Chapter 9

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They all have their exits and entrances;

—Shakespeare

Elysia heard the clinking of china and cutlery and burrowed her head into the soft feather pillow, smothering a yawn.

The chambermaid pulled open the heavy drapes and a shaft of sunlight penetrated into the shadowy room. "It's past eleven, your ladyship," Lucy told her, taking the laden breakfast tray from the maid.

Elysia jerked up in dismay. Past eleven! It couldn't be. She looked at the little clock ticking away on the mantel and shook her head in disbelief. She must have slept like one of the dead. Never before had she slumbered so deeply. Elysia moved to sit up, but shrank back down beneath the coverlet as she became aware of her nakedness. She flushed brightly as she saw her gown draped over a small gilt chair, her robe trailing onto the rug, where it had been dropped by a careless hand.

Lucy intercepted her embarrassed glance, and putting the tray down, reached for a frilly, white bed jacket, tactfully commenting that it was chilly and she might welcome its added warmth. Elysia gratefully slipped into it, and devoted an uncommon amount of attention to her breakfast, forcing herself to eat several mouthfuls of fluffy omelette, until she heard Lucy leave. She looked at the closed door between her room and Alex's. Had she really been in his room last night? Alex—she could now say his name without hesitating and stumbling over it.

Elysia felt a warm blush cover her body as she thought of what had happened last night between them, during that bewitching midnight hour that had seemed to stretch into eternity. She ought to hate him—but she couldn't. He had told her he wouldn't be forcing her to submit to him, and she hadn't. She had willingly given in to his desires—almost equalling them. She could not honestly blame him for what had happened. He would have left her, had she only told him to do so—but she hadn't—she had wanted him to stay. He had sworn he would make her want him, and she had—until she ached. She hadn't thought a woman could feel this way. Maybe it was wrong, this desire she was feeling so deeply inside of her? It couldn't be love—love was different. It was companionship and warmth and friendship. If they were in love with each other they would have laughed together, and talked until they knew everything about each other. What did she know about her husband? Nothing really. He was rich, he had a brother, was an orphan, and admitted to an unsavory reputation. He could be cruel, sarcastic, cynical, and blazingly angry. This was not the kind of man she had always dreamed of falling in love with—and marrying. She felt so confused with these new and conflicting emotions.

Elysia picked up the delicate china teacup and took a sip, grimacing as she put the cup of cold hot chocolate back down on the tray. She got out of bed and removed the bed jacket, staring at her slim naked body in the large full-length mirror. She still looked the same—except maybe for a few bluish-purple bruises on her shoulders and breasts. She felt muscles she had not known existed as she moved about the room. She found her gaze constantly drifting to the closed door. Vaguely, she remembered being lifted up and carried in the cool morning air, grumbling because she had been disturbed from her warm bed only to be placed in another one that was not half so warm. She was thankful now, that Alex had returned her to her own bed.

She rang for Lucy, and securely wrapping herself in her robe, walked over to the window, and stood staring at the sea—still choppy and unsettled from the storm. Large swells tossed the small fishing boats from the village like toys .

How could she face Alex? What would he be thinking…now? She veered away from the intimate details of the evening before. She could envision that derisive smile of his, already—that triumphant gleam in his eyes. She couldn't bear it if he said anything that would degrade what had happened between them.

Elysia looked worriedly into the distance, wondering how she could successfully carry off their ultimate meeting. Should she feign indifference—cool disdain—coolness over something that had shattered her life—changed her for all time? She was no longer an innocent girl. She was a woman—Alex's woman—and he was a very demanding lover.

Elysia's attention was caught by a movement on the road in the distance. A bright yellow and red curricle was racing uncontrollably up the road, pulled by a pair of very high-stepping bays, and tooled by a very busy gentleman trying to stop them as they hurled into the courtyard below. In the distance, Elysia could see another conveyance, traveling more sedately as it made its way slowly along the rutted road. The first gentleman, of the flashy curricle, had managed to stop his pair with the help of the stableboys, and was now looking about nervously, while pacing back and forth in apparent indecision.

