Chapter 7 #2
All hope of answers, or even entertainment, was soon dashed.
In every room his father bored on at length about Monterris family history, slowing the pace of the tour to a crawl.
Every king to have stayed at the Court was mentioned a dozen times along with every ancestor to have commanded royal soldiers—the duke’s pride in his name taking on a visceral dimension that crushed his audience even as it enlivened him.
Only Lord Charborough seemed to enjoy himself.
While Nic and Leaf hung back, Leaf’s father walked at the duke’s side deep in conversation between stops on a tour that, by the end, felt interminable.
When Nic finally escaped to dress for dinner, he was even more in need of wine than ever—a feeling that didn’t dissipate upon finding a young man rustling around in his dressing room. “Uh, hello?” he said, causing the man to flinch and drop Nic’s shirts.
“Lord Monterris! I’m sorry, His Grace sent me. I’m not a valet, strictly speaking, but Rowerre was teaching me before… well…”
Rowerre’s replacement.
“Ah, I see. It’s Ambrose, isn’t it? You’re one of our footmen?”
“Yes, my lord, but I’ve been learning and I’ve always wanted to be a gentleman’s gentleman.”
Nic had been ready to hate the man, but found that he couldn’t. He sighed, a little knot of grief loosening slightly. “I’m sure you’ll be excellent, Ambrose. So long as you can keep the fire tended and my wardrobe in something approaching good order.”
“I can do that, my lord.”
“Oh, and do your best to make sure I’m not late for things. Rowerre sometimes joked I could replace him with a nagging clock.”
Nic smiled wryly at the memory, but Ambrose’s eyes widened and he turned in search of something, anything, that would tell him the time. He discovered the mantelpiece clock and his lips moved as he did mental calculations.
“Uh, my lord, I think perhaps you ought to dress for dinner.”
“Surely it can’t be later than six.”
“It’s half past, my lord.”
“Shit. You see? This is why I need a valet. I can dress myself but I cannot keep track of time worth a damn.”
Thankfully, Ambrose worked quickly and soon had Nic in a fresh shirt and breeches. While he prepared a neckcloth, Nic said, “You’ve worked here for a few years, haven’t you, Ambrose?”
“Yes, my lord. About four now.”
“Have you ever seen a ghost?”
Ambrose paused about his task. “Not myself, no, but there are plenty of stories belowstairs.”
“About faceless men and mad friars?”
“Yes, and one of the chambermaids used to go on about a dark sense of doom that filled the abandoned rooms. If you would lift your chin, my lord.”
Nic lifted his chin. “I suppose the house is very old. Did you know there was a castle here before the manor? Lots of battles came right up to the gates. Malcolm III. William the Lion. The civil wars. The first duke was even executed in the courtyard. That’s a lot of magic and hate and blood that has spilled into these grounds. Perhaps the house really does hate us.”
The young man seemed to have nothing to say to that, just as he had nothing to say when Nic’s hair gave him trouble and Nic said, “It’s my highwayman look, you know.” It turned out Ambrose was not Rowerre, and though he’d known Rowerre could never be replaced, it was disappointing all the same.
Nic arrived in the drawing room that evening to find every other guest already present.
Including, to his surprise, his mother. She sat on a large sofa near the fire, gazing upon the room like a woman holding court.
Silla stood behind her, and though Nic was used to his mother’s maid always being close at hand, her presence drew curious glances.
Leaf was sitting with Lady Lisbeth, who was smiling admiringly upon Dashiell as he recounted some tale or other for their entertainment.
Dashiell, whom he had kissed in the dark.
Dashiell, who had kissed him back with a heat that still burned beneath Nic’s skin.
As though it had only just happened, the man’s hair was beautifully dishevelled to a degree that caused Nic physical pain, and he made for the comparative safety of his mother’s conversation.
“Good evening, Mama,” he said, taking a seat beside her.
“Oh, my darling, I was wondering where you were.” She met his gaze and he was glad to find her more lucid than usual. “Isn’t this a delightful party?”
“It is, Mama; you are to be congratulated.”
She leaned close, smile mischievous. “You know I am not one to brag, but to have brought the Havellens out of seclusion is quite the achievement.”
Nic risked a glance at Lady Theresa seated nearby.
“Lord Monterris,” this lady said with a sardonic smile.
“How very much I learned about your family today. Of course it was just like dear Millie not to join us, choosing instead to monopolise her father’s time.
” She clicked her tongue and glanced at the duchess.
