Page 33 of A Figure of Love

He screamed.

The hoarse, terror-filled yell was like a catapult flinging Gareth upright in his bed. He couldn’t get enough air; it was like breathing water. His hands fisted the covers on both sides and the darkness that had shrouded his eyes cleared, burned away by the single candle he always kept burning, no matter where he slept. It was across the room, hidden by a blue glass shield, but it provided enough light to keep him from drowning in the terrifying blackness.

Afraid of the dark; he was afraid of the dark. The taunting voices of children floated through his mind like fragments of clouds across the moon. Children liked to find and exploit weakness, and none knew that better than Gareth.

His heart ceased its mad flapping against his ribcage and his breathing slowed. The fine Irish sheeting was twisted and wrapped around his torso, soaked with sweat and telling him the dream had been of long duration.

He untangled his legs and swung his feet to the floor, more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed—and he’d been plenty tired then, having spent the day either in a carriage or examining a brewery that had been run into near ruin by the current owner’s feckless speculation on the ’Change.

He might be tired, but he also knew there was no chance of getting back to sleep after one of these nightmares; dreams which plagued him at least several times a month. As always, he was famished—as if he had lived the dream and actually spent days in the dark without food or water.

He put on the heavy silver silk banyan Chalmers had purchased for him and slid his always cold feet into his sheepskin slippers.

He would go to the kitchen and hunt for food. He’d not yet done that at Rushton Park, but Jessup was familiar enough with his nocturnal habits in London that he would know to have pies or bread and cheeses and such always waiting for him.

The journey to the kitchen was a substantial one but it gave him a chance to look at his house without the presence of the dozens of servants he employed, people who were always at hand during the daylight hours to see that he never went without. While Gareth appreciated efficient servants, he sometimes felt like a visitor in his own house.

He passed through the great hall into the corridor that housed the kitchen, laundry, servant quarters, and everything else that made the huge house run—usually for him alone. Which made him think of the woman and her son.

Mrs. Lombard and Oliver, he reminded himself. It was a bad habit of his to refer to people by labels, rather than their names: the woman, the brewer, the architect. Something about putting names to faces always struck him as intrusive and overly familiar. Just one more of his hundreds of quirks and foibles, like the wall sconces he kept burning all through the night, which made his bill for candles probably greater than that in St. James Palace. Of course Gareth probably had more money than the King and could actually pay his bills.

The candles burned everywhere, in every part of the house. Even those parts he rarely entered, and some—one part at least—which he would never enter: the cellars. It was a small price to pay in his opinion.

One candle burned in the vast kitchens and Gareth lighted two more branches to banish the shadows to the fringes of the big room. In no time he’d located a loaf of bread, a large wheel of the crumbly white cheese he liked so much, and a small pot of pickled beef. He set out his feast on the sturdy wooden table beside the banked fire and went to the cold room to fetch a bottle of ale.

Gareth munched his food and examined the massive, modern kitchen. It lacked the coziness of the cramped galley kitchen in his London townhouse, but there was something about kitchens that he liked; something that gave him comfort. Perhaps it was the proximity to food, and the knowledge he could eat as much as he wished. He had no need to go hungry ever again. Yet every time he came to feed he found himself oddly full, and had to force himself to take sustenance.

Declan knew of Gareth’s odd food habits, mainly because he had a few of his own.

“Those bastards fucked us up for good, Gare. Our only revenge is to live well.” Well, that had not been their only revenge, but Gareth knew what his friend meant.

For years Declan had lived up to his promise, but Gareth thought his debaucheries had developed an air of forced desperation lately. How much drink, food, wealth, and women could one man pursue? Gareth had noticed even Declan’s appetites had withered over the past few years. His friend also hounded him far less now, which Gareth was greatly relieved about. For years the Irishman had battered and nagged him about drinking and gambling and whoring.

“You need to live my friend! Live in any and every way you can. We know better than most how it can all be snatched away in the blink of an eye.”

But Gareth had no taste for spirits, gambling of any type had been poisoned for him long ago, and women? Well, even the ones you hired cost more than their stated price. With people, there was always more than met the eye, which was as true—or more—with prostitutes as it was with anyone else.

Not that Gareth didn’t have the sexual urges of any normal man—at least he thought he did, although Declan’s behavior in that arena had often astounded him. He certainly had no desire to engage in the orgies Dec had been so fond of a few years back. The very last thing he wanted was to have sexual relations with a large number of women, or even a small number, at one time. One woman at a time was more than adequate. Nor did he feel compelled to sample a broad spectrum of body types as Declan had advocated so many times. Gareth did not think the fact he’d had sex with only one person meant there was anything wrong with him.

He snorted and popped a chunk of beef into his mouth. He knew there were many things wrong with him. But he did not think sex was one of his problems. Now women. . . well, that was—

“Mr. Lockheart?”

The chunk of beef went down the wrong hole when he sucked in a mouthful of air. His throat convulsed as his body tried to expel the foreign object from his airway without any conscious order from his brain. His eyes strained until he felt like they were popping out of his head—which felt like it had doubled in size.

A sharp whack on his back slammed his chest into the table and sent the half-chewed chunk all the way across to the opposite chair.

Gareth filled his lungs with blessed air, breathing convulsively in between coughing.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for startling you. Don’t try to speak,” she added, not that he’d been either considering it or capable of it. The food was gone but his body seemed determined to make certain and coughing wracked his chest and his eyes, no longer bulging, teared profusely.

It was all extremely mortifying. Thankfully, he felt her move away, which took at least half the stress and strain away. He collapsed on his forearms on the table and focused his attention on breathing deeply and evenly.

When he felt capable of looking up without gasping, coughing, or weeping, he found a glass of water beside his plate. She was standing across from him, her face a mask of guilty concern.

“Better?”

He nodded, for once equipped with an excellent excuse for his characteristic taciturnity.