Elysia quickly went to her wardrobe and grabbed the first dress she saw and hurriedly began to dress, anxious to know what was going on outside. With Lucy's expert help and efficient hands, and her own impatient proddings, Elysia was dressed and on her way downstairs within ten minutes or so, her hair pulled back into curls and tied with a yellow gauze ribbon that matched the yellow muslin dress and slippers, and the flowered silk shawl draped carelessly over her shoulders.

There was a flurry of activity in the great hall below. Elysia called to Browne, his usual calmness having deserted him as he hurried past with his white hair ruffled and standing up in tufts, his mouth working soundlessly in agitation.

Something dreadful must have happened to cause Browne to lose control—a control he had probably kept for over fifty years without ever losing. Only one thing could cause it to disintegrate—and that was if something had happened to the marquis. Alex must be injured, or in some difficulty, Elysia thought in panic. She hurried to the big double doors, and forgetting her previous decision of indifference, flew out the doors like a small whirlwind, her fringed shawl floating about her.

Charles Lackton turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and stood spellbound as he stared at the flying figure. He had been prepared to face Trevegne, but not this extraordinary yellow-clad figure that seemed to be about to attack him. He took a hasty step backwards in retreat.

The figure halted in front of him and he found his sleeve clutched in two shaking hands. He stared incredulously down into a white face with luminous green eyes.

"What has happened? Is it Alex—he's not hurt?" Elysia choked, staring up imploringly at this young gentleman with the bright red hair and somewhat frightened look on his face.

"Trevegne?" Charles asked in puzzlement. Was he ill too? And who was this woman? he thought in wonder. He noticed her beauty for the first time—now that he was safe from attack. "As far as I know he is just—"

"Fine," came a deep voice from behind, and turning, Elysia saw her husband standing next to them, giving her a searching look, mingled with surprise.

"I had no idea you cared, m'lady," he whispered for her ears alone, but his golden eyes seemed to soften as they stared down into her worried ones. "Charles, what brings you here?" Trevegne demanded, not at all anxious for house guests.

"It's—" he began, but was interrupted by the arrival of the other coach entering the courtyard, and pulling up next to where they were standing.

"What the devil?" Alex said, recognizing his own coach. "I'll have a few answers, Charles, if you please," he added in a dangerous tone, only to stare in dismay as the door of the coach opened to reveal a head with curly black hair, and a gaunt white face with feverish, bright blue eyes. "Peter!" Alex shouted in surprise, his eyes quickly taking in his brother's unhealthy pallor and empty sleeve. He reached the lurching figure before it fell, and yelling to Lackton for assistance, managed to carry Peter's limp form into the great hall.

Elysia followed the three men—temporarily forgotten. So this was Alex's brother, Peter. He didn't look at all well. She hurried after them into the hall, and stood silently as two footmen and Trevegne carried Peter up the long flight of stairs, leaving a bemused Charles Lackton standing at the foot, helplessly.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Elysia asked as Dany hurried by carrying a loaded tray, full of bandages and medicinal-looking dark bottles.

"Ach, no, I've cared for these two when they be in worse scrapes, and they be tougher than leather," she said confidently, even though there was a worried look in her brown eyes. "Ye might help the young gentleman here, Lady Elysia. For I don't rightly think he'll make it," she added giving a professional look at Charles's grayish face, and the beads of perspiration dotting his upper lip, before continuing up the stairs to Peter's room with her doctoring skills.

"Please, will you come into the salon and have a cup of tea—or a drink," Elysia added wisely, smiling at the bewildered young man, "for I am quite certain that you could do with something bracing."

He followed her like a lost puppy into the salon where they sat in an uneasy silence, each with his or her own thoughts to pass the time. Charles gulped down the brandy Elysia ordered for him, while she sat quietly sipping her own cup of fragrant tea.

"How seriously is he injured?" Elysia finally asked when the young man seemed to have regained his composure—half of which he must have lost while tooling the curricle and wild bays. And from what Elysia had seen from her window, he had been sadly out of control most of the time—no wonder he was badly shaken.

