Authors: Charis Michaels
He laughed bitterly. “Satisfy me? Let me see. It provided me with money, most of it stolen from someone else. There was copious liquor, should I wish to remain foxed at all hours of day and night, which I did not, as one needs to remain alert if one wishes to remain alive. There were also whores, should I wish to catch a pox or father an orphanage-full of bastard children—also not my ambition. And let’s not forget the tenuous respect of the brood of ruthless underlings who would just as soon slit my throat and replace me as do what I say. Oh, but I did learn to fight, which has been useful. So I suppose there was that.”
“And you’re telling me that you never stirred some mercy into the mix? If you were in such a position of power, you could do good things, as well as bad. Help widows and orphans. Improve horrible living conditions. Look at me and tell me you never did these things.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said. “Do not romanticize it, Piety. It was a means to an end. I did it to provide comfort for my mother. After she died, I did it because I hadn’t yet discovered a way
not
to do it.”
He had not affirmed or denied her suggestion of mercy, but she did not press. After a moment, she said, “And then you became earl.”
“Yes. And then I became earl.”
“And you lorded over him?”
“God, no.
No one
lords over Janos Straka. He has a deep-seated fascination with nobility. He came from nothing and has amassed considerable wealth, but proper respect has always eluded him—primarily because he is a ruthless criminal. When he learned I had inherited an earldom, he was soundly impressed, I think. He simply let me go.”
“Just like that?”
“As far as I know.” He flashed a reckless smile that made her stomach flip. “He said he understood that I must return home to take my rightful place, et cetera, et cetera, and I did not bother to dissuade him. Joseph and I packed our meager belongings, and we fled.
“To start a new life.”
“To start my life at all.” He laughed. “No sick mother, no Greek thugs . . . ”
Piety thought,
Only me and my complicated problems, instead.
This reality hung, unsaid, between them.
After a moment, she said, “You were unhappy with your lot, Trevor, but it is an honorable thing to make the best of a bad situation, as you did with your mother.”
“Honor?” He stopped walking and released her hand. “Honor? She suffocated me, Piety. My family betrayed me. Friends were nowhere to be seen.
No one
gave aid. As an eight-year-old boy, I didn’t understand it. As man, I accept it, but there is no honor.”
Piety continued to walk, but she turned around, facing him. “Well, you could have walked away. A lesser man would have made some arrangement, however insufficient, and vanished. You were dealt a bad hand, Trevor, this I see. No boy should have to act as caregiver to his own parent and give up so much. And yours is a curious, intelligent mind; what a waste to lock it away from opportunity and prosperity. But you did what you had to.”
“Ah, this is your own guilt talking.”
“I beg your pardon?” It was her turn to stop.
“You think of your own indulged childhood, and mine sounds unlivable. I did not embark on this conversation to elicit your pity.”
“I don’t pity you, you impossible man, I’m trying to convey a compliment! And I harbor no guilty feelings about my childhood.” She resumed walking, increasing her pace. “You wish for
my
life, Trevor? Would you like to trade my mother for yours? Do you know how many nights I have cried myself to sleep—
cried
—because I wanted so desperately for my mother to want me, to love me, to care about anything remotely connected to me? Why even have a mother if her only purpose is to torment you and wring personal gain from manipulating you? No amount of crying will answer that question or make the circumstances new. This I know. But have I sworn off all human connection because my mother hates me? No, I have not. Indeed, I look to other people—to you and Miss Breedlowe, and the marchioness, and Mr. Burr, and anyone else who is willing—to help me get through. And, in return, I will endeavor to help them. In any small way that I can. You’d be surprised how easy it is to help. How painless. Encouragement. A listening ear. Advice. A fresh point of view. And both parties are rewarded. Not burdened, as you insist. Not trapped. Simply better.”
“All I meant to infer,” he said, catching up, “was that, barring your mother, who is, obviously, deranged, people love you. They want to help you.”
“Oh, and people run screaming when they see you?”
“They have. In the past. When I was a boy, they did.”
