Chapter 14
Nic had never wanted to attend dinner less.
Between everything Silla had said and the prospect of facing Dashiell, the urge to send Ambrose with his apologies was great.
But he couldn’t hide forever, and not wanting to abandon Leaf to keep an eye on Lord Ricard alone, he dressed and went down to the drawing room.
Half the party had already gathered, though to Nic’s dismay Leaf wasn’t among them.
Lady Theresa sat making small talk with Dr. Fanshaw while Lady Lisbeth watched the door, and the duke and Lord Charborough murmured a smiling conversation by the fire.
The sight of them couldn’t but remind Nic of their abandoned contract and the dozen questions it raised, and of his mother’s rage in the dark hollow of her chair.
Sometimes the strongest love is like a poison, and the more you drink the more monstrous you become, until you are standing in a wasteland of your own making.
Had he and Dashiell been allowed to love, might they have ended up the same way?
As though he had been summoned, the door opened to admit the vowsmith.
Despite Dashiell being dressed in the height of fashion, with a waistcoat that brought out the bronze of his eyes, all Nic could think of was his bare skin limned in the moonlight, the curve of his naked waist and the heat of his touch.
Their eyes met, and with a faint smile and a disinterested nod, Dashiell said, “Lord Monterris,” as though he hadn’t fucked Nic the night before, hadn’t groaned and gasped and devoured him.
The coldness was like the living dark all over again, but it was anger that flared in place of panic. To stand there and look at him as though he didn’t exist, like he meant nothing—Nic couldn’t shake the feeling of being used and discarded, and turned his shoulder.
Things did not improve over dinner. To his left, Leaf was intent on watching Lord Ricard, while to his right, Millie was sombre and answered at random, leaving Nic nothing to do but listen to Lady Lisbeth’s flow of Dashiell-related compliments from across the table.
He managed to focus on his meal and let them wash over him, until as the soup was removed the lady said, “Oh, I forgot to ask whether or not we won in the end. At cards.”
It was all Nic could do to keep his eyes on his plate.
“Unfortunately, no, my lady,” Dashiell said. “In the end, Lord Monterris was just too good.”
Nic looked up then and, meeting Dashiell’s faint smile across the table, knew the subtle, second meaning had been deliberate.
“Oh well,” Lady Lisbeth said. “Perhaps at archery tomorrow you will be able to get your revenge. I myself haven’t touched a bow for years.”
Nic ought to have looked away, or acknowledged the private compliment with a coy smile, but the easy lightness in the vowsmith’s words enraged him.
Closure. He’d never thought to ask whether that was what Nic wanted; he’d just sought Nic’s permission, his trust, only to once more spit on it and walk away.
So for a few long seconds, Nic held Dashiell’s gaze unsmiling, and had the pleasure of seeing a concerned notch grow between the man’s brows.
“How about you, Master sa Vare?” Lady Lisbeth said. “I can well imagine you are as skilled at archery as at everything else.”
“Hardly,” Dashiell replied, the word almost a snap. “Though it is often offered as entertainment during lock-ins, so I am perhaps more practiced than some.”
“How you must look forward to recreation days during lock-ins. A break from all your hard work.”
In the lull that followed, Nic risked a glance across the table only to find Dashiell’s stare still fixed upon him—a stare that became a question upon lifted brows, seeming to ask what he had done wrong.
Even had the dinner table been an appropriate place for such a conversation, Nic found that every reply that leapt to his tongue was raw and full of hurt, founded on an old, naive dream of love he had once carried.
More fool him for having ever been childish enough to want more than Dashiell could, or would even want, to offer.
All too soon the ladies departed, and to avoid a conversation with Dashiell, Nic moved down the table to sit across from Master Everel.
The man was nodding as the duke reviewed plans for the following day over his glass of port.
“—and luncheon on the terrace if the weather is fine. Then we’ll have archery—make sure enough arrows are brought out.
Bracers as well, as no one will have their own.
And tell the keepers that I want our best hunting birds.
A flight display after the archery will make a fine end to the afternoon, but they can’t remain once the night air falls, and the fireworks cannot be set up until they are well away. ”
“I shall inform the staff,” Master Everel said, his tone clipped. “Is that all, Your Grace?”
“For now, Everel, yes. All must go perfectly, remember. We are Monterrises. Our reputation is everything.”