"Pretty bad—a hole that big, I'll wager," he answered shaping his hands into a small circle.

"A hole?" Elysia looked confused—not understanding this fiery-headed, young gentleman in his bright canary yellow- and turquoise-striped waistcoat and plum colored cutaway coat. She watched hypnotically the elaborate tassels swinging to and fro on his Hessians as he swung his legs distractingly.

"In his shoulder—just missed his heart—lucky to be alive at all. Doctor had to dig the shot out—took a hell of a long time doing it too," he stopped abruptly, and looking embarrassed, apologized. "Please forgive me. Didn't mean to swear." He continued to look at her wonderingly, and then blurted, "I do beg your pardon, but, who are you?"

Elysia smiled in amusement. "I am Lady St. Fleur, and I'm afraid that I do not know who you are either, so you have nothing to apologize for."

He stood up quickly, looking like a flustered schoolboy. "Your pardon, Lady St. Fleur," he said as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "I'm Charles Lackton—a friend of the family, and it is an honor to make your acquaintance." He bowed elegantly over her hand, a lock of bright red hair dangling over his forehead.

"Forgot about that—quite a jolt to hear of his lordship's marriage—surprised all of London. Couldn't believe it."

"Yes, it was quite a surprise to everyone," Elysia agreed, not adding herself included. "How did Peter wound himself? Was it a hunting accident?"

"Wasn't an accident—a duel."

"A duel," Elysia repeated horrified.

"Yes, Peter did himself and Trevegne proud. Honor to be his friend," Charles spoke proudly.

"But why? What caused this duel?" Elysia asked curiously.

"Well, you see…ah," Charles hedged uncomfortably, "it's not really something one can tell a lady about. But it was a point of honor that had to be satisfied. I was Peter's second."

"And what happened to the man he challenged?"

"Dead."

"Peter killed him?" Elysia asked in disbelief.

"Had to—Beckingham cheated—fired before the end of the count," Charles said with obvious disgust .

"Beckingham? You did say Beckingham?" Elysia asked faintly. "Not Sir Jason Beckingham."

"Yes, that's the one—a real outsider, and a coward. Good riddance I say," Charles spoke vehemently, a look of distaste on his handsome and open face.

Elysia carefully placed her cup down on the tea caddy, her hand shaking almost uncontrollably. So Sir Jason was dead. She had hated him—but she had not wished him dead. She had indeed been worried about his knowledge of the circumstances of their marriage, and what an unscrupulous person like Sir Jason could do with the information to cause further embarrassment to them. However, she believed Alex would certainly have dealt effectively with him—or would he have? After all this young man, Charles Lackton, had said that Sir Jason had cheated and fired first. Alex could very easily have been killed—or wounded like his brother. Yes, it was just as well—God forgive her—that Sir Jason was no longer a danger to them.

"If Sir Jason fired before the end of the count, I believe you said, then how did Peter manage to shoot him?" Elysia now asked Charles who had been sitting silently, staring at Elysia with a moonstruck look on his boyish face, and he blushed a dull red as Elysia caught him out.

"Well, Sir Jason had a somewhat unsavory reputation concerning several duels he had won under rather odd circumstances. So we were expecting something underhanded, and I told Peter to watch me and if I noticed anything odd, I would signal him. So when Beckingham turned before the end of the count, I could scarcely believe it—even though I was expecting it," Charles looked shamefacedly at Elysia. "So…I was a little slow in signalling and Beckingham got his shot off, but Peter had already turned at my warning, and it only caught him in the shoulder—instead of through the heart as Beckingham had intended. Peter got his shot off anyway, and it killed Beckingham instantly. But you know, it was strange. He had a smile on his face even in death," Charles said shuddering as if someone had walked over his grave.

* * *

Peter controlled the shudder of pain that shot through him as Alex and the footmen carefully lowered him onto the bed.

"Are you all right, Peter?" Alex asked worriedly, critically running his eye over his brother's shirt which was beginning to show a seepage of bright red blood where his wound had opened again.

