Etiquette With The Devil (29 page)

A cool breeze swirled about the room—the briskness waking her further from whatever stupor she was emerging from. It felt like heaven against her skin.

Her gaze continued around the room until she happened upon the sleeping figure in a chair by the corner—the white spot she had fought to put into focus as she was stuck in the twilight of sleep.

His head was lolled to the side. In the faint light of the room, she saw that he was sun bronzed, and a beard hid the sharp angles of his face. His hair was to his chin and wavy.

Hazel eyes opened and met hers. Bly shifted his body forward in the chair, keeping his gaze fixed on steadily on her.

He had come back.

“Minnie,” Clara whispered. It was an ugly croak, but at least it was easier to speak now. She did not have that angry burn in her throat like when she woke last.

“She’s well.”

Clara blinked in relief. She would sigh, but it was already an effort to breathe.

“I had a second doctor come and issue his opinion. She’s well,” he repeated once more, his voice haggard and raspy.

Bly rested his elbows on his knees. His hair draped next to his exhausted face, but he had yet to remove his eyes from her. Even as she closed them, she felt his stare. Tears welled up behind her eyelids on hearing of Minnie’s recovery. Or perhaps it was the added appearance of Bly at her sickbed. Her head was much too foggy to tell.

“You look like death,” she managed after a time. She wished desperately for a glass of water.

“Don’t jest.” His words were sharp and clipping.

She supposed she should be angry with him. She hated him most days. Yet, she did not have the energy to do so now.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired.” She felt so very tired.

“You’ve been very ill,” he said, a strange hitch in his voice.

She wondered suddenly if he had been there for a long while. The dark shadows under his eyes certainly suggested that was the case. Clara nodded best she could and closed her eyes again. She tried to roll to her side, but the effort to do so was too much for her weak body. Quiet settled between them, and once again she felt herself trapped between sleep and wakefulness.

“I said horrible things before I left,” he admitted as she struggled to open her eyes. “And I’m sorry,” he added when her eyes met his once more.

There was an answer there somewhere inside her, but she could not voice it. She felt it instead, within the depths of her heart, which was a place he had never understood.

When she did not answer, a shadow passed over his face, and he stood. He appeared much smaller crumpled in the chair, lost in slumber. Watching him, she remembered what he had been three years ago—spirited, tiresome, and so breathtakingly handsome. He looked even more so now, even in his stained and crumpled shirt, wholly exhausted.

“Stay,” she whispered, without knowing why.

He gazed down at her, his fingers scratching at his beard. There was a long beat before he said in a low whisper, “I’m not leaving.” Bly walked over to a table in the dim light and returned with a tray. He pulled the chair closer to the bed and set the tray down, approaching her as if she were a fragile and frightened animal trapped in a cage.

He leaned down over her, his hands gently slipping behind her back, lifting her to rest higher upon the pillow. She stiffened, her body angry, yet longing for his touch. Years had made strangers of them. Even now, he might as well have been in India for all the distance resonating between them.

Bly remained quiet as he fed her—two ghosts in the silent darkness of night of a love long since dead.

C
lara wiped the blood away with the stained handkerchief and fell back against her pillow. If she was going to die, and it certainly felt that way, she wished it would come quickly instead of taunting her. She only wished to hold her son again first.

Perhaps she should tell the boy’s father as well.

Clara had entertained the idea. She had even attempted it a few times. The words heavy as weights to her heart fell from her lips whenever she opened her mouth to reveal the secret. Even on what might be her deathbed, it was hard to ignore the deep-rooted fear of Bly’s reaction to the news.

She suffered the consequences of being a bastard her entire life—from the neglectful grandparents, to the endless teasing and taunting at boarding school, to her work as a companion, far away from any reach of proper society. She never wanted Rhys to know what it was like to be turned out by one’s father and left to suffer the unbearable burden of aloneness. It was a blackness that settled into one’s bones and seeped into the places left vacant from searching for love over the long days.

