The sun beats down upon the London house, giving it a right cheery glow, far too at odds with the severe blacks festooning the house from head to toe. How the maids managed to get all this done with barely a whisper of movement is beyond me. But then, it's not as if my mind hasn't been preoccupied elsewhere.
Unable to resist, my lip curls as I glare out at the damning sun that has the audacity to shine today. It's all far too jovial, far too happy. It's as if the sun itself has decided to defy the typical English condition and drive back the dreary rains and clouds.
My gut clenches as the maids bustle about, closing all the curtains as they change them out for a thicker black fabric. At least that will help keep some of this ethereal happiness at bay. I'll still know it though. I'll still know that the sun shines brightly overhead even as another spark of illumination lies snuffed out forever.
In some ways, it's rather a bit unfair. In others, it seems perfectly fitting. My mother was a light to all who knew her. Perhaps if I were a sentimental sort of man, I could tell myself it's her beaming down, telling me she's finally at peace.
But I'm not a sentimental man, despite what my friends think about me.
Turning out of the room, unable to bear the sights and sounds of the maids covering the mirrors and draping that damned crepe over all the doors, turning this lovely townhome into a dark and dour testament to the dead, I make my way down the hall, away from the stifling heat. But even the cool shadows cannot dispel the fires of anger from my chest. Why her? Why now?
Mother was a kind soul who had already suffered greatly in life. Then again, I suppose this should be seen as some blessing, a boon that she should pass from this world at ease in her sleep to join her husband and son. That any of us would be so lucky.
Shaking my head, I make my way into the nearby salon where Mother is laid out for us to pay our respects but decide against it. I'm not ready to see her again like this. Though I know her face is serene, even in death, I know she's gone. Life is not still in her. Despite positioning her to where she seems merely asleep, it's a startling difference.
There's no longer a spark of life pinkening her cheeks. That glow, that hidden mirth she seemed to have carried with her, despite the great losses she suffered, is gone, leaving her skin cold and pallid. She's no longer the woman I know and love. She's merely a vessel reminding us of what was.
Taking a deep breath, I opt to go into another obliging parlor, grateful to be alone with my thoughts a few minutes more. Soon, my friends will descend upon me, wives in tow. The townhome will be crawling with their well-wishes and those soft, sad condolences.
Though my heart knows I need this moment with them to shore me up, I'd rather not see anyone today who will remind me of not only what I've lost, but the additional duties thrust upon me with her death. Besides, invitations have already gone out, and it would be both rude and improper to turn them away.
Mother would roll about on her deathbed, no doubt berating me in that mild manner of hers. With her, you never really quite knew if you were being fussed at or guilted. But I suppose that's one of her many charms.
Was. Was one of her many charms.
In fact, part of me wishes to revoke the invitation to each and every one of them in hopes it will rouse her out of this. Perhaps she's not quite dead after all but just in the deepest slumber of her life. These thoughts are insanity, yet for that brief moment, I hold them close to me as if they were spoken by the minister himself.
A soft cough, a mere clearing of the throat, pulls me from these notions, dragging my mind back to the present. I suppose I should pretend to be a good host and greet my friends even though all I wish to do is start the day again and pretend as if none of this is happening.
However, instead of there being one of my entourages standing in the room behind me, I'm accosted by another wraith altogether. Miss Cappelli stands at the doorway, her small body covered head-to-toe in thick black material, making her look bigger and bulkier than she usually is.
A veil conceals her youthful face, giving her the visage of someone far older and a bit dowdier, nothing like the hellion racing through the halls in an effort to avoid her studies. Now, she stands before me, prim and proper as if she were bred into this role, bred to take my mother's place as head of this household.
The sight holds such a contradicting view in my mind. She is, by all rights, still a child, seeing as she is just now eighteen. However, as she stands there with soft murmurs and measured sighs, she seems able to be an adult. It's not possible. One cannot age in such a way overnight.
Anger burns in my chest the more I look at her. All she is, is a child playing pretend. Turning back to the table holding a decanter of port, I pour a generous glass. It gives me something to do, something to occupy my hands as I do my best to calm my mind to compose my words.
Once more, I turn, thinking this apparition will disappear, but there she is, resplendent in her grief. My gaze travels from the black crepe hanging over her head like a pall to her delicate hands concealed in black gloves. Not one ribbon or ornament decorates her normally ostentatious appearance.
She wears nothing but the unrelenting hush of grief.
So morose, so dreary on the day one would celebrate their birth. But I suppose this is yet another facet of the circle of life. As one ends, another must begin.
Though it is not a birth I see before me, it is still a fundamental change, a rebirth of sorts. The whole of London, including the King Alpha and Queen Omega, would deem her viable to mate and breed, to be thrust out to society to find someone to take her in and make her a bride. But how when she is still such a child?
Yet, as she stands there, something is remarkably shifted, changed in a way that’s ephemeral and fundamental all in the same breath. It sparks in the air where there was once a dull hum, nearly undetectable to an Alpha like me. By all rights, she should still be subdued, a gray hue, a specter.
