Page 32 of The Rogue’s Countess

The low burning fire in the hearth cast off a soft glow of light in the darkened room. A quiet sizzle and a pop pierced the air as a log protested the fire engulfing it. Lucien barely heard the sound as he stared up at the ceiling. The spot next to him was cold. It was rare for Constance not to be curled up next to him, and he missed her soft warmth as if he’d lost one of his limbs.

Lucien turned his head toward the door leading into Constance’s room, which he’d locked earlier. He immediately looked away and closed his eyes to block out the sight. Tonight his anger had threatened to take complete control of him. A fury he’d almost managed to wrestle down to aggravation until he’d entered Constance’s bedroom.

He’d been struggling to find the words to explain why he’d been so angry with her, but she’d ignored his presence with an aplomb that had left him stunned. Before he could gather his thoughts, she’d sat down at her dressing table as if he wasn’t even in the room. Her actions had reignited his rage.

It had taken all the will power he possessed not to jerk her up and shake her for dismissing him so casually. At least he’d still had enough sound judgment to leave Constance’s room without laying a hand on her. Lucien’s gut twisted painfully at the memory. It appalled him that the thought had even entered his mind.

The idea of his anger blinding him beyond reason to the point that he could hurt or frighten the woman he loved horrified him. Locking her out tonight had ensured her safety until his anger ebbed away. Not long after he’d turned the key to lock the door, he’d heard the quiet sound of the doorknob turning.

Seconds later, he’d heard Constance’s choked sob of pain. He’d still been furious with her, but her soft cry had slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer. It was the first time since they’d been married that Lucien had closed himself off from her both physically and emotionally. He winced as he remembered another time when he’d shut her out almost as cruelly.

The memory of his savage rejection that day at Lyndham Keep, just hours before she and Jamie had almost died, caused his chest to tighten as if a vise was wrapped around his chest. As always, Constance had forgiven him for his transgression, but he’d never been able to forgive himself.

Restless from the dark memories that had stolen his ability to sleep, Lucien climbed out of bed and pushed his arms through the sleeves of his robe. Like his anger, the fire had sputtered down until it was nothing more than embers with the occasional flame flaring to life. Crossing the room, Lucien picked up the poker leaning against the wall.

Lucien stirred what was left of the logs with fierce thrusts until flames sprang up to begin eating away at the remaining wood. One hand resting on the mantle, he stared down into the fire waiting for it to begin burning steadily without any more assistance. The anger he’d struggled with earlier had been replaced by a mood almost as dark and grim as the time before Constance had entered his life.

The memory of all those bleak years knotted his gut in a sickening twist, and he dragged in a harsh breath. Ever since childhood, he’d believed his destiny was to go insane and kill those he loved. It was why he’d fought so hard not to fall in love with Constance. It had proven to be an impossible task.

His Isis had captured his heart from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. When he’d finally learned the truth about the Blakemore curse, he’d thought himself free to love Constance as she deserved to be loved. But of late, he had been questioning whether he was truly worthy of her.

Coming to grips with Constance’s ability to speak with the dead continued to be a challenge for him. But that battle had been outmatched by the lingering shadow of the Blakemore curse hanging over his head like Damocles’s sword. For almost all of his life, he’d lived with the threat of madness. It was so deeply ingrained in him that there were times when he still believed he would succumb to the same madness his cousin had.

It had been almost three years since Oliver’s death, but not even time had erased everything he’d believed for almost his entire life. From the moment he’d discovered the butchery of his parents, he’d lived with the dark threat of madness. It lurked in the back of his mind, constantly taunting him every time he became angry. As his half-cousin, Oliver had had Blakemore blood in his veins. The man’s insanity and how Oliver had almost killed Constance still had the ability to send a chill down Lucien’s spine.

The snap of flames licking away at logs interrupted Lucien’s thoughts. As the fire took on life again, Lucien returned the poker to its resting place then sank down into the chair facing the fireplace. Arms resting on his thighs, he leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him while he stared into the now steadily burning fire.

