The Beloved One (14 page)

"So tell us what it's like, growing up in a castle and havin' a duke for a brother," Mira asked, finally tiring of her bawdy solos.

"I have nothing by which to compare it, so I cannot answer such a question."

"I hear that you nobs grow up with nannies and governesses and tutors — that so?"

"Yes."

"What are yer other siblings like?"

Normally, Charles was very private about family.  But the rum had made him feel pleasantly relaxed, these girls presented no threat or intrusion, and perhaps it would take his mind off Amy's proximity to his left shoulder — and the way that very proximity was affecting him — if he talked about the four people he missed most in this world.

Well, the four that he missed most besides Juliet, he thought, fiercely correcting himself.

He kicked off his shoes, pushing his stockinged toes into the warm sand.  "Well, first there's Lucien, the eldest," he said, visualizing Lucien's austere face with its smoldering dark eyes and flowing black hair.  "He was quite young when he inherited the dukedom, and thus has a keen sense of responsibility — especially toward the rest of us.  Unfortunately, he is can also be an autocratic monster with a Machiavellian tendency to manipulate others for what he calls 'their own good,' a trait which does not make him an easy man with whom to get along.  Or," he admitted with a rueful grin, "to live with.  The people back in our local village of Ravenscombe call him The Wicked One."

"Why?"

"Because he's a lethal duelist, a master strategist, and the last man on earth you'd want as an enemy."

"Oooh, I'd
love
to meet him," Mira said.

"You just might, because the moment he learns of my fate, he'll be on his way over here to bring me straight home to England."

"Despite the fact there's now fightin' goin' on?"

"Yes,  If my brother is determined to come for me, there is no force on earth that will stop him."  He grinned confidently.  "Mark me on that."

Amy, beside him, broke off a piece of cheese and pressed it into his hand, her fingers accidentally brushing his.  "You have a sister too, don't you?"

"Yes, Nerissa.  She's the youngest of us all."

"
I
wanna hear about yer brothers," Mira said.  "Are they all like Lucien?"

Charles made a noise of amusement.  "Thank God, no.  I'm the second oldest, and then there's Gareth.  He's the black sheep of the family and leads a group of ne'er do wells who've styled themselves after the Hellfire Club and call themselves the Den of Debauchery.  Gareth is irresponsible and dissolute, and Lucien despairs of him ever making anything of himself besides a general public nuisance — but I have rather more faith in him than that."

"And what do the villagers call
him
?"

"The Wild One."

"He sounds fun," Mira said.  "Is
he
betrothed?"

Charles laughed.  "No mama in her right mind would want their daughter married to Gareth.  His reputation is not undeserved."  He leaned back, his elbows sinking into the sand, the sun warming his upturned face.  "And then of course there's Andrew, my youngest brother, who aspires to be an inventor and is, according to the last letter I received from him, hoping to construct a flying machine."

"A flying machine?" cried both girls in unison.

"Yes.  A preposterous notion, isn't it?  However, I suppose that if anyone can do it, Andrew can.  He has a clever brain, and did very well at Oxford."

"What's
his
nickname?"

"The Defiant One."

"Why?"

"Because he is fiery and independent, and is ever at odds with Lucien."

There was long silence.  And then, softly, Amy said, "And what did the villagers call you, Charles?"

Everything stilled inside him.  He sat up, feeling a sudden rush of self-loathing and loss.  "The Beloved One," he said quietly.  Head bent, he picked up a handful of sand, letting it trickle out through his fingers.  "Because I always did everything right, always lived up to what everyone expected of me, always succeeded at whatever I put my mind to — and never let anyone down."  He turned his face toward the salty breeze.  "Until now."

Even Mira, recognizing the pain in his voice, went uncharacteristically silent.

Amy, beside him, reached out and touched his hand.

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

Mira got to her feet, making a big pretense of brushing the sand from her clothes.  "Well, I think I'm gonna walk over to the other side of the point and see if any boats are goin' past," she announced briskly, realizing, perhaps, that two was company and three a crowd.  "You two sit and chat for a while.  I'll be back — later."