The only feeling worse was perhaps blindly falling in love without the foresight to predict its abrupt end. To be deprived of love, after thinking one had found it, was a pain she wished on no one. It had left Clara tattered around the edges, worn, and not quite as resolute as she once was.

It left her broken.

Even as Bly stayed by her bedside these past weeks, unwavering in his attentions, even as he ran himself into the ground to the point of exhaustion, she remained distant. She did not believe it would ever be possible to feel for him as she once had, and that made things all the worse.

Clara was staring at the portrait over the fireplace as Bly entered the room just after the clock chimed eight that evening. She turned her head and noticed him smile that earnest smile that had once reached out to her like a tender caresses. His face was shaved clean and his hair was cut to a more respectable length. It was still tussled nonetheless.

“I have a surprise for you this evening.”

Clara nodded for him to go on, managing in the silence that often settled between them. At least in that heavy silence, she could remain apart. She had no desire to share any part of her heart with him any longer.

He walked back into the hall and returned with a small plate, smelling of food—real food—still warm from the kitchen. It made her stomach growl.

“I know you’re not supposed to be eating heavy food, but I don’t see how you’re going to gain any strength by only drinking broth. So you and I are going to do what we do best—
rebel
.”

That easy smile floated to his face as it had done so long ago when he teased. She noticed the lines around his eyes and his mouth had grown deeper with the passing years, and that time had not been kind to him.

He waited for her reply, but when she made none, he pulled the chair closer and stuck a piece of chicken with the fork. It was covered with rich gravy that melted into her mouth as he pulled the fork away from her lips.

She let out a satisfied moan, blushing at the indecent sound.

He laughed then, a deep rumbling sound that caused her lips to turn into a smile. She did not mean for it to happen, but his laugh warmed her ever so slightly, like the sun beginning to thaw the frozen winter ground.

She ate in silence after that, keeping her eyes on Bly. His eyes were warmer than usual and more alive than they had been since his arrival. She wondered what the reason behind his transformation was, but she remained quiet.

When she was finished, he left with the plate and returned with a cup of tea and a book in hand. “I thought I might read to you tonight. I imagine you’re beginning to get anxious stuck there like a fallen tree.”

Clara positioned herself onto her side, nodding her consent, then sank deep into the pillow. The smell of approaching spring always had a lulling effect on her. It was crisp and sweet—full with promise.

Bly sat by her bed and began to read one of her favorite books. She looked up, surprised to hear the familiar lines. His voice was deep and rich as it flowed through the sentences with a lulling cadence. She had never heard him read, and she was sorry for it now.

Clara closed her eyes and took the comfort from his voice, forgetting the plot to the foolish novel, listening instead to the rhythmic beat that fell upon her ears, eventually drifting into sleep.

She woke to the gentle voice of Bly close by her side sometime later.

“What’s wrong, Clara?”

Her face was wet and her body shook from sobbing and the rattling of coughs as she struggled for air. When she heard her name, she buried her face deeper into her pillow, feeling as if a vise closed around her heart.

His hands gently cradled her face, urging her to look at him as he wiped away her tears with the rough pads of his thumbs. It was to no avail. His touch only made her weep more.

“Hush now,” he said. “Everything is fine, love.”

Love
. The ache in her body tripled.

“Tell me what is upsetting you.”

He sat on the edge of the bed as she fell to pieces. Clara fought back the tears until it left her gasping for air, desperate for some calm. When she could not stop, he collected her against his chest.

Memories of that night flooded back as the beating of his heart sounded against her ear. She fell asleep once in these arms, she remembered. They had held her and cradled her. They had been a haven when the rest of the world had been hostile.

“Don’t be upset,” Bly whispered into her hair. “You’ll have your little victories.”

She nodded into his shirt, now soaked with her tears. Clara clutched at the fabric by his shoulder with all her strength, fearing that if she let go she would slip into the madness that lingered in the shadows of her mind.

