3. Conrad
A nother day, another torturous event with my damned fiancé. Only this time, it’s not just a few precious hours of my time that she’s stealing. No, my brother and her father have decided a nice little stay over would help us get to know each other better, and seal this god-awful deal. It’s all chaperoned, of course, though I don’t doubt the damned witch will do her best to sink her claws into me any chance she gets. Oh, she thinks I don’t know. She thinks I can’t see it, that under that beautiful, immaculate exterior is an ugly, spiteful little bitch who will do anything to get what she wants.
I should admire that, really. The Blake in me should recognise that as a strength, and yet she’s such a conniving bitch that I find everything she does detestable.
As my car pulls up to their monstrosity of a house, it’s hard not to hide my sneer. Sure, their family is as respectable as mine, has as much history and heritage as mine, but I’m a Blake. My brother is going to be Chapter Lord. My ancestors were Chapter Lords and members of the Senate, dating right back to the very first. We outrank them in every way, and nothing makes it more of an obvious show of new money than this building.
Our own ancestral home is Jacobean, standing on the ruins of a Norman fortress. This was clearly a knock down and rebuild. Maybe they had woodworm, maybe the whole damned house fell down in the night from the shoddy workmanship but instead of admitting that fact, they’ve rebuilt it piece by piece. Turning what was once a majestic piece of architecture into a farce. Gone is the character, gone is the history, replaced by pretence and forgery. Even the gargoyles have lost their muster.
As I stare up, I catch a glimpse of her - the only thing that makes this experience worth getting out of bed for.
She’s on the fifth floor, tucked away, half obscured by the thick curtains.
In my head, I’d like to think she’s done this on purpose, that this is her silent way of acknowledging my presence and welcoming me here. But that’s ridiculous. We’ve never even exchanged a word. Sure I watch her, but even those times have been fleeting, stolen. The girl is more of a mirage than an actual human being.
Perhaps that’s what makes her so appealing though, better a fantasy than the horrid reality that is her aunt.
I run my hand through my hair, hoping the movement might catch her eye, but it does nothing. She can’t see me. She hasn’t noticed me standing here practically gawping, but I always notice her. I have every single time she’s scuttered by, every time she’s crept from room to offensive room. She’s like a mouse, creeping about, hoping to go unnoticed. And that’s how they all treat her too; an unwanted pest they’d clearly like to rid their home of.
If I had my way, she’d be the one I’d be hauling up the aisle. She’d be the one tethered to me. She’s far more to my tastes, far more - malleable. Unlike her aunt she knows not to play games, she’s too innocent for that - and she’s also clearly learned to keep her mouth shut, which is another attribute I admire.
“Conrad.”
My teeth clench, and my jaw tightens, as that screechy-welcome rings out across the drive.
She’s there, standing in a tight dress she no doubt thinks is alluring, and she’s got her arms spread wide, as wide as the stupid welcoming grin on her heavily dolled up face.
“Giselle.” I say tightly. There’s no use in pretence. I’m not going to fawn all over her, I’m not going to make a show of acting like I want this woman. No, she can do all the leg work because as far as I’m concerned, this entire marriage is an affront to everything I am.
Behind her, her father comes to the door. He tilts his head, giving a gesture that I reciprocate. Him at least I respect on some level. He’s a formidable man. Tall, lithe, and no doubt could gut you as readily as give you a smile. In many ways he reminds me of my own dear brother, Magnus, though I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
The servants come flittering about, grabbing my bags, making a show of this family’s simpering hospitality. I stalk over from the car, glancing one final time up to where my doll was, and a pang almost hits me when I see the space is empty.
Has she seen me, then? Did she slip away while her wretched aunt was screeching like a banshee? Or was it after? Did she sense danger, sense discovery and decide it best to lay low, just like always? I guess I’ll not know that answer, at least not until I can hunt her down.
And that’s exactly what I intend to do. If these seven days give me nothing else, they will give me that, a few moments, a few conversations with Brynn. I will corner her where I must, trap her if she’s unwilling, but this family will give me that one thing.
Dinner is set. A fancy dinner. Fine silverware and the best China they have, all laid out like this is a state banquet.
Quinn sits at the head, his young wife to the left of him. A few of the cousins and lesser relatives fill the dozens of spaces and Giselle is next to me, her leg touching mine just often enough for me to know it’s not by some accident.
I made my excuses after arriving. Made a lie about an urgent business call and I stayed in my suite, laying low, reminding myself of all the reasons why I should be grateful for this match. I could practically hear my brother’s voice echoing in my head about the fact that I’m pushing forty. I’m technically a Reaper, but have no record to show for it beyond my impressive bloodline, I’m a fuckup. A playboy. I know I’ve spent my youth indulging too much, but I also knew what my future would be, and why would anyone not take the good days before the bad ones rolled in?
The servants trail in, all in neat little suits that echo the ones worn by my own family’s help. They keep their eyes down, mouths shut and silently lay out the copious dishes before us.
Quinn makes a nice show of saying grace, of thanking our Senate for their guidance and God for every blessing he has bestowed on his family.
Only, there’s someone missing. One very obvious member who is a no show.
At first, I think it’s because of me that my little doll has played ill and stayed away but as the dishes are served, I realise that there’s more at play here.
“Where is your niece?” I ask Giselle, cutting across whatever bullshit she’s jabbering on about, though I intentionally don’t say Brynn’s name. I don’t want to reveal any more cards than I have to.
She stops abruptly, her cheeks going slightly red with the obvious insult and a micro-expression of a scowl covers her pretty features.
“Why do you ask?” She says, straightening her spine like an insect about the attack.