Charles waited until she had gone, and then rested his forehead in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, staring down into the blackness.  "We were all having a good time, and now I've ruined it."

"No you haven't."

"All my life, everyone thought me perfect, confident, capable . . . and all my life I tried to be just that, so that I would not disappoint.  People came to me with their problems, consulted me for advice, depended on me."  He gave a bitter little laugh.  "Do you know what Lucien told me the day my regiment left England to come to America?"

For answer, she reached out and took his hand.

"He wished me Godspeed — and then he said, 'Return to us crowned in laurels, Charles.  You are a de Montforte.  I expect nothing less than glory from you. 
Especially
from you.'"  He dug at the sand with his foot.  "And instead of laurels, what will I bring back to my family?  Shame.  Pity.  Embarrassment.  I have failed them, and I have failed myself."

"You made an honorable sacrifice, Charles.  You put the life of a young boy before your own."

"I fell and struck a rock.  I seethe with humiliation when I think of explaining myself, and the circumstances of my injury, to my superiors — let alone my family, all of whom expected so very much of me."  He made a sound of disgust.  "Crowned with laurels!  Indeed."

"Just because
you
have such high standards of perfection, doesn't mean everyone else does."

"No, but they're accustomed to certain behavior and actions from me, and neither my behavior nor my actions give me any reason to be proud."

"Well,
I'm
proud of you.  You have more strength, more courage, and more determination than anyone I know."

He allowed a grim smile.  Of course she would say that; given the girlish infatuation he suspected she felt for him, such a defense came as no surprise.  And there was no use arguing with her.  When you were infatuated with a person, you always saw them as something more than they were; something almost god-like.  And Charles knew, more than anyone, that he was not god-like at all.

Far from it.

They sat together, each all too aware of the other's nearness, each respecting the unspoken boundaries that forbid them to acknowledge secret yearnings, give in to forbidden desires.  Finally, Charles sighed and, with his finger, began tracing patterns in the sand.

"Amy . . . may I speak to you as a friend?"

"Of course."

"That first night after discovering I was blind, when I accused you of being your family's slave and you grew angry with me and told me to mind my own affairs —"

He sensed her going stiff beside him.

"Well, I cannot help but ask.  Why do you allow them to treat you so shabbily?"

She was so silent that he thought for sure he'd offended her, and that she was going to get up and walk away.

Then, very quietly, she murmured, "Because I have to."

"Why?"

"Because if I were to act difficult and contrary, there's nothing to stop my sisters from convincing Sylvanus to throw me out.  And since I have no hopes of marriage, I can't let that happen.  I have nowhere else to go."

"What do you mean, you have no prospects of marriage?  You're young, charming, and no doubt beautiful.  You have your entire life before you!"

"You don't understand, and I — I don't want to talk about this."

"No, I don't understand, and how the devil
can
I, when every attempt I've made to have this conversation with you ends before it even begins?"  Realizing that he was getting angry, he took her hands within his own and squeezed them, willing her to forgive him for his curiosity, his impatience, his interference.  "I can't help but notice the way they treat you, Amy.  I have come to care about you, and it hurts me.  It upsets me.  Can you not tell me why your sisters hate you so?"

"I'm not
really
their sister."

"What do you mean, not
really
their sister?"

"Sylvanus is their father — but he's not mine."

"So you're his stepdaughter, then?"

"Not exactly . . ."

"Then who is your father?"

She went silent.

"Amy?"

Her hands were trembling, and he it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms, to comfort and hold and soothe her as everything inside of him screamed at him to do.  Instead, he folded her cold hands within his and very calmly, asked, "Can you not tell me who your father is, Amy?"

"I can, but . . ."

"But what?"

Something came into her voice; not quite fear, but shame.  Deep shame.  She whispered, "I'm afraid you won't like me anymore if I do."

He smiled gently.  "Does that matter?"

She swallowed.  "Yes.  It — it matters a lot."

