressing table where she seized the hob and planted a kiss on his carefully coiffed head.
“Watch the hair! Watch the hair, ye slobbering cow!” he squawked, furiously kicking his dangling legs.
“Sorry,” she murmured, setting him back down. “It’s just that I’m so happy.”
He grunted as he turned to the mirror to assess the damage. “Bloody damn crazy human,” he muttered, tugging at his kiss-crushed curls. “One minute yer mad enough to split a gut, the next yer as tickled as an elf drunk on elderberry wine.”
“I am tickled,” she admitted, clasping her hands to keep from seizing him again in her excitement. “I’m almost certain that Lucian’s foul mood is due to Diana Ramsey returning to Sussex. If I don’t miss my guess, he’s got feelings for her.”
“Of course he’s got feelings for her. The way ye’ve been shoving her in his face every time he turns around, he probably feels sick at the sight of her.”
Alys rolled her eyes at his typically pessimistic response. “If you spent more time with Lucian and less time lounging about the Bond Street shops, you would know how much he enjoys her company. Not only has he admitted that he likes her, he’s never once denied my request to include her in our outings.”
Hedley sniffed as he lifted his dark blue coat from the scent flask that served as his clothes horse. “That last don’t prove diddly-squat. He never denies ye nothing anymore.”
“He doesn’t deny me because I never make unreasonable requests,” she retorted, doggedly clinging to her optimism. “And the fact that he considers inviting Diana to accompany us a reasonable request proves that he cares for her. You know as well as I that his lordship never does anything he doesn’t want to do.”
“He is a stubborn sod,” the hob agreed. Shoving the last gold coat button into its mooring, he turned and struck a dandified pose. “So? How do I look?”
“Like a fop,” she pronounced, eyeing the exaggerated flare of his collar points. And he did. Garbed in the modish blue, gold, and scarlet suit of clothes she’d Commissioned from Madame Fanchon, dolls clothes, she’d told the bewildered modiste, he was the very picture of dandification.
Apparently foppery was his goal for he preened as if receiving the greatest of compliments. “Excellent! Then, I’m off.”
“Off?” she echoed, incredulous that he’d even consider leaving at such a critical moment. “You can’t go off. I need you to help me plan how to advance Lucian and Diana’s romance. We need to think of a way to make Lucian go to Thistlewood.”
“Dreadfully sorry, my dear Miss Faire,” he drawled, perfectly emulating the cultured tones of his beloved haut ton. “But I have a spot of romance to attend to myself.”
“Romance? You?” She couldn’t keep a rising note of amazement from her voice.
“Umm. Yes,” he murmured, carefully balancing his tall silk hat atop his curls. “Courting a passing fair pillywiggin named Tansy. Squiring her to a ball at the Hyde Park flower walk this evening.” He picked up a tiny pair of gloves that she had never seen before. “Well, mustn’t be late.” With that, he disappeared.
“You come back here this instant!” she commanded, though she didn’t really expect him to comply. Of course he didn’t. Sighing her exasperation, she plopped down onto the bench before the dressing table. To the devil with the hateful little beast! She didn’t need him anyway. She was perfectly capable of finding a way to bring Lucian up to scratch by herself.
After what felt like an eternity of sitting there, alternately tapping her bare feet and drumming her fingers against the table as she schemed, she came up with what she saw as a perfect plan: she would have Hedley cast a spell on the Thistlewood stables to give the illusion that Lucian’s horses suffered from the same fever as Diana’s. When Stephen, whom she’d been told was at Thistlewood purchasing a foal, discovered the illness, he would no doubt summon Lucian posthaste. Once in Sussex, Lucian would naturally consult Diana on cures. And as she knew from her matchmaking experience, nothing brought two people together quicker than a common purpose. Of course the animals would be none the worse for their enchantment.
Too excited to even consider sleep, she decided to celebrate her brilliant plan. And what better way than with another slice of the almond cake Tidswell had slipped her after she’d refused her supper? Suddenly famished at the prospect of food, she donned her dressing gown and slippers and hastened to the kitchen.