It seemed an odd time to remind them, the planning of an entertainment hardly what would make or break the family name, yet Master Everel gave a grim nod. “I understand, Your Grace.”
Unfortunately, the problem with moving to sit near his father was his father’s attention. “I hope you do not intend to embarrass me again, like last night, Nicholas,” the duke said, turning Nic’s way.
For an instant, Nic could think only of Dashiell having him against the window, recollection of his choice to sing emerging more slowly from memory.
“Your mother might enjoy such performances,” his father went on, “but in future you will save them for her rooms rather than our guests. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Agreement was easy, automatic even, and unable to escape, Nic spent the next ten minutes being lectured on the importance of family pride.
He was reminded, once again, that his ancestors had worked hard to get them where they were; reminded, once again, that the first duke had been a favourite of Charles II; and reminded, once again, that he had no greater responsibility in life than to uphold his family name.
He was only saved when Dr. Fanshaw rose from his chair to excuse himself. “I must look in on Her Grace. If you would all excuse me.”
“I do hope dear Georgiana will be feeling well enough to join us tomorrow,” Lord Charborough said as the doctor departed. “It would be sad for her to miss—”
A crash sounded near the door as the chandelier candles winked out, dropping the room into near darkness. The few on the table went on burning like nothing had happened, providing enough light to make out shocked expressions and the shape of the doctor righting a decorative urn.
A shiver trickled down Nic’s spine. He looked around, sure he would find the automaton from the style wing standing right behind him, but there were just shadows suggesting faded wallpaper and rotten wainscotting.
“No need to panic,” the duke said, rising from his place. “Likely a window is open upstairs. The air currents in this house can be unpredictable. Let us take it as a sign we have lingered long enough over our wine and ought to join the ladies.”
Nic, not sure any of the upstairs windows still opened let alone could produce such a draught, glanced around as the gentlemen pushed back their chairs. The shape of the room remained, yet the details seemed wrong, a hint of mildew hanging in the air like a sour note.
“Nicholas.”
His father’s imperious tone snapped his attention back and he rose. “Yes, sir. Apologies.”
In the others’ wake, he made to slide past the duke in the doorway, only for fingers to tighten around his arm. “Nothing,” the duke said, voice low, “can go wrong.”
He let go as quickly, leaving Nic to walk on with the warning echoing in his head.
Returning to the drawing room with the others, he found Leaf and Lisbeth hunting through a cabinet, a set of checkers and a fox-and-hen board lying on the floor by their knees.
“Oh, now we have extra eyes,” Lady Lisbeth said, smiling upon Dashiell’s arrival. “We are looking for the missing pieces to these games. Do come and help us, Master sa Vare.”
Dashiell did as he was bid, while Nic took a seat at some distance, wondering how long until he could sneak away without his father noticing. The duke hadn’t followed them in yet, granting Nic a brief window in which to escape, but he didn’t dare. One lecture for the day was quite enough.
After a few minutes of desultory conversation, Lord Charborough said, “Where’d Val get to?”
“By all means, go in search of him, Brother,” Lord Ricard sneered.
“No, no, merely curious. It’s not as though he can get lost in his own house.” The marquess followed this with some hearty laughter, but ill ease spilled through Nic at his father’s ongoing absence. He got up and, leaving the rest of the party to their talk, went out into the empty hallway.
“Sir?”
No answer, not even the footsteps or distant murmuring of servants going about their work.
No doubt his father was giving orders to Castor or Mrs. Podmarsh and would be annoyed at Nic’s concern, but Nic couldn’t shake the recollection of the hovering white face and its icy shadows, and so turned his steps along the passage.
As he passed the dining room, a hint of smoke and mildew caught his nose, while ahead at the corner candlelight flickered upon the walls.
“The rest must hold,” came his father’s low tone as Nic approached—a hissed threat with a desperate edge. “Must hold.”
“Sir?” Nic called. “Is everything all right?”
The duke appeared around the corner, the candle in his hand reflecting bright circles off his dark glasses. “Nicholas. Why are you not entertaining our guests?”
“Lord Charborough asked where you were, and after what happened with Gillingham…” Nic left his concern hovering between them. For a moment they just stared at one another, until Nic gathered enough courage to say, “Is there something I ought to know?”
“I appreciate your concern, Nicholas, but matters of household management are not yet your—”