Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alexander glowered at the key in his hand. It blurred in and out of focus, and he had to concentrate to insert it in the keyhole. The old metal felt cold in his hand, the intricate metal head digging into his fingers.
With a click, the door unlocked. Alexander swayed where he stood. His head spun, the world twisting and twirling around him, but despite all that, there was the gnawing need inside him, a beast that no amount of scotch could appease. No matter how hard or often he tried.
He was turning into a monster. And he could not prevent himself.
No, the damage had been done a long time ago—before, even, the poppy juice.
As he attempted to step forward, he staggered sideways and knocked into a suit of armor.
Stupid thing.
His father had kept it in the house; according to his family lore, it had been worn during the Civil War, but he doubted it. This was a display piece, not something a former duke would have ventured onto the battlefield wearing.
In fact, he had doubts that his ancestors ever directly saw war. They would have commanded those under them to fight, after choosing a side—always royalists. They were dukes, after all. And in the aftermath, had almost paid with their title.
The sound of the crashing metal echoed down the corridor, which seemed to swim as Alexander peered down it. Still, nothing interrupted the darkness. The manor had become a fortress, a prison; only this time, the only thing it kept within its dungeons was his sanity.
Grunting, he finally made his way into the room, not bothering to close the door. The servants knew better than to disturb him when he was in these moods—and, indeed, in this wing of the manor—so he knew he would not be disturbed.
Lamplight illuminated the small chamber. Once, it would have been a lady’s bower, and there were some traces of that, still. A sofa across one side of the room, and hanging curtains. Faded tapestries on the walls. A tea set, dusty now, where once upon a time, Helena had poured him tea from.
Grief gripped him as he made his way to the writing desk in the corner, by the dark window. The letters there were now turning yellow with age, though it had only been a handful of years. Seven. Not long enough for the paper to have deteriorated, except yes, it had.
Age kept creeping onwards. Time, cruel mistress.
And he, trapped within its clawed hands. Stuck in the worst day of his life forevermore.
He had been nineteen, young and in love and a fool. No matter what his father said, he would have married her. And they would have been happy together, he knew it. They were so equally matched. So very in love.
Carefully, he placed the lamp on the writing desk and drew out the dusty bottle of brandy he had stashed here the last time he had entered the room. Over a year ago now. If he ventured here too often, he feared he would traipse over the last of her memories.
Here, she had left him a perfumed handkerchief, embroidered with her initials. Here were all her letters, almost childish things with childish dreams. So much hope for a future that was not assured.
Because she had gotten ill. And then she had died.
He uncorked the bottle, bringing it to his lips and tipping it back. Unconsciousness threatened to reach him. Tomorrow, he knew, he would have a terrible headache, but then, didn’t he deserve it?
Helena was dead, and he had turned to laudanum to mute the symptoms of his grief. To allow him to sleep, or at least to find a modicum of rest. Only, like everything in his life, it had turned from a relief to a curse.
Even now, his body shuddered, cramping and demanding he assuage the cravings. Alcohol helped, but not enough.
He was drowning, and he hadn’t been able to take a breath since he was nineteen.
Then Lydia.
An image of her appeared in his head the way she had been that very morning, her eyes bright and her nose tipped with red. So alive. He was ruining her life, piece by piece, just as he ruined everything.
Perhaps Godwin was right. Perhaps all he needed to do was let her continue to live here in this house with his ghosts while he took himself elsewhere. Helena would understand. She had always been kind to those in need.
A memory pawed at him, and he frowned, trying to recall it. But just as remembrance crashed over him—a pond, a girl in a soaked gown, and Helena’s patient soothing—he lost his grip on consciousness entirely, and sleep took him into its dark embrace.
Lydia froze as a loud crash thundered through the manor. It sounded as though someone had dropped pots and pans.
Philips smiled reassuringly down at her as he took her coat. “Not to worry, ma’am. It happens sometimes.”
“What does?”
The butler took a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking. “His Grace has his moods sometimes.”
Well, that didn’t bode well for her evening plans.
“What sort of moods?” she asked, entering further into the manor. Only a few candles were lit, and she took an oil lamp from a side table. “Is he angry?”
“He is… not in a mood to receive you, Your Grace.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Where is he?” She started up the stairs.
Philips followed her. “It is not quite as simple as that, Your Grace. I really recommend—”
“If he is my husband, should I not know all parts of him?” She smiled reassuringly at the butler. “I don’t think he’ll hurt me.”
“I… believe he may be a little out of his mind, ma’am,” Philips said apologetically.
“That’s all right. I have seen some things in my time, you know. Inebriation doesn’t scare me.” She squared her shoulders. “Where is he?”
Philips visibly sagged. “This way, ma’am.”
He led her up through the manor to the west wing, and then along the corridor to a door that had, for the duration of Lydia’s stay in the manor, remained locked. That night, however, the door was open.
Philips stopped, and Lydia turned to him.
“Thank you,” she said, and he inclined his head.
“Ring if you should need our assistance, ma’am.”
“I shall.” She gave the concerned butler one last smile before stepping into the room.
Once, perhaps, it had been a lady’s private parlor, and the layer of dust that covered everything suggested that even the servants were not allowed inside to touch anything. The space was small, but there was a sofa, a fireplace, tapestries on the walls, and a writing desk.
And there, in the middle of the room, on the floor, was the duke.
Alexander.
Here, one hand still wrapped around a bottle, he didn’t look so much like the imposing duke he had first been on the fateful day of her father’s death. Shivers wracked his body, and sweat beaded on his brow. The lamp illuminated the expressions of pain that crossed his face even in sleep.
Lydia glanced around one last time. There were old letters on the desk, but she didn’t read them.
And a ribbon that hung from the corner of the writing desk.
Although she didn’t know what this room might have looked like once upon a time, she could guess that it had been preserved, as though time held no power here.
All the while, Alexander trembled.
This was not what she had expected from his inebriation. Philips had made it sound as though he could be tempestuous, perhaps even aggressive or violent, but instead, he looked like a young boy, hurting and afraid.
Her heart ached with sympathy.
“Here,” she murmured, knowing he couldn’t hear her as she removed the bottle from his fingers and placed it carefully on the desk. “Now, peace, husband.”
He tossed his head, hair sticking to his skin, and she sat beside him. Daringly, she reached out and brushed the top of his head. His hair was just as soft as she’d always imagined it to be, though now slightly damp. The room was not warm.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered into the darkness. “What demons are you fighting? If you told me, perhaps I could help.”
He gave no reply, as she had known he would not. There was nothing she could think to do to comfort him but ease his head onto her lap. Almost immediately, he quietened, no longer tossing his head from side to side.
“All you need is a little gentleness, hmm?” She kept her voice low so there was no danger of him waking up.
Like this, her back was pressed against the sofa, and she yawned, feeling the weight of the day settle on her.
“You know, when I came home, I had some thought of seducing you into allowing me to stay… but would you have given in? Would you have agreed to let me remain if I’d used my body to persuade you… ?”
Again, no answer. All for the better—it felt good to give him her secrets now, but only so long as he never heard them.
Exhausted, she let her head fall back against the cushions of the sofa, and with her fingers still threading through his hair, she fell asleep.