Page 26 of Lord of the Lost

Chapter Ten

The door opened.

Devlin looked up and saw his wife – his beautiful, strong wife – walk into the library, look around and see him, and then walk over to where he sat. Looking down at him, she grimaced. He had rarely seen such bare emotion on her face, and it startled him. And the emotion he was seeing there now discomfited him in another way – for it was compounded of pity, disgust, and love, in equal parts. It was not a combination of feelings which he would have wished to invoke in her.

She did not say anything for a long time and that discomfited him more than any words ever could. In the end, unable to stand her unspeaking presence, he broke the silence.

“What is it?”

“You are a soldier, sir.”

There was ice in her voice. It shocked him, for she had ever been kind in her words.

“My wife—”

She cut him off before he could get any further, her eyes flashing, and her stance combative.

“I will talk, and you will listen.” Though he was the man and she was the woman, and though society would say that she had no right to speak to him like that, and though he could, indeed, strike her down if he wished — for he had absolute power over her, legally, economically, physically, he shrank down in his seat, so fiery and fierce was her gaze. “You will listen,” she repeated, looming over him. “I have known you all my life, Devlin. Ever since I was a child I have looked up to you and loved you, and when I came of age – yes – I wanted you; and now that we are together I love you more than I ever thought myself capable of loving. I respect you. I adore you. But the way that you are behaving at this moment is not deserving of respect or adoration. You are a soldier, sir. I will say it again. You are a soldier!”

Her cheeks flushed crimson. Her hands gesticulated wildly. Confusion filled him – he did not understand the intent of her words, did not understand why she wished to remind him, now of the painful truth of the last eleven years.

“What… what has that to do with…?”

She shook her head, and gave a small laugh, as if stunned that he did not grasp her meaning immediately. He swallowed, watching her, waiting, acutely aware of how magnificent she looked, with such fire in her eyes.

“You did not run from France, did you? You did not run from war. Why, then, should you run from life? In this house, right now, there is a Ball, a Ball in your home, Your Grace… a Ball in your honour… you, the Duke of this district, should be out there, speaking with people, interacting with people. Make no mistake, society is a battlefield, and what you are doing now is running from it, like a coward. Those who always run never have victory, and are never free of fear. Life is a battle. So I ask you now, as a soldier in this battle of life - will you run from it, or will you charge at it?”

Devlin, in all his life, had never been spoken to like that. Even his father had never so clearly articulated his shortcomings. Even the strictest tutors had never elucidated precisely how and why he was failing. He had every right to be furious, but there was such love in her eyes, in the trembling of her lips, that rage was not even an undertone. He reached up and pulled her into his lap and stroked her hair and kissed her gently.

It said a great deal about her feelings that she allowed it.

“You are right, my love.”

He kissed her soft skin, trailing kisses across her brow, then down to her lips. She gave small moans as he kissed her. Devlin was so completely absorbed in the feel and sound of her, in the scent of her which surrounded him, in the way that he felt – yes, actually felt - that he did not hear the door to the library open.

Gabrielle cleared her throat.

Mona leapt from his lap, her face even more flushed than it had been during her diatribe. He looked up at his sister, torn between laughter and irritation. Here he was, caught kissing his wife in a darkened room, as if they were two who needed to sneak off for a secret affair. And caught by his sister, no less.

“Your presence is missed, Your Graces.”

Gabrielle was compensating for what she had just seen with formality. Her face had flushed, and Devlin suspected that she was more embarrassed than he and Mona were. She turned and marched from the room.

Devlin rose to his feet and faced his wife.

“Am I presentable?”

He gestured at his clothes. She brushed him down in a few places, adjusted his collar, gently pulled the folds of his cravat back into place, and then nodded.

Her words had been like a pickaxe wielded by a giant, smashing against the ice casement of his heart. He did not know if all of his feelings would be instantaneously rejuvenated – he doubted that life was so simple – but he felt unmistakable warmth as he looked deeply into his wife’s eyes. He had felt more warmth during that kiss than at any time since he had gone to war. He could only hope for more of such feelings.

He thought, then, of the coldness of their wedding night, the simple rutting, and a burst of shame moved through him. She deserved better, he knew. She deserved the love and affection of her husband, of her Duke.

He offered her his arm.

“Shall we, Your Grace?”

She smiled, and it was as if sunlight, fire, and heavenly radiance shone from her, all at once, melting the ice inside him, inexorably. He basked in it, just for that moment, for it was full of life and love, stronger than any grey memory of death and destruction.