Hunters

The unwelcomed heat had abated. Vaughan had been especially grateful for this small miracle, as he’d had to travel back to town. There had, of course, been reservations in doing so, but since he’d had to leave abruptly after Vasyl’s death, and subsequently cut off all communications with everyone save his wife—and a few others—for almost two weeks, it was necessary to return. Although he had tried to get everything settled again through mail correspondence, some business was better conducted in person.

Lecia hadn’t seemed to be particularly delighted when he told her, but she, regrettably, had neither begged him to stay. Not that he expected her to. She was not the type of woman who would, not even if her life depended on it.

Regardless, Vaughan had been quite tempted to use his position to force his associates to travel to Martis instead of having to travel himself. He’d left when the heat was still quite unbearable, and had therefore taken the train. Beside the anxiety of railway voyages, the Duke was not especially eager to leave his melancholy wife. Foremost on his mind was his memory of the last time he’d left her alone, though knowing that her mother was in residence was of some comfort.

When the summer fever broke, he became restless in the city. Perhaps, after considering all motives, he’d left Martis for more than London conferences. Perhaps the unusual heat had had peculiar effects on everyone’s senses. Perhaps he had made his best efforts to contain certain impulses, but there was not much else he could do beyond escape temptation. Perhaps, now that the strange heat was gone, things would be easier. Perhaps.

So, the Duke hastily finished his meetings and made arrangements to return home. As if by destiny, the morning before his departure from town he received a letter from the dowager Baroness. She had thanked him for his graciousness in accommodating her, and apologized for having to leave without waiting for him to return. Apparently there had been a false scare with Zora’s pregnancy, which had prompted the young woman to reach out and request her mother’s presence. Her condition had progressed substantially anyway, so her mother was quite excited to be there waiting to welcome a grandchild.

Be that as it may, Florence Harper was still very concerned about her other daughter. She explained to Vaughan what had transpired between Lecia and the late Baron. While it was none too serious, and in actuality the man had—though not formally—forgiven his daughter and wished her nothing but happiness, the stubborn girl was also sensitive.

Finally enlightened (and realizing that he forgot his wife’s birthday in all of the chaos), Vaughan was eager to return home. His relationship with Lecia was maybe the most complicated one he’d ever shared, but it was his most favored. She’d been odd lately, whether entirely due to the loss or also influenced by the heat, he was curious to know. Even still, he quite simply missed her.

He arrived home late in the evening. The grounds were quiet, and so was the house. After dismissing assistance from the few staff that were up at the hour, Vaughan went to his apartment. He’d wanted to go straight to check on Lecia, but the tranquility he felt throughout the palace was telling. So, he strode to his suite for fresh clothes first.

When he entered his study, he stopped dead. With the windows open for air, the breeze wafted the alarming scent of lavender. Nowhere on the grounds was that plant grown, and for a long time he had been very clear that it should never enter his home. But, there was one source of that foul reek that remained. Whether he just liked to torture himself with it or not, he never knew.

Sure enough, approaching his desk, he saw that the offending letters were there. They’d been in the bottom drawer, out of sight and out of mind, for years. Now they were strewn about his station, some drifted onto the floor, in varying states of neatness. For instance, one that he picked up from under his chair was partly crumpled.

Loosening his necktie, Vaughan sighed and swept across the room to collect the remnants of an ancient love. He tossed them all into the hearth, then checked his drawers to be sure they were all gone. Part of him wanted to set them aflame right then, but he knew it would be better to let his wife watch. Suddenly more anxious to check on the Duchess, Vaughan hurried to change, shedding his shirt and tie before he reached the closet.

She was sprawled diagonally across his bed, the covers kicked down to barely cover her feet. In her sleep, she was silent; the only evidence of life being the subtle rise and fall of her chest. One pillow was captive in her arms while another cradled her head. Her hair had been thrown haphazardly into a knot, so many black tendrils had freed themselves and rested like strands of silk over her face and neck. She was in what might have been a fairly modest nightgown, but it had slid up to expose most of her long legs, and—with all of the tossing and turning he knew was customary for her—the neckline had come untied and was hanging off of one shoulder. Anyway, the woman could have been wearing a nun’s habit and he still would not have found it modest.

“Dduw, gwna fi'n bur ond nid eto,” he whispered to himself.

Satisfied that she was all right, he disappeared to don his own bedclothes and wipe the filth of travel from his face. Longing for his own bed after avoiding it for so long, Vaughan refused to spend the night on his chaise. He’d have to maneuver his way in beside her, but he was determined to sleep on his own mattress. Thinking that he might need some help, he stole a nip of brandy before returning to the bedchamber.