Peter gave a pitiful attempt at a smile which was little more than a grimace. "I'm not dead yet—take more than a coward's hand and these ham-fisted footmen to finish me off."

He was interrupted by an involuntary groan as Dany cut away his shirt and bandage, exposing the wound—raw and angry-looking, but clean in his shoulder.

"Now, Dany, what are you poking around at?" he demanded as Dany probed his wound. "The doctor took care of it. I should know—it hurt enough," he complained.

"And I'll have no bairn of mine not properly cared for. Them London doctors haven't a lick of sense. So ye just let Dany take care of this, and we'll see who knows what's best for ye," she said huffily, applying an evil-smelling concoction and re-wrapping his shoulder with clean strips of cloth.

"You should know better by now than to argue with Dany, Peter," Alex laughed, and then wrinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of her homemade salve. "Remind me not to get too close next time I visit," he said with a mock shudder of revulsion.

"Well, how do you think I feel with this obnoxious stuff plastered to me?" Peter demanded indignantly, giving his brother a helpless look.

"Now, ye just lie back and I'll have ye a good bowl of soup," Dany promised ignoring his request for a stiff brandy, while she busily fluffed up the pillows behind his shoulders, and straightened the bedclothes with mother hen admonitions to keep quiet while she prepared the special healing brew.

After she left, Alex sat down on a small chair he'd pulled up, and gave his brother a hard look. "Hurts like hell, doesn't it?" he commiserated sympathetically, but with an undercurrent of anger threaded in his voice from the concern and shock he had suffered at seeing his brother's condition. "If you do not feel like talking I'll leave, but I should be interested in what the blazes happened to you. For that is a pistol wound, if I'm not mistaken?"

"No, don't go, for I need to talk, Alex," Peter hesitated, and then blurted out in an anguished voice, "I've killed a man."

"Did you?" Alex remarked casually. Masking his surprise, he continued in an undisturbed tone, "I'm sure you had reason."

"Oh, yes, I'm no murderer. It was a question of honor, Alex, but…" A tortured look entered his eyes as he stared at his brother. "I don't feel good about it. I have always dreamed of defending our honor and name in a duel—but now that I've taken another man's life…I merely feel sickened by it all." He hung his head in dejection, a flush of embarrassment and fever coloring his face.

Alex leaned forward and grasped Peter's chin with his fingers, pulling his face upwards so he could look directly into his brother's eyes.

"Now listen to me, Peter. No gentleman feels gladness after taking another man's life—regardless of the insult or crime. You would indeed be sick if you rejoiced at killing another human being. You had no other choice. If you had not been the victor—then the other man would have been. Someone must lose, and in a situation such as this—where no other course is open to you—then you fight to win, and to live, Peter," Alex told his brother sternly. "Always fight to win."

"I suppose you are right, Alex, but I never thought I would feel bad about it—like a woman with my feelings—wanting to cry," he admitted feeling more foolish than ever. "You have always seemed so strong and victorious after your duels—you never feel any regrets or remorse. So I thought my feelings were wrong—like those of a coward."

"No, Peter. You have the heart of an honest and compassionate man—and those are the true feelings," He looked at his brother curiously. "Do you really believe that I feel no remorse after I have cut another man down? I feel it, Peter, believe me, I feel it deeply. I am so accustomed to masking my thoughts and feelings, that I show an unmarred countenance to the world. But it hurts inside—it can tear me apart.

"Sometimes though, one finds that one is trapped by the conventions of society, and there is no other method of dealing with a situation. There will always be others who will inevitably force your hand, and at these times it is necessary to defend your name and honor by duelling. Regretful, yes—but necessary I'm afraid. However, I would caution you not to allow that course of action to rule your life. Be the master of your fate, not the victim."