“Is this not meant to be a family meal?” I reply. “Surely that would mean all family are present?”
She lets out a huff, turning her head to glance at all the other faces who are clearly listening into our conversation.
“Brynn was waylaid.” Quinn says, as if that explains it. “She will eat in her room.”
Of course she was. No doubt Giselle is behind that. Jealous, conniving bitch. It’s more than apparent that her absence was intentional because there’s no setting for her, no empty glass and unused cutlery. No, they knew before this dinner was even being prepared that she wouldn’t be attending it.
I pick up my wine, take a sip and then act as nonchalantly as I can about it, but I’m done with this meal. Done with the schmoozing. I was never much of a wine drinker and though this vintage is nice, I’d give anything for a large glass of whiskey to help me through this.
Thankfully the talk resumes. My hateful bride-to-be titters on, and I smile as best I can, pretending to give a shit for more hours than I can possibly count.
My eyes land on Paige, Quinn’s wife. She’s young, barely older than Giselle. She’s wearing a dress that swamps her body and she’s careful to keep her eyes downcast. By all definitions, she’s the perfect Brethren Lady, silent, obedient. But I know she hasn’t given him any children. Not one.
I glance back at her husband and wonder if the fault is with him. Perhaps he’s sterile, but then he had two daughters, didn’t he? Or maybe he doesn’t care for more heirs, maybe he put all his hopes into the one he had left, maybe that’s why he’s so invested in this damned union.
When the meal is done, the ladies retire, and I follow the few men into the drawing room. Cigars are handed out, smoke fills the air and the much sought after scotch is poured out for us.
Without his daughter hanging off his every word, Quinn is far more entertaining, far better of a conversationalist. I’d even go so far as to say I enjoy his company, and I’m surprised to realise my evening isn’t a complete write off.
It's only as we say our goodnights and we all retire to our rooms that I finally get a glimpse of my real interest.
She slips down what can only be one of the servant’s stairs and tiptoes past the sombre looking portraits, barely making more sound than a ghost would.
Of course I follow her. I’d be a fool not to.
Opportunity has presented itself so nicely that it’s almost as if it’s a sign from God.
She doesn’t seem to realise she’s being tailed though, and I’m smart enough to keep my distance until I realise where she’s headed. At first, I thought she was sneaking out, making a real break for it. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she was, if she was seeking more thrills than these turgid walls could grant. But no, angel that she is, she isn’t looking for cheap thrills and cheap entertainment; I could almost laugh out loud when I realise where she is headed. What a contrast she is to her aunt, to her entire family.
She opens only the left of the massive double doors, pausing for just a moment before she slips inside.
And now I know that I have her trapped. I pick up my own pace, cross the polished parquet and step into the cavernous room beyond.
It’s a marvel. I’ll give them that. Clearly some past relative curated this collection, because I know neither Quinn nor any of his immediate family members would have the knowledge, nor the taste, nor the ability to collect such a plethora of books.
It’s not just a library, it’s a monument. Dusty tomes cover the walls from floor to ceiling. I can practically breathe in the words seeping out from the pages. They must employ someone full time just to maintain this collection and though I’m not much of a booklover myself, I can appreciate the knowledge that is here.
A shadow flickers ahead, and my prize takes timid steps, as if she’s afraid one of these books might just come to life and fly off the shelves at her.
But it’s also clear that she knows exactly where she’s headed. I don’t doubt she’s spent hours perusing every shelf, learning where her favourite genres and authors are. My lips curl up into a smirk.
She’s such a darling, isn’t she? So sweet, so innocent.
I can imagine how we would be if we were a couple; me off seeing to the demands of the Brethren, her tucked up at home, waiting contentedly for my return while she wiles away her days with one book and then another.
It’s a nice image, a nice idea.
And sadly, one that will never come into fruition.
No, I must take the precious few moments I have before all that freedom and happiness is shut away.
So I step forward, not caring that my own steps may carry. After all I’m an honoured guest here, and more than that, I’m a Blake.
Her hands falter, her breath hitches, and the book she was cradling so carefully crashes to the floor with a thud. Those big brown eyes widen to an astronomical size as she stares up at me in horror.
“Caught you.” I murmur, letting her hear the taunt in my voice.
She gulps, scooping down to hastily grab the book that’s fallen into a heap of crumpled pages and bent spine, only, I don’t let her get to it. Instead I pick it up, holding it just beyond her reach, more curious with what book had her so desperate to find it that she left the safety of her room in the middle of the night.
“Please…” She whispers.
“What?” I don’t lower my voice, I don’t keep quiet, though common sense tells me I should. The louder I am, the more likely we are to be discovered, and the less time I will get with her.
Her lip trembles as she clearly considers her next move carefully and it makes me wonder, do I scare her that much?
“Is it that good of a book?” I ask.
She draws in her breath, her eyes darting over my shoulder like she expects her entire family to be there, judging us both.
I don’t know what I expected, I don’t know why I thought she’d behave differently, why she would respond differently if we were alone. In truth, I’m almost disappointed by her standoffishness. Then I remind myself, I’m almost twice her age, I’m a Brethren Lord, and I’m a Blake. Those facts alone should be enough to put the fear of God into anyone. And little Brynn here has never been bold, has never been courageous. Her family has brought her up to be obedient, to bend, to be the perfect submissive. I can hardly fault her for that. I can hardly hold it against her, when those very traits are what make her so very attractive in the first place.
“Don’t be afraid.” I state, “You’re safe with me.”
That’s not exactly true. But if it makes her feel better, then so be it. I’ll whisper whatever niceties I have to, if it means I can make her more amenable.