“But some boys are beaten, Trevor. Abandoned. They know every manner of abuse and neglect. Your mother may have been needy and ill, but she obviously loved you. It’s no small thing, knowing a mother’s love.”
“Try as I might, I cannot weep for you, Piety. How bad can it be, with a millionaire father you adored?”
She stopped walking and shrieked, a noise of frustration and anger. “I will not,” she said gruffly, “stand here and trade childhood abuses with you, Trevor Rheese,
Lord Falcondale
. Life is too short to debate which wounded soul had the worst life. I will not!”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do. Damn it, Piety! Do you think I’ve ever told anyone this insufferable dribble but you?” He took her by the shoulders. “You cause me to reveal things I would ordinarily never say outside of my own head. Ever!
You
asked me about this, Piety.”
“Yes, and acknowledge that it helps, Trevor. Talking as we are is how people discover each other. This is what happens when you allow someone into your life, to give them a glimpse of your fears and dreams. You speak. You reveal truths.
You share.
Be horrified if you must, but admit it: The burden is not so great, hearing about my life. Listening and understanding. And what have you received in return? You have unburdened your own mind of old hurts and anxieties. It’s better.
It makes you feel better
. We both feel better.”
“I do not feel bloody better,” he said. “I feel awful, and look at you. You’re three shades of red and wheezing, for God’s sake! We’re shouting at each other in a bloody field.”
“Fine!” She threw up her hands and backed away.
“So be it!” He scowled back at her.
Silence descended between them; their panting was the only sound. They glowered at each other, shoulders tensed, fists clenched.
When they finally moved, it was as one.
She opened her arms, a questioning gesture; he reached for her. She allowed herself to be pulled, and he brought her to his chest.
“Even shaking with anger,” he whispered, “why can I not resist you?”
He leaned down to gently kiss her lips. Once, twice, three times. He checked the location of Miss Breedlowe—a spec on the horizon, some distance away—and then he dipped for a fourth time, sinking deep into a kiss that went on and on.
“Our words,” she said, coming up for air and pulling back, “are intimate and our bodies long for the same intimacies.”
“My body longs for something,” he said, capturing her mouth again, “but words are not it.”
With little care and no finesse, they fell against the drystone wall, dislodging a hail of pebbles. He pressed against her, fusing their bodies, and she arched, straining for the same closeness.
Without breaking the kiss, he picked her up and plunked her down on the top of the wall.
“I simply want you to be willing to . . . ” she tried to say, kissing every area of his face.
“So willing,”
he agreed, slanting his head, trying to catch her mouth.
“Willing to reach out,” she managed to say. “Friendships. In Syria. Wherever you go.” After a foray down his neck and throat, she returned to his mouth. “There may be a woman there,” she continued. “You may—you
should
—find some comfort with a special girl. You may find love. Simply consider it, Trevor. You think you want to be alone forever, but you deserve so much more. Someone deserves
you.
”
“I don’t want anyone but you,” he said, kissing her. “You are the beginning and the end for me. More than enough. You are far better than I deserve. No one could ever exceed you, ever, and I will take these memories with me to my grave.” He dropped onto the wall beside her and pulled her into his lap, kissing her anew.
“Piety!”
She heard him calling her name, and she moaned.
“Piety?”
No. Wait.
Not
him.
“Piety Grey!”
Someone else. Calling her. Tinny and dim in the distance.
They both ignored it, allowing the kiss to rage on.
“Piety!”
the voice said again.
“Lord Falcondale!”
So loud. So ill-timed.
Just a moment more.
“Your lordship! Piety, please!”
It was Trevor who finally pulled away. He swore and rested his head against her cheek, breathing hard. He held her so tightly, she could barely draw her own labored breath.
“It’s Jocelyn,” Piety whispered.
“So I collect,” he said.
“She’s only doing her job. I’m awful to her. Truly, I don’t see why she puts up with me. I’m the worst-behaved girl ever to be chaperoned.”