“Millie is my stepdaughter, Your Grace. The only child of my husband’s first and very unfortunate marriage to Caroline Wivenwood.
” She sniffed. “It’s been almost thirty years but people still pry about it.
No doubt you are well used to the same vulgar curiosity about Lord Francis. ”
The duchess flinched. Her smile turned glassy and Silla took half a step forward, only halting when Nic said, “We usually find people considerate enough not to bring him up in general conversation, Lady Theresa, but I am glad you enjoyed the tour.”
The lady looked like she would retort uncharitably, until the dinner bell rang over her scowl. Grateful for its timing, Nic rose to offer his mother his arm. “Shall I take you into dinner, Mama?”
“That would be lovely, dear one.” She set her hand on his arm, but as they reached the dining room, her fingers dug hard into his coat sleeve.
“The house hated him,” she whispered, grip tightening. “It hates me. Hates all of us.” Her eyes glazed as she slipped away from him, into one of her dark places. “Shall I make you one, Georgie? You wouldn’t have to be so alone.”
“Your Grace?” Silla took her hand, gently prising her grip from Nic’s arm. Conversation bubbled around them as the others took their seats at the table. “Your Grace?”
His mother flinched and looked at the footman holding out her chair. “Oh, is it time to eat? How delicious this all looks.” And with a rustle of skirts, she sat, a brittle smile for anyone who stared.
Nic moved to his place, still able to feel his mother’s fingertips biting into his arm. Shall I make you one, Georgie?
“Are you all right?” Lady Leaf slid her chair closer amid the hubbub. “You look worried.”
Whatever else he might share with her, his mother’s strange utterances weren’t among them, so he said, “Just hungry. I should rather ask how you are, after such a dull day.”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad to learn about the family I’m marrying into. And my father seemed to enjoy himself, which doesn’t happen often, I can tell you.”
“A thrilling afternoon, in fact?”
“Thrilling is taking it too far.”
Across the table, Dashiell was lifting his spoon to his lips—lips that had sought to devour Nic the night before.
Yet for all the signs Dashiell showed of recalling the incident, Nic might have imagined the whole.
Between spoonfuls of soup, the vowsmith was attempting to make conversation with Dr. Fanshaw, but nothing he said seemed to hold the other man’s attention.
His gaze kept slipping toward Leaf. When one question went entirely unacknowledged, Dashiell’s brows rose, and Nic found himself staring at their elegant arch, the curve of those soft, dark hairs the most expressive part of Dashiell’s face.
“Hmm, you’re right, he is very handsome,” Leaf said. She’d leaned close to see what he was looking at, and Nic turned so fast that his neck twinged.
“Do you…?”
“Do I what?” Lady Leaf stared back, her soup spoon hovering. “Oh, do I love him?”
“Shh,” Nic hissed.
“I was just trying to understand your question,” she hissed back. “And to answer it, no. Not that it’s any of your business. I’ve never been in love. I don’t think I know how to be.”
The noise around the table sounded extra loud in the wake of her admission, and when he didn’t answer, she said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do you love him?”
“This really isn’t the best place for this conversation.”
“You started it. Besides, no one is listening.”
That at least was true, the room full of cheerful conversation.
“I—we have… a history,” Nic said, keeping his voice low all the same.
“I told you he lived here as an apprentice and, well…” He let the words fade, unsure how to explain.
It had begun as friendship. Then longing had sparked as they grew from boys to men, a longing it had been impossible to contain.
For a time, they’d stolen only kisses, but an ever-increasing awareness of each other’s bodies had led to more.
To illicit touches beneath the table while they worked.
To the pair of them pressing against each with an unskilled, breathless need neither knew how to use, everything about their time together a delicious torture until one morning Dashiell had crept into his room. Into his bed. Then had been gone.
“Oh, do you have a sexual history?”
“Shh! What? No! And what sort of question is that for—”
“My, my, lovers’ quarrels already.” Lord Charborough directed one of his broad smiles at them, an amused twitch lifting the corners of his lips. “What can you two be whispering about so fiercely?”
Nic hadn’t realised how quiet the rest of the table had become. Everyone was staring at them.
“Singing, Papa,” Lady Leaf said, taking the scrutiny in her stride with a bored inflection Nic could only admire.
“Since we are to have music this evening and Lord Monterris enjoys conjuring, I requested he grace us with a song. Unfortunately, he is being stubborn and I will require all your entreaties if I am to hear him sing.”