Chapter 13
Alan curled his fingers and pulled his hand back to his side. Why had he asked her to stay? He’d successfully avoided her all day, and now he was sabotaging his own efforts.
Grace’s warm brown gaze rose but did not meet his. “Alright.”
She looked past him into the study, glancing from one end of the room to the other. He wasn’t sure how much she could see with only the glow of the fire and the candelabra on his desk, but she appeared intently interested in the room’s contents.
She shifted from one foot to the other, wrapping her unencumbered arm about her waist. He realized his rudeness. Normal gentlemen would step aside and invite their guests to sit with them while they sipped their drinks. Instead, he was standing like a dolt in the open door.
He moved out of her way and gestured to the room. “Would you like to sit with me by the fire? It is much warmer than the drafty court.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug and stepped in.
With her head down, the glow of the candles lit up her burnished tresses and caused them to shimmer in the dim room.
The urge to touch a copper curl itched at his fingers.
He imagined they’d be soft and probably smell of vanilla, much like Grace herself did.
She hesitated before the two velvet covered wingback chairs, obviously waiting to see which one he chose. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he gestured to the one farther from his position, knowing it was the warmer option.
Gingerly she sat, her focus remaining on the large mug. “You have quite the collection of books.”
“Those are my father’s doing. He loved to read and passed on that love to his children. Unfortunately, I do not go out as much as he did, so I do not often acquire as many new titles.”
She nodded and took a sip of her drink. Her eyes briefly closed when she swallowed, and he smiled. Mrs. Gibbons did make a fine wassail. He took a swallow of his own and relished the mix of fruit and spices.
“Why do you not go out?”
The question surprised him. They’d spoken of their shared enjoyment of solitude, but it seemed his surface answer of preference did not satisfy her.
“Forgive me.” She adjusted in her seat to more fully face him. “It is just that from what I have gathered about your years as a youth, you were quite social. Bradley described you as adventurous.”
“I think you mean reckless,” he muttered before taking a large swallow of his rapidly cooling drink.
She ducked her head, and he knew he’d not been wrong about the assumption. Nor had her brother been wrong about his description. He had been reckless.
Grace seemed to curl in on herself. “I am sorry. You do not have to answer my question if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Her quiet words rankled. Why was she apologizing? He was the one who’d been incredibly foolish.
“No, you deserve to know.” He set down his mug on the small table between them and stared into the popping fire.
“I was adventurous and reckless. I saw life as a series of games one must play and win, much like chess or lawn bowls. Competitive to a fault, I was easily angered and fell into fits when I lost at anything. As a future baron, however, the other boys humored me for the sake of connection. I became exceedingly proud and thought my views infallible. When my father tried to temper my hedonistic behavior, I rejected the correction, becoming more impulsive and self-serving. Eventually our disagreements came to blows—or rather, I swung at my father and he caught my fist with ease.”
It was his turn to duck his head, still embarrassed at his behavior. He didn’t even remember all the reasons for the argument, but it had been the catalyst in his decision to run away to war… and the reason his best friend had been lured away from a comfortable life.
The tap of her mug on the table drew his gaze up. Compassion, not disgust filled her eyes.
“We all do things we regret.”
A cynical laugh broke through his defenses. “Yes, but usually it does not kill people we care about.”
When she leaned back in her chair, eyes wide, he clamped his mouth shut. Still reckless. If not in action, he certainly had been with his words.
What would she do now? Quickly excuse herself and retreat to her room in fear? Castigate him for being overly dramatic? Or worse, say nothing at all but be gone by morning.
To his surprise, she relaxed, reached for her mug, and settled deeper into her chair. “I am ready.”
His brow pinched and his nose scrunched. He’d basically admitted to being a murderer.
A tiny smile graced her plump, bow-shaped lips. “It is Christmas Eve after all. What better way to spend it than by hearing a chilling tale?”
“This is no ghost story. The people in it are real and the events are gruesome. I could never tell a woman about such horrors.”
She sobered. “Then don’t think of me as a woman. Think of me as your friend, one who has come to lend an ear to a tale you’ve probably needed to divest from your soul for quite some time.”
He blinked a time or two, wondering what sort of potion she’d laced his drink with because he was seriously contemplating breaking his silence.
Glancing over his shoulder, he peeked at the door, still slightly ajar. They’d only been in the room a few minutes and everyone in his home could be trusted not to misconstrue their time alone as more than a meeting between friends. But did he trust himself to spend so much time alone with Grace?