“I doubt that sincerely.” He lifted her out of his lap and smoothed her dress back in place, glancing at the chaperone now fifteen yards away. “She is waiting patiently. She can see we are now, er, in possession of our faculties.” He began to right his own clothes. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “But she won’t insist that—”
“Take heart,” Piety said tiredly. “Miss Breedlowe understands the circumstance. She will not be happy, and she will blame herself, but she knows this means nothing.”
“Right,” he said, nodding and rubbing the back of his neck. “I will . . . I will see to the horses.” And then he strode away, nodding curtly to Jocelyn as he followed the wall back to where they had begun.
“Piety,” said Jocelyn, rushing to her side. “You cannot be serious. This is how we’re meant to carry on? What am I to do?”
Piety leaned back on the wall, too overwhelmed to even venture an apology. “Question of the hour, Jocelyn.” She sighed and threw her head back to stare at the sky. “What, in God’s name, are any of us to do?”
O
n the edge of Garnettgate’s expansive gardens stood a stone chapel and family crypt, where the marquis, they were told, was interned. Although small and vacant of a regular vicar, the chapel could easily host a modest congregation for family weddings or christenings and had done so for centuries. Like every other corner of the property, the chapel and grounds were meticulously maintained to her ladyship’s stern expectations.
To Piety, the church seemed like something out of a legend: vine-swathed and dotted with climbing roses, its cracked walls were a hodgepodge of sturdy stone. She’d seen it with Miss Breedlowe the week she arrived and loved it on sight but had yet to go inside.
A week after he arrived, Falcondale announced an errand. This was the same day Idelle and all the stepsons mounted a trip to the village. With everyone occupied, Piety found herself finally able, indeed eager, to explore the church.
Behind the heavy oak door, the chapel appeared even more charming and serene. There was no hint of staleness or gloom so frequent in ancient stone structures. Fresh flowers had been placed at the altar, and the candles were new. Piety lit a candle for her father, another two for Miss Breedlowe’s parents, two more for Tiny’s brothers, and one for the Marquis Frinfrock.
When the candles flickered in the chancel aisle, Piety slid into the second pew and studied the stained glass windows that formed a colorful mural along the side of the church. In browns and tans, purples and burgundy, the windows depicted the long, noble march of stoic crusaders, off to conquer the infidels. A beastly business, the crusades, but the stained glass was no-less a work of art, and she leaned back and sighed, enjoying the play of color and light.
How long, she wondered, had it been since she allowed herself to simply sit, and stare, and think. She’d been running for so long: from America to London, from London to Berkshire. Running from her mother into the arms of Falcondale who wanted to help her but not to have her. Or to love her.
Not that she required his long-term aid, she reminded herself.
Retain the fortune
.
Restore the house. Establish yourself as an independent woman, free to do as you please
.
Then, and only then, would she begin to think about suitors or her future as someone’s wife, if she so chose. Someone willing and open. Someone without agonized notions of being alone forever because it was less of a pain in the neck.
She shook her head and slid from the seat onto the kneeler at the base of the next pew.
My Father, who art in heaven,
she began, feeling tears sting the corner of her eyes at the familiar cadence of Christ’s model prayer. She continued, reciting it three times more, mindful of the simple meaning, breathing deeply, embracing the serenity, and feeling more at peace than she had in a long, long time.
It was at the close of the third recitation that she heard the first unfamiliar sound. A click. It was small and distant yet eerily out of place in the quiet church. She paused and looked up.
The click was followed by a scrape—wood on stone—at the rear of the chapel.
She turned and squinted into the chapel’s shady vestibule.
The front door, she decided. It rattled open and then snapped shut. But admitting whom? Wary, she half rose. She heard footsteps and stepped into the aisle.
“Who’s there?” she called.
“Please,” replied a voice from the shadows. “Do not allow me to disturb.”
It was a voice she knew well. Eli.
“Continue,” he urged, still hidden.
His voice sounded mocking and bitter, terrifying—a voice that lurked in the shadows of her darkest dreams.
Her initial wariness crystalized into a sharp, cold fear. She froze in the aisle, still craning to see.