Constance had been the flame that had brought him back from the dead. The an dara sealladh was one of the many facets that made his wife who she was, but it had not been easy to learn how to live with her special talent. His wife’s ability had always made him uncomfortable.

The first time she’d confessed she could speak with the dead, he’d been furious and called her a liar. Even when she’d told him the nickname he and his brother had used for their childhood professor, he’d not believed her. Lucien’s mind drifted back to when she’d first revealed she had seen and talked to Nigel.

It had been the middle of the night, and he’d been in the keep’s library trying to drink himself into oblivion with a decanter of brandy. His attempt to numb the pain of his hellish existence had been a vain one. When the soft strains of music had drifted into the library, he’d gone to investigate. As he’d entered the room, he’d heard Constance talking with someone, only to have her tell him she’d been speaking with his dead brother.

The following morning he’d had the salon torn apart looking for a hidden entrance into the keep’s labyrinth. His grandmother had already known about Constance’s gift and had taken him to task for not believing her. It was only when Constance had told him that Nigel’s wife had been having an affair that he’d begun to understand the extent of her gift.

Then there had been his search for Jamie in the darkness of labyrinth corridors. The moment his brother’s unseen hands had guided him to the small room in the north tower had been the point of no return for him. Nigel’s spirit had enabled Lucien to reach Constance and Jamie before Oliver could sacrifice them to his Egyptian gods.

Even then, it had been difficult to believe Constance possessed the an dara sealladh. In the days that followed, he’d tried to dismiss what he’d experienced as part of his imagination. Constance had left Lyndham Keep shortly after she’d recovered from Oliver’s attack believing he would be ashamed of her and would never accept that the an dara sealladh was a part of who she was.

It couldn’t have been further from the truth. Lucien loved Constance more than life itself, and he knew she wouldn’t be the woman he loved without her unique talent. It was why on the night he’d proposed at Marlborough House, he’d given her a gold calling card case and the special cards inside. He had ordered the specialty cards printed with the words

The Right Honorable Countess of Lyndham

Helping Others Communicate with Lost Loved Ones

Lyndham House, Mayfair, Park Street

It had been the only thing he could think of that would convince Constance that he loved and accepted her for the woman she was. The woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He’d wanted to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that he would support her when she helped those who asked for her to reach out to a lost loved one. What he hadn’t anticipated was Constance helping even those who didn’t ask her for help.

Lucien leaned back and rested his elbow on the arm of his chair. His hand cupping his chin, he released a quiet sigh of frustration. That was the crux of the problem. Not everyone Constance felt compelled to help had asked her to do so. She continuously meddled in the lives of others whenever one of her visions gave her just enough information to interfere.

Constance had a loving, generous heart. It was one of the things he loved the most about her. She felt things deeply, and the last time they’d argued about her meddling, she’d told him that she wanted others to be as happy as they were. Lucien’s mouth suddenly twisted in an ironic grimace. He wasn’t happy at the moment, and he was certain Constance wasn’t either.

Until now, Constance had managed not to misstep when using her gift to help those who didn’t ask for her help. Her efforts had been successful on every occasion. What she didn’t understand was that not everyone would appreciate her well-meant efforts. There were a great many people who either didn’t believe or were afraid of people like Constance, who possessed the an dara sealladh. He understood how those people would react. He understood the reality of how unsettling her gift could be. God knows how hard he’d tried to take it all in stride.

It didn’t matter that he loved Constance with all his heart. He loved everything about her, from her beautiful giving heart, her mischievous nature, the way she blushed like a schoolgirl when he teased her, the way her touch aroused him, and even the an dara sealladh that was a part of her. It gave her insight into people’s souls.

Her special ability was the very thing that made her empathetic and understanding when someone was in pain. But not everyone would see what he saw in Constance. Worst of all, she didn’t realize that one of these days, she would interfere once too often. The end result would be hellish remorse on her part.