The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of a grave.
Alaric dropped his hand as if her skin had scolded him. He stumbled backward, his polished boots crunching on the broken glass, his mind violently fractured, splitting between the brutal reality of the library and the torrential rain of November 1821.
He had been Captain Weston then, a second son of a duke, rich in blood but poor in coin, fighting corsairs off the Barbary coast. He had loved Penelope Alden. She was the daughter of a minor baron, a man slowly drinking and gambling his estate into ruin. They had met in secret. They had loved in secret. When Alaric received his orders to sail, he had given her a simple gold band and promised to return with enough prize money to satisfy her father.
6 months later, a letter reached his ship in Malta. We regret to inform you that Penelope succumbed to a sudden violent consumption. The burial was swift to prevent contagion. Do not write again. There is nothing left here.
He remembered the agonizing journey back to England. He remembered standing in the Alden family cemetery, staring at the fresh earth, the rain soaking through his naval uniform, mingling with the tears he was too proud to shed in front of her grim-faced father.
Now he looked at the woman standing in his library.
"You died," he stated. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. "I saw the headstone. I paid the stonemason."
Penelope crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. She looked absurdly small in the oversized coarse wool dress. "It seems my father found a cheaper alternative to a wedding dowry," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the musical laughter that used to define it. It was the voice of a woman who had spent years swallowing her own screams.
"He told me you died of consumption." Alaric's voice dropped to a dangerous register. The shock was fading, replaced by a slow, burning fury. "He looked me in the eye, wearing black crepe, and told me you choked on your own blood."
"I almost did," Penelope replied sharply, her survival instinct finally overriding her fear. She lifted her chin, exposing the pale column of her throat. "Just not from consumption."
Alaric stared at her, taking in the ruin of her appearance. She was painfully thin. The collar of her dress was frayed. The hands that had once played the pianoforte with delicate precision were now brutalized by lye, scalding water, and relentless labor.
"Why are you here?" he demanded. "In my house, on your knees, scrubbing my floors."
Penelope let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I didn't know it was your house, Alaric. When I took the position 2 years ago, this house belonged to your father. I needed to disappear into the bowels of a large estate. Cuddon House has 70 servants. I was a rat in the walls. I never thought the Duke's second son, a naval captain, would inherit."
Alaric flinched. The deaths of his father and older brother in a carriage accident three years ago had abruptly dragged him from the sea and chained him to the dukedom. He had moved into Cuddon House only 6 months ago.
"You faked your death to hide in my kitchens?" he asked, incredulous.
"I didn't fake anything." Penelope snapped, stepping forward. The fire in her gray eyes briefly ignited, reminding him of the girl who used to sneak out of ballrooms to meet him in the gardens. "My father faked it. He faked it because he owed £5,000 to Viscount Carlisle. Carlisle didn't want a willing bride. He wanted a possession. He wanted to break a horse."
She stopped, breathing heavily, realizing she had said too much. She pressed her lips together, her cracked skin weeping a tiny drop of blood.
The name hit Alaric like a physical blow. Viscount Carlisle. A man notoriously cruel, twice Penelope's age, whispered about in gentlemen's clubs for his savage appetites.
"You married Carlisle," Alaric said. The betrayal tasted like bile.
"I was sold to Carlisle," she corrected, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The funeral was for society. For you. My father sent an empty coffin to the churchyard and sent me in a closed carriage to Carlisle's estate in Yorkshire. I ceased to be Penelope Alden. I became a ghost before I ever drew my next breath."
Alaric felt the world tilt. The opulent library, the leather chairs, the oil paintings of his ancestors. It all felt incredibly cheap. A fragile stage set, hiding a world of grotesque cruelty.
"How long?" he asked, his voice cracking. He didn't care that he sounded weak.
"3 years," Penelope said, refusing to look at him now. She stared at the soot stains on her ragged skirt. "Three years in Yorkshire. I learned to be quiet. I learned how to hide the bruises with powder. But then he... he decided he wanted an heir, and he was not a gentle man."
Alaric's hands curled into fists at his sides. The leather of his gloves creaked. A murderous cold clarity settled over him. Viscount Carlisle was currently in London. Alaric had seen him at White's Club just 2 days ago, drinking port and laughing.