What’s more, if he shared such personal experiences, would that be his heart’s undoing? He was already overwhelmingly drawn to her. Wouldn’t sharing something so vulnerable make it harder to step aside when the time came to let her go?
What if he didn’t let her go?
He closed his eyes. Magical pictures of future Christmases danced behind his lids. Then the fire popped and his eyes flew open, hands shaking.
No. He had to let her go. No woman deserved to be tied to a madman, one who might hurt her as he obviously had in the drawing room.
He rubbed his hands together. “How is your wrist?”
She frowned. “Fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“I should be. I am connected to it, after all.”
Her sarcastic remark made him smile. She was rarely contrary, but he found he liked it.
She leaned on the arm of her chair. “You are stalling, Lord Gladsby. Your admission promised a good tale and I’ll not be denied. Now, out with it.”
An odd sort of excitement filled him at her forcefulness. Even though her words were playful, he liked that she’d been able to read him so quickly and would not be moved by his tactics.
He sucked in a breath and slowly let it out. He didn’t have to tell her everything.
“My father and I never saw eye to eye on the gentry’s obligations when it came to the war with Bonaparte.
He insisted that as his only son, I should settle down and provide an heir for the property.
As a man of three and twenty, marriage was the last thing on my mind.
” He swallowed hard, realizing if he’d taken his father’s advice, perhaps Harvey would still be alive.
At the very least, it would have lightened his father’s burdens and maybe even extended his life.
Alan clenched his fists, then relaxed his fingers.
There was nothing he could do to change it now.
“However, fascinated with war since my days in short pants, I could not imagine why anyone would give up the opportunity to fight for king and country. It was an honor every able-bodied man should take up. I could almost taste the adventure. When I demanded he buy me a commission, he refused, insisting the people who lived and worked at Engalworth needed me more than the army. I thought him selfish, so I collected my horse and left that very day. Only I didn’t go alone. ”
“You didn’t?” Grace’s long, slender fingers tightly gripped her cup as she leaned in, anticipation clear in the set of her shoulders and the curve of her brow.
“No, I took my closest mate, Harvey Smith. We were both obsessed with becoming soldiers, and I convinced him not to wait for his father to save up enough to buy a commission. It was much faster to enlist. Incredibly ignorant, we believed the only thing His Majesty’s army needed was a pair of unskilled gentlemen to run to their rescue and beat Boney at his own game. ”
Alan shook his head at his own stupidity. He may have been three and twenty, but he’d had the sense of a youth who could barely grow hair on his upper lip. Maybe less, considering he’d attended university and still held to such reckless beliefs.
“So you and Mr. Smith joined the regulars,” Grace said. “That must have been humbling.”
He pondered her word choice. “Humbling. Yes, I believe that was our exact experience. We marched by men from all stations, many with much greater skill than our own. Frankly, it was humiliating. But Harvey, good man, did not castigate me once.”
“He sounds like a true friend. Was he ever able to buy a commission, or did he stay with the regulars after you became a spy?”
Alan clenched his teeth, a lead-like weight settling in his chest. Breathing in through his nose, he tried to gather his next words in hopes of gentling them for her.
“He did not make it home,” he said softly.
Her lips turned down and her eyes drooped. “Oh, Lord Gladsby, I am so sorry. Did he die in battle?”
Why hadn’t she just accepted his first explanation? Why did she have to ask more questions? And why in the world was she showing him pity?
He pushed to his feet and crossed to the fireplace. Leaning an arm on the mantel, he bit back the harsh retort he wanted to hurl at her. She’d done nothing wrong. Why was he angry?
Shifting from one foot to the other, he tried to relax his tense muscles.
“He did not die in battle. He died because of me. I consistently irritated our commander with my overconfident recommendations. When he didn’t take my advice, I’d remind him of my social standing and where I should be placed in the troops.
Fed up with my antics, he thought to teach me a lesson by making me night watchman for a whole week.
After several days of little sleep, Harvey offered to take my shift.
In the morning”—Alan swallowed hard— “he was gone.”
He closed his eyes, and several memories flashed behind his lids, each one more painful than the last.
A soft hand settled on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“It’s just me,” Grace cooed as if speaking to a skittish horse. Her hand settled back on his shoulder and she rubbed a gentle circle there.
The gentle touch soothed his battered soul as he stared into her intense brown eyes.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“Our commander, Lord Ratford, was a traitor. He meant for his associate to kill me, but Harvey had taken my place, and Sancerre could not tell the difference between us in the dark.” An uncomfortable stinging pricked the back of Alan’s eyes. “It is my fault Harvey is dead.”