She was deceptively heavy. Although, the weight of unconsciousness was generally greater than its counterpart. Still, Vaughan had only taken her legs in an effort to make room for himself and he found them to be dense limbs of solid muscle. Of course, she rode quite often, and walked even more frequently, and he had been told on a number of occasions that the pretty way ladies were required to cross their ankles required a great deal of practice before it became comfortable let alone elegant. Never mind that it was an invisible detail.

He’d touched her before, but out of necessity. Now, his hand might have lingered too long at her knee, and the omission of extra barriers might not have been accidental. Vaughan had climbed into bed and lay facing her. The mattress may have been large enough to leave distance between them, but his view of her celestial nose and divine, half-parted mouth was unobstructed.

Lecia shifted almost imperceptibly before murmuring, “Who is she?”

While her eyes stayed closed, as if she was still able to dream while razing his peace of mind, her husband didn’t even blink. At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard her speak at all—perhaps he was over-exhausted—but when she asked again he saw her lips move.

His muscles tensed and he gritted his teeth. He had realized some time ago what it all meant, but bitterness isn’t easily forgotten.

“I thought I loved her,” he said, “a long time ago. But she was cruel and I was foolish and now I’m here.” With you, he thought.

Her magnificent eyes fluttered open, and, even in the dark with only waxing moonlight, he could perceive the dangerous waters within them.

“You offered to give her everything,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he admitted, flicking his gaze elsewhere as he said it.

“‘If you will not have me, I shall die alone,’ you wrote,” Lecia accused.

“I did,” he conceded.

They stared at each other for some time. Silently, he pleaded for forgiveness of a crime he didn’t commit, and she begged for understanding.

“Why did you marry me, Vaughan?” Her voice was small, and he thought there was a tear twinkling down her cheek as she asked.

“For all of the reasons I’ve already told you,” he assured her. It was the truth. “I thought my heart was broken. I thought there was no chance for me to have this kind of happiness. So, I devised a way for me to live a comfortable life that would offer my brother an easy transition into the title upon my death. That is the whole of it, I swear.”

“Who is she?” his wife asked again.

“Her name is Annika Davenport-Winchester Fenner,” he said. Recognition showed on Lecia’s face. “I knew her in my youth, and I was convinced that she was the only woman I could spend my life with. Now I know she was merely a girl, and I was hardly much of a man. At the time I thought it was stupidity that kept her from my advances—who refuses a Duke, after all—but I have not been more wrong. She had her reasons, chief among them her love for my wretched cousin Edmund. They’ve been very happily married for six years now, as you know.”

It would have been impossible for Lecia to avoid an introduction to either Edmund or Annika. Zora had married his cousin, so they were all undoubtedly paraded before one another at the numerous parties and celebrations. Though, Edmund didn’t have a title, and Annika was a merchant’s daughter, there was blue blood in their veins.

“How did you know?” Lecia questioned after a pause. “That you didn’t love her anymore?” She eyed him, patiently waiting for a reply. He found the answer in the calming seas.

“I only thought I loved her,” he clarified. He swallowed his pride and relished the dark before he continued. “When I…felt what love really is,” he hesitated, “when I knew you were fy cariad, that’s how I knew that I was not broken.”

The Duchess seemed confused. Rightfully, perhaps.

Vaughan reached out to smooth the wrinkling of her forehead; resting his hand on her cheek and wiping that lingering tear away with his thumb, he smiled.

“I have said it, though I imagine you’ve never understood a word of it,” he sighed. “And I’ve showed it, though I hoped it would be disguised as kindness, and sometimes duty. You asked me once if I desired you in the way a man is meant to desire his wife, and I told you that I did. I have kept myself from you so that, if you were to find the blissful sort of love, this marriage could be annulled. Because I could not bear to be what kept happiness from your life. Not after everything,” he breathed.

As he spoke, Lecia had inched herself near enough for him to rest his forehead on hers. This time, it was her fingertips that quelled the waves of his brow, and in her retreat she slid his hand from her cheek and brushed the knuckles under her lips.

“I do not imagine,” she whispered, raising her chin to meet his gaze, “that anyone else could ever make me so happy, for even as I am burdened with grief and jealousy I am content here with you.”



Dduw, gwna fi'n bur ond nid eto means “God, make me chaste but not yet.” I’ve been forgetting to include translations and I apologize. If you’re ever confused, you might be able to figure it out with Google, otherwise just comment and ask and I can let you know. My apologies. Anyway, thank you for reading!