Down the hall she rushed, her hand shielding her candle from the breeze of her motion as she went. She was just starting down the pitch-dark servants stairs when she heard the longcase clock in the hallway above boom the time. One. Two. Three—
Oh, perfect! she thought, counting out twelve strokes. It was late enough so that the servants would all be abed and early enough so that Lucian was probably still at his club. That meant that she would have the kitchen to herself … which meant that she could eat without any witnesses to her gluttony.
Her mouth watering in anticipation, she skipped down the last five steps and waltzed from the stairwell toward the pantry. Since she was casting aside her ladylike delicacy, she might as well have two slices of cake. Yes, and some of that gingerbread she’d smelled baking that morning. She was halfway across the kitchen, wondering if cook had made any jumbles, when a faint movement by the hearth caught her eye.
She stopped midstride, her heart jumping to her throat as her gaze darted to a figure slumped in a chair by the fire. Who the—
Lucian? She squinted into the shadows. Of course it was Lucian. Who else’s form was so long and elegant? Who else had such broad, magnificent shoulders? Nobody but Lucian …
And she was mad at him.
Or so she tried to tell herself. Yet, struggle though she might, she was unable to rekindle her previous fury.
Oh, it wasn’t that she thought he no longer deserved her wrath. He did. Or that she’d forgiven him. Well, perhaps she had, but just a little.
No. What stifled her anger was the pervading sense erf sadness she felt at seeing him there, sitting by the hearth as he so often did during their jolly midnight tête-à-têtes. If her plan succeeded, and for his sake she prayed it would, this might very well be the last time she saw him thus. For once he married Diana, he would be far too busy at night to sit by the kitchen hearth exchanging confidences with her.
Filled with a crushing sense of loss she advanced toward him, not certain what to say or do, knowing only that she had to be near him. If this was to be their last night together, how could she let it pass in anger?
Yet, it seemed doomed to do just that. From the way he remained motionless at her approach, pointedly ignoring her presence, it was clear that his temper hadn’t cooled an iota. Indeed, if his appearance was any indicator, his mood had gone from bad to worse.
Always immaculately groomed, his normally perfect hair was tousled and wild, as if he’d spent the past few hours running his hands through it. His dressing gown, a costly looking garment of black, gold, and copper patterned silk, was haphazardly wrapped and tied; peeking from beneath it were baggy trousers in dire need of ironing. More startling yet, he was barefoot.
At a loss as to how to proceed, Alys paused a scant yard away, staring at where his collar was carelessly twisted and half tucked into the neck of his robe. How she ached to straighten it, to feel the silken warmth of his skin as she worked. She longed to smooth that errant strip of velvet over his shoulder and savor the strength beneath. Most of all, she yearned to see his smile of thanks when she finished.
More anxious than ever to make peace, she softly uttered his name, hoping without really believing that he was lost in his thoughts and was thus oblivious to her approach.
Still nothing. She might as well have been as invisible as Hedley for all the response she received. She waited a moment longer, then sighed. Ah, well. Perhaps it was for the best that they remain at odds. Why torment herself by nurturing her hopeless love? Feeling as if her heart were being ripped from her chest, she forced herself to turn away.
“Don’t leave. Please.” The words were little more than a ragged whisper.
She froze in her steps. After a beat, she pivoted back to Lucian. He hadn’t moved. Indeed, there was no outward sign that he’d even spoken. Baffled, she stood staring at his bowed head, wondering if she had perhaps imagined his words. Just as she was about to turn away again, he slowly lifted his face into the light.
If ever a man looked crushed by life, it was Lucian Warre. He looked defeated, hopeless, as if he’d lost his whole world and despaired at ever finding it again. It shattered her to see him so.
Wanting to weep at the sight of him, she rushed to his side, mindless of everything but her own need to hearten him. Dropping to her knees in front of his chair, she lifted his limp hands from his lap and clasped them to her breast. “Don’t look so sad. Surely nothing can be so awful as to merit such gloom?” she crooned, tipping her head back to look up into his eyes.
For an instant their gazes touched and she saw a grief so deep that it could only have come from his soul. Then he sucked in a shuddering breath and looked away, murmuring, “The thought of losing you is that awful, and worse.”
“Lose me?” she echoed, completely caught off guard.
He bowed his head. Or was it a nod?
“Please talk to me, Lucian,” she implored, her hands tightening around his. “I want to understand, I— Oh! Are you worried that I might run away or do something silly because of this afternoon?”