"Well, that is a relief. I thought I'd become a milk-livered, faint heart," Peter said, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Yet I would have a word with you. You made me look the laughingstock of London, Alex. Why, I was the last to know you had wed. Every chimney sweep and footman's daughter knew of it before I did," Peter said in a grieved tone. "Had to read about it in the Gazette . First there were those damnable rumors spreading like the plague about you and some high-born wench in an inn, that really set their tongues a-wagging, and then the news that you had wed. Well, that caught me broadside, I can tell you." He looked doubtfully at Alex. "You are married?"

"Yes. Very much so," Alex answered, an expression of pleased remembrance on his hawk-like features.

"I still can't believe it. You of all people. And you didn't even tell me, Alex. Except for some talk about leaving London because you were fed up with it all—knew that couldn't be true, never believed a word of it—you would've left me in the dark too. Planning all along to marry the girl, weren't you? Do I know her?"

"No you don't, but you shall soon have that pleasure," Alex promised.

"I hear she is a beauty. But that doesn't surprise me, knowing your tastes."

"Yes, Elysia is quite beautiful, in an unusual way. And not in the accepted standard of beauty which is now the rage in London for sweet, blue-eyed, angelic blondes. I find myself married to a real she-devil with emerald-green eyes and wild red-gold hair—and a temper and tongue to match," he reflected with obvious pleasure at the combination.

"Not too much for you to handle, I'll wager," Peter said confidently, knowing of his brother's somewhat dictatorial and domineering ways, always expecting to get his way. But there was a puzzled look in his blue eyes as he looked at him.

"I sometimes wonder," Alex said ruminatively, shaking his dark head.

"I still feel in the dark about it all. Don't know how you met, but if you were planning to wed when you left London…then all those rumors can't be true—despite what the Joker said," Peter commented stoutly. There was still some doubt in his mind as to exactly what had happened, yet he was reluctant to discuss it with Alex, due to the delicacy of the matter. Yet he couldn't seem to stop himself from saying, "But the coloring is the same as that other girl…"

"Beckingham? Now just what did that swine have to impart to you?" Alex asked in a cold voice, his lips curling in distaste at the mere utterance of the name.

"Well, I wasn't going to tell you because I wasn't sure if it was false or true—either way it's a hell of a thing to ask you about. I could see no other way but to challenge him. If what he told me was true then he deserved to die for his infamous trick, and if merely a rumor, then for making slanderous accusations against you."

"You duelled with Beckingham?" Alex was surprised out of his habitual coolness, for once.

"Yes, who else? No reason to shoot anyone else, have I?" Peter asked doubtfully.

"So…you killed Beckingham."

"Yes, that's what I've been trying to tell you. He said some pretty inflammatory things to me—in private—and I thought it my duty to deal with him. You know, I think he actually wanted me to challenge him—I couldn't very well not, after what he had told me. He wanted me dead for some reason," Peter said in puzzlement. "Never bore him any ill-will, you know, so I don't know why he should have had it in for me."

"He hated me, Peter, and he probably hoped to kill you. Knowing how close we are, he would have known it would hurt me deeply. Unfortunately for him, he failed," Alex explained, seeing for the first time the hatred Sir Jason must have felt towards him.

"Well, he very nearly didn't—he cheated, and shot first. Just luck, and a suspicion he might be up to something kept him from putting a shot through my heart. I owe my life to Charles. If he hadn't warned me, I'd be beyond the grave right now," Peter admitted shakily.

Alex looked at his brother fondly, knowing how close he had come to losing him. "Well, you've managed to settle the score for me with Beckingham, Peter. I'm grateful, however I regret that it was at the expense of your shoulder."

"Glad to have been of service to you, Alex," Peter replied proudly, some of the throbbing pain in his shoulder lessening under his brother's praise. "When do I meet the new Lady St. Fleur?"

"Soon enough. You must rest now, or Dany will have my skin," Alex said as he heard her skirts rustling behind him. She entered the room with a tray upon which sat a bowl of steaming broth.

"But I have a thousand questions to ask you, Alex. Please don't go," Peter beseeched as Alex walked towards the door.

"Ye just sit back now, Master Peter, and ye be getting yesel' out of here, Lord Alex. Ye've already been too long—now get along," she commanded him in a strict voice, reminding him of the schoolroom.