Bly smelled of sandalwood, exotic spices, and leather. Nothing of the whiskey or cigars she remembered. She took in another breath, feeling herself press deeper into his hold.

“You had a proper meal this evening,” he continued, unaware of the confusion swirling inside her. “We’ll count that as your first.”

It was entirely improper for him to be there, holding her as only a husband should, but her reluctance faded as his fingers circled her back, silencing her tears. Who was she to insist upon propriety when she had a son out of wedlock with the man?

“What shall we do for your second?” he whispered into her ear. He gently swayed them side to side. “Hmm? Maybe we’ll go for a ride or start waltzing around the room? Maybe we can have races up and down the stairs?”

“I would like to fence,” she said, sniffing back her tears. She wanted her son, more like. “Preferably from the balcony.”

“I don’t know of another way to fence,” he retorted with a leveled voice.

She lifted her face to his, a shy smile playing at the corners of her aching lips.

“Just tell me how to make it better and it will be done.” He brushed his hand over her hair.

But it was a touch too much, one certainly too familiar. She thought back to him tracing his hand over her back, skirting her shoulder as if he had stumbled upon some personal heaven. His touch was reverent, even after all these years.

It was too painful. She shied away, drawing away from his embrace. “I would like a bath,” she said after a time. And though she was now nestled into her pillow and away from him, she couldn’t separate herself from the remorse haunting his eyes.

“Then that’ll be the second.” He walked to the door. “Rest. You can have your bath when I return.”

“We must…that is there is something I—”

“I’ll be back, Clara. Just close your eyes.”

She did just that, leaving the truth for another time. The next thing she felt was Bly’s arms as he lifted her from bed. He carried her across the room and into a hallway she never knew existed. A small washing room, lit with candles, and a tub filled with steaming water stood just beyond another door.

“I’m going to close my eyes,” he said as he tested her on her feet. Her legs buckled and his arms snapped around her body, preventing her from collapsing to the cool tile floor. “Sit on the edge of the bath for a moment.”

Panic set in as she realized that he had drawn the bath.

“It’s only Tilly and Molly now. I didn’t want to wake them,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But I give my word that—”

“Not necessary. I can wait until morning.”

“I can be a gentleman about this. Trust me.”

That was the core of the problem. She had trusted him once and he had fled, crushing her heart and soul. She was a ragdoll shoved in the deepest corner of the toy chest in comparison to the young girl who had arrived at Burton Hall three years ago.

“If you were, you would allow me to take the bath with Molly’s aid in the morning.”

“Is that what you want?”

She sighed, running her hand through the warm water. All she wished was to wash the lingering threat of death from her skin. “Please give me a towel.” It was ridiculous trying to attempt modesty with Bly, but that was another time, and they were strangers now.

He handed her a towel and lifted her to her feet again. “I am going to give you your hem and you can wrap the towel around you. My eyes will be closed.” He crossed his heart and she saw the disappointment on his face when she did not laugh.

She watched him with an unwavering stare, making sure he was true to his word as he placed the hem of her gown into her palm. Clara pulled the gown off and wrapped the towel around herself as Bly’s hold steadied her.

“I’m ready.”

He nodded, slowly opening one eye in her direction. “May I open my other eye so I can deposit you in the bath and not the sink?”

“Yes.”

He lifted her again in a swift move and slipped her into the warm water. It enveloped her like a pot of honey. Her body relaxed, sinking back into the tub, and all but melting into the heavenly water.

“Your soap, Madame.” He bowed and waited for her smile, but she could not bring herself to do it. Bly scrubbed his hand over his face as if he was attempting to hide his disappointment.

Clara saw it plainly and wished to do nothing to ease it.

“I’ll be just outside if you need me.” He left before she could say anything further.

With measured effort, Clara pulled the towel free from around her body so her flesh could breathe for the first times in weeks. She stopped when she saw the state of her skin—scarred, spotted, and covered in sores. She raised her fingers to her face, feeling the same roughness there as mirrored on the rest of her body.