“No, though after the despicable way I treated you, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I was a bastard and deserve your scorn. In truth, I’m surprised you’re still speaking to me. I was certain you must hate me.”
“I doubt if I could ever hate you,” she sincerely replied.
“You should. At the very least you should spurn my company until I apologize.”
Had she been in a smiling mood, Alys would have smiled then. That he would even acknowledge that he owed her an apology showed how far he had come. Curious to find out just how far that was, she murmured, “How long shall I be required to wait before you do so?”
He sighed. It was the saddest sound she’d ever heard. “It’s not that I don’t want to apologize now. I do, more than anything in the world. I just don’t know how. I’ve racked my brain all evening, but I simply cannot find the words to adequately express my remorse. Somehow, simply saying I’m sorry doesn’t seem enough.”
“Sorry is always enough when it’s uttered with sincerity,” she reminded him. “I told you so at Thistlewood. Remember?”
His brow furrowed. After a beat it smoothed again and he nodded. “So you did. It was in the nursery if I remember correctly.”
“Yes. The nursery. And like then, I forgive you now,” she said, thinking back on that moment and the merry battledore-and-shuttlecock lesson that had followed. What she wouldn’t do to see him smile as he had that day. Perhaps—
She slanted him a speculative look. Perhaps not. Unlike that afternoon at Thistlewood, restoring their friendship now clearly hadn’t lightened his spirits in the least. Puzzled, she continued to gaze at him, trying to fathom his odd mood. Just when she was about to give up, she remembered his earlier comment and the anguish in his voice as he’d uttered it.
“Lucian?”
He made a distracted mmm noise.
“You said something earlier about losing me. What did you mean?”
There was a long pause, so long that she was beginning to doubt he would answer. Just as she opened her mouth to prompt him, he replied, “I meant that I see you slipping further and further away from me every day, and that it tears me apart knowing that I’m losing you.”
Alys froze, stunned as much by the despair in his voice as by his words. She’d known that he was fond of her, that he counted her among his favorite companions. Yet, never once had he said or done anything to make her suspect that his feelings ran deeper than mere friendship. Surely he wasn’t trying to tell her now that they did?
“I hate your suitors,” he continued, the savagery in his voice giving testament to the truth of his words. “I hate them for their youth and charm, for I know that I lack both and can never compete against them for your affections. I hate them for their privilege of courting you, because as your guardian, I cannot do the same. I hate them—all of them—because someday you shall fall in love with one of them and marry him.”
“Lucian—no,” she protested.
But he went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “It was my jealousy that made me behave as I did this afternoon. Every time you go driving, riding, or even walking with one of your cursed suitors, I’m terrified that he might ask for your hand and that you might accept. If I could, I would lock you away from the world where I might keep you all to myself.”
Before she could think, much less react, he pulled his hands from hers and dragged her up onto his lap. “Dear God, Alys. What am I to do?” he asked, his voice little more than an agonized whisper.
“Lucian—” she tried again, not certain what she would say, knowing only that her weakening resolve would crumble if he continued.
But continue he did. “I love you. I love you so much that I sometimes want to weep from the wonder of it. You’re my joy, my comfort … my everything. For the first time in my life I feel alive, truly alive. You make me feel so. How am I to—” he faltered then and it was with obvious strain that he finished, “—live without you?” His voice broke completely on the last word.
Silenced by his emotion, he mutely sought her gaze, his unspoken longing reflected in his eyes as he captured it. For a heartbeat he held it, then, with a sob that expressed the pain his fractured voice couldn’t, he crushed her against him and buried his face in her hair.
A sob, softer yet every bit as anguished as his, escaped Alys. Oh, how she longed to confess her own feelings and ease his torment! Three words, that’s all it would take. Just three …
I love you.
Three words that would surely doom them forever. Not that she cared what happened to herself. Indeed, if it were only her soul at stake, she would gladly risk it for a taste of the paradise she knew she would find in his arms. For she would rather have one splendid moment of loving him than the eternity of emptiness she faced without him.
They remained like that for a long while: she, half lying, half sitting on his lap, lightly stroking his back as she mourned their love; he, with his face buried in her hair, clinging to her as if she might disappear should he ease his hold. Though he made no sound, she could feel his sobs in the heaving of his chest against hers.
