Spellbound (24 page)

Sinking into the chair that
had recently been occupied by Lily, he sighed.

She looked so pale.
Unnaturally pale. Her complexion was olive normally but now it
closely resembled a corpse, paper white and translucent. Her nose
and cheeks were an angry, swollen red and for a moment, he feared
she was fevered. He quickly realized, however, that it was a result
of the frostbite.

Her dull hair was drawn
back from her face into a thick plait, devoid of its usual healthy
shine and her eyes looked huge and dead in her face.

His gaze shifted to her
hands, her beautiful, long, graceful hands. The tips of two fingers
appeared almost black and he greatly feared she may lose them. The
rest of her hand was white with angry red splotches where the cold
had damaged her delicate skin.

“Be careful what you wish
for.”

Tristan started, once again
meeting her eyes. Her throaty voice was a painful whisper, barely
discernible over the beating of his own heart.

He shook his head,
perplexed by her words. She laughed lowly—at least, he assumed the
rusty croak was supposed to be a laugh.

“Once,” she began
haltingly, “said I would be ugly”—she swallowed—“preferred
it.”

He remembered. She had told
him she’d much rather be loved for her mind and spirit than her
face and form.

“Ah, Rae, my love,” he
whispered brokenly, “you could never be ugly.”

Her lips quirked up into
the semblance of a smile. “Gallant,” she whispered.

“No, the truth.” He drew in
a ragged breath. “You have more good in you than I’ve ever seen.”
He left it at that, wisely understanding that at times, few words
were best.

“Not good,” she returned
quietly but decisively. “Wicked.”

“Nonsense,” her love
snorted. “You’ve seen wickedness, my love. Beverley was wicked. Do
you believe yourself to be anything like he was?”

She closed her eyes,
opening them almost immediately. “He is dead, then?” she inquired,
ignoring the rest of Tristan’s intense words. “I killed
him?”

“No,” he quickly denied. “I
did.”

Her smile told him clearly
that she thought he was lying to protect her
sensibilities.

He swiftly disabused her of
that notion. “He attacked us on the road here. I shot him. He’s
dead. He can bother no one ever again.”

“We?”

He hesitated, unsure
whether she should know about Huntley or not. “Huntley and I,” he
said, evasively. “We were on our way to ask Lily if she’d heard
anything of you.”

Her expression clearly
asked where her brother was. Tristan frowned.

“Huntley was injured. The
doctor is with him now, stitching him up.”

A tear escaped her eye.
“Die?”

The duke firmly shook his
head. “No, he will not die. The cut was small, but deep enough to
require a few stitches. Given a few days of rest and little
movement, he should be just fine.”

“My fault.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped
a little more forcefully than he’d intended. “It was a stupid,
senseless accident perpetrated by a mad, senseless man.”

“Sure he’s dead?” she
asked, moving her mouth as little as possible. “Comes back with
frequent regularity.”

He released a cynical laugh
at that, knowing exactly to whom she was referring. “Trust me, my
dear, Beverley is well and truly dead this time.”

They lapsed into a silence
that was not completely uncomfortable.

Finally, surprising them
both, Tristan blurted, “Where do we go from here?”

She gave him a questioning
look, remaining otherwise silent.

“I mean, do you ask me to
leave and we forever part, or do I take you back to Windhaven as my
wife, cherishing you for the rest of my days and hang the
consequences?”

Raven just stared at him,
her eyes suddenly bright. Her lips quivered, parted, then closed
again. Her eyes fluttered shut and her hand clenched.

Reaching out, she grasped
his hand, ignoring the obvious pain the action caused her. Then she
opened her mouth and uttered the one word he’d honestly not
expected to hear.

“Hang.”

The Duke and Duchess of
Windhaven were married again a few weeks later in a grand ceremony
with most of the ton in attendance. It was apparent to all that it
was a love match of epic proportions.

The main topic of
discussion at the wedding, however, was the startlingly brilliant
waistcoat sported by the groom. When asked about his choice of
midnight birds on a pure white background, he and his wife would
simply laugh, refusing to share the jest. Odder still was the
blue-spotted lizards stitched on the border of the bride’s satin
gown. It was decided then and there that the Duke and Duchess of
Windhaven were Originals.

It was something of a
letdown, therefore, when the Marquess of Dunston announced that the
duke’s bride, the notorious Ebony Swan, was, in actuality,
Dunston’s long lost daughter, Lady Rachael.

An unprecedented amount of
quite powerful peers—and most importantly, their wives—demonstrated
their close friendship with the bride, effectively silencing the
tongues of those foolish enough to say anything negative about her
or her past career on the stage.

The sudden appearance of
Lady Greyden Cramshaw was more climactic than anything that went
before. She was quite obviously pregnant, and such a vision of
ethereal loveliness that it was no wonder the young lord had done
the unthinkable and actually married the girl despite her
unremarkable parentage.

After two minutes spent in
company with her, however, anyone who had any compassion—or
sense—at all was completely won over by her gentle wit and innate
sweetness. Lady Jersey was heard to say the girl was absolutely
lovely, thereby securing her place in Society, should she choose to
take it.

Lord Huntley recovered
sufficiently from his wound, making an appearance at his sister’s
wedding. He was never seen far from Lady Greyden’s side, a
circumstance that caused much speculation considering the state of
the lady’s marriage to her invalid husband.

And Raven, finally having
come to an understanding within herself, was able to ignore any
stare that was less than respectful and any comment that was less
than kind. Her love for Tristan made her strong and his love for
her made her invincible.

The End

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