Ah yes.  That damned infatuation again.  "My dear friend.  There's nothing you can say or do that will make me dislike you, or cause me to forget all that you have done for me.  If you want to tell me your secret, I vow to keep it safe."

"That's just it.  It's not a secret.  Everyone in town knows about me, and they all have reason to treat me as they do."

"
Amy
."

"Yes?

He pulled his hands from hers and bending his head, rubbed at the back of his skull, which was now beginning to throb incessantly.  "Please don't make me angry."

"I'm just telling the truth."

"No, you're putting yourself down and I don't like it.  Do you like it when I put myself down?  Do you like it when I refer to myself as helpless and blind?"

"No, of course not, but you're not helpless and your blindness may delay, but never deter, you from your potential, whereas I —"

"Whereas you need a good dose of self-confidence so that you'll stand up to people who treat you badly.  How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"And do you have a fair face, Amy?"

"No.  I'm ugly."

"I suppose you're fat, toothless, and scarred by pox as well, eh?"

"Not yet," she murmured, but he heard the reluctant smile in her voice.

"So why do you think you're ugly, Amy?"

"I just am."

"You just are."

"Yes."

"Are your sisters ugly?"

"No.  They're beautiful, both of them, with perfect blonde hair and lovely eyes and skin as white as milk.  It's a good thing you can't see them, otherwise you'd probably forget all about your fiancée in Bos —" she trailed off, horrified.  "Oh, Charles, I didn't mean that the way it sounded!"

He shook his head.  "I didn't take it the way it sounded.  Now Amy.  Since you have eyes that work, I want you to look at me.  I'm missing part of my hair, I have a hole in my head, and my eyes must surely be staring into space.  Do you think
I'm
ugly?"

"Oh, no, Lord Charles, they could shave off all your hair and give you a dozen holes in your head and do whatever they wanted to your eyes and you'd still be just as hands—"

She caught herself and gasped.  The air between them turned suddenly warm.

He couldn't help grinning.  "I'd still be just as what?"

"I can't say, I should never have said as much as I have, I've embarrassed myself and now I'll embarrass you —"

"I doubt that."

"Well, I was going to say that you'd still be just as . . . just as handsome, but I don't want you to think I'm trying to get under your skin as my sisters think to do.  They — they look at you the way they look at dessert every night."

"Ah.  And did they start thinking of me as dessert before or after they learned that my father was, and now my brother is, the duke of Blackheath?"

"After."

"Women."  He sighed.

"You're kind, blue-blooded, and look like some warrior angel fallen to earth.  You have to expect that women are going to throw themselves at you.  Don't you find it flattering?"

"No, I find it damned annoying."

"Why?"

"I don't have time for it, am not vain enough to appreciate it, and have no use for females whose interest in me is predominantly based on the fact that my father was a duke."  He pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from his queue, continued rubbing the back of his skull, and said wryly, "Perhaps now that I have a hole in my head and can no longer see, they'll leave me alone."

"I doubt it.  You're still handsome, you're still brave, and you still have the same father."

He laughed.  "Oh, Amy.  Why is it that you can make the simplest statements sound so ludicrously funny?"

"Do I?"

"Yes."  He smiled.  "And don't ever stop."

They sat quietly together.  Overhead, gulls wheeled, and the sea beat a rhythmic song against the beach.  Absently, Charles resumed massaging the back of his head, trying to banish the pain that never seemed to let up beneath his skull.  He didn't even realize he was doing it until suddenly her hand was there, her fingers encircling his wrist.

He stilled, one brow raised.

"I know you're in pain," she began, hesitantly.  "Every time I see you doing that, all I want to do is try and find some way to make you feel better, but I . . ." she released his hand.  "Well, you have a fiancée and I don't know if it's right to touch you."  She swallowed.  "
Is
it right to touch you, Charles?"

He frowned, considering the matter.  "I suppose there's no harm in it, as long as my head is the only part of me you touch."  He smiled.  "We really don't need a repeat of what happened that night you uh, helped me with my bath, do we?"