"I can't argue with that disciplinary voice, Peter," he said, making his retreat, leaving Peter struggling ineffectively against Dany's ministrations.

Alex walked slowly down the stairs thinking of Peter's pale face. His fist clenched as he thought of Beckingham's double treachery. He almost wished him from the grave so he could have the pleasure of killing him and sending him back to it again.

He shook his head in disbelief. He'd had no idea that Beckingham had hated him so vehemently. The man must have been insane. He shrugged his shoulders, mentally shaking himself free from the thoughts of Beckingham.

Alex entered the salon where he heard voices. He stood unnoticed just inside the door, silently watching his wife who was avidly listening to young Lackton excitedly retell his tale of adventure. He smiled crookedly as he saw her shocked expressions of disbelief and horror at Charles's vivid recollections. He raised an eyebrow in amusement as he watched a look of rapture finally settle on the young man's face as he continued to stare in ill-disguised admiration at Elysia who was sitting attractively across from him. She gave the impression of being completely untouchable—securely wrapped in her own cocoon of thoughts, and letting none enter—however close they might have gotten to her physically.

He moved forward into the room, startling the two of them from their conversation. "It would seem that Peter owes you his life, and I owe you a debt of gratitude Charles," Alex said sincerely shaking the young man's hand firmly.

"It was nothing, really," Charles confessed gruffly, feeling a head taller from the unaccustomed warmth from Trevegne. "Just doing what's right and proper for a friend."

"We are proud, and fortunate, to have you as a friend, Charles, and I am confident that I speak for all of us. We are indeed grateful for what you have done. Are we not, Elysia?" He sent a look of innocent inquiry to Elysia, who returned it calmly, without a flicker of emotion on her face.

"Indeed we are, Alex, but tell me of Peter. How is he?'

Alex poured himself a brandy and walked over to the fireplace and leant negligently against it, his arm upon the mantelpiece.

"He will survive," he answered grimly, "but he will need plenty of rest, and this will be the best place for his recuperation. If that madcap journey from London didn't finish him off, then I seriously doubt whether anything could." He shook his head, as if contemplating that painful journey in the coach for Peter, and the frightening journey for Lackton at the reins of the curricle.

Elysia stood up as if to leave the room. Excusing herself she said, "I shall send our regrets to the Blackmores for this evening, and—"

"No, we might as well attend, since there is little we can do for Peter here. Dany will handle all of his needs. She practically ran me out of his room and he must already be sleeping like a baby. For Dany prepared her special recuperative broth, which she was spooning into his mouth as I left, so I doubt whether we shall hear a sigh from him." He looked at Charles, who was beginning to show the strain from his journey. "Charles, you will stay with us for awhile," Alex said, making it a statement rather than a question.

"Thank you, your lordship, it will be a pleasure, but if you will excuse me I must change, for I fear I am indeed offensive, as I am covered with mud," he apologized. He quickly left the room, anxious to clean himself up and rest, and especially to try his hand at tying the intricate folds of the new design of Trevegne's cravat.

Elysia hesitated uncertainly. This was the first time she'd been alone with him since last night. She decided she would make a dignified retreat, and began to walk towards the door.

"M'lady," he said quietly, moving from his position in front of the fire.

Elysia turned as he approached. "Yes, m'lord," she replied softly, uncertain of herself.

"I should like a good morning kiss," Alex said taking Elysia into his arms, and placing his firm mouth against her trembling lips. He kissed her deeply and the fires rekindled instantly as she responded to his caresses. "You see, you need not have feared me. I'm not quite the ogre you would believe of me, m'lady." He smiled down into her green eyes.

"No, m'lord. I think perhaps you aren't," Elysia agreed as she gave herself up to his hungry kisses, until a knock on the door and a footman announcing luncheon broke them apart.

"I do not hunger for the tender meat of a pheasant, m'lady," Alex said softly as he escorted Elysia to the door, his meaning very clear in his passion-darkened golden eyes.