Somehow, even clothed in her grief, she’s still a dazzling beauty I never knew existed under this roof. The droplets of tears as they stain her cheeks turn into the rarest of diamonds and do nothing to diminish the refined gold flecking her eyes. Even her hair, the dark umber pinned up out of place, looks more akin to the softest sable fur encased in her veil.
Seeing her as such should fill me with heartfelt gratitude that she cared for my mother enough to respond with this level of mourning. Instead, it grates against me, leaving me irritated, agitated, and wholly unfit to be around. I cannot say this show is a farce, yet it strikes me with the same absurdity.
“This is wholly unnecessary,” I growl out, my voice rusty and hoarse from the rage-filled screams that flooded my secret dungeon after Mother's death was confirmed. “You were her ward, and not her daughter. You are not family. You needn't pretend with this show of grief. Where on earth did you even get such clothes? They're obviously not tailored to you.”
Miss Cappelli flinches at my acrimonious barb and takes a step back. Sorrow emanates from her as clearly as the light sniffles drifting from her nose. As she pulls out a black handkerchief, I have to keep my composure, refusing to roll my eyes at the display.
Her voice is soft, melodious somehow, as she gathers her hurt around her like a gleaming shield.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. It was not my intention to offend. She may not have been my mother, but she was the closest thing after my own died. In Italy, I had not the means to mourn her properly. There were no black dresses or crepes for a twelve-year-old child trying their best merely to survive.”
The raw agony in her tone smacks me as if it were her delicate hands beating against my chest in hurt and fury.
“I see.”
“No,” she grits out. “You do not see. Your mother rescued me, took me in even though I'm not a relative. She gave me everything—a name, a future, but more importantly, love. There was no wake for my mother, no grand funeral. Not even a goodbye. Your mother's passing grants me everything I have ever lost, and now, I have the means to mourn properly, to give respect to both her and my own mother, God rest her soul. I will not have you demean me in this way.”
With no further words, she turns about on her heel and strides out the door, no doubt going into the salon where she will continue paying her respects. While I stand there, cad that I am, she is bravely doing the one thing I cannot at present. She's facing her own mortality to stand vigil over a woman who deserves far more than I'm giving her.
At some point, I'll have to go in there. I'll have to face her, face them. I'll have to stand there, being a show of force, the keeper of the house of Redleigh.
If only I'd known she was so close to death. Nothing about her seemed in peril. Honestly, that's what is so shocking. As if she had finally found the time to just let go and be at peace. If only she could have chosen a different time entirely.
It's selfish to think this way, but if she could have just held on until Miss Cappelli's debut and inspection by the Queen Omega. If only she could have held on until the chit was married off, leaving me alone in my silent pondering and prose. If only she just hadn't fucking left me.
The last of the Redleighs... save me.
With no prospect of a marriage in sight and me nearing my thirtieth year, I suppose it's time to find someone. At least to stop the gossip. At this point, I’m sure anyone will do. The problem is I don't want just anyone.
I want someone who can look upon this savage beast with a kind tenderness. Someone who will sigh, gasp, moan, and squirm at my brand of love. Someone who can take my deviant, dark needs and accept them into their body with a whimper and groan as tears slip down their cheeks so prettily.
It's a dream, and nothing more. It doesn't matter that nearly all my friends have fallen into this parson's trap with someone who seems to love them and accept them, perversions and all. I'm not like them. It's far harder to find someone who will love an actual monster. At least someone I don't have to pay.
Even now, my soul cries for the whipping house, for The Rose and Thorne, where I can unleash this unholy madness onto a willing body. Unfortunately, duty calls, and it's a far crueler mistress than Madame Douleur.
Another cough interrupts my musing, but this time, it is indeed my friends. They ease their way into the parlor while barely making a sound. Wraiths, all of them. It's so odd seeing them dressed so dour, so somber, but then, it's what's expected of us.
Duty.
It hangs about my neck as a millstone. The time for fun and games has passed. Once I see to Miss Cappelli's match, I will have to make one of my own. It's only right. By day, I will promise undying love and affection, all the while giving polite kisses and chaste touches. But by night... By night, I shall allow the demons to play upon the flesh of the nubile girls Madame Douleur offers.
As long as my wife is happy, I can do whatever I want. Even as I think this, however, my heart clenches. It's not what I want. If I can somehow figure out a way to thrust this deviance from me… but it feels insurmountable. Especially at a time like this.
All I crave is that release, that unburdening of my station and class. There, in that moment, I can just be.
Looking at my friends' faces, I realize these aren't the sort of thoughts that should occupy my mind. Not when my mother lies cold so close to me. It's distasteful and inappropriate. Besides, I'll have to face it at some point. Might as well be with my friends surrounding me like a buttress.
Black lines every bit of this townhouse as we form a small procession to the salon where her body lies. Not that it was a show of gaiety to begin with. However, seeing it like this only further drives home the despair that threatens to beat at my body as expertly as I can wield a whip.
As I enter the room, Miss Cappelli looks up at me, her pale face fairly glowing under the black shroud. Tears stain her cheeks—the same tears I long to shed. But I don't have that privilege. I can't fall apart. Not now. Not with everyone looking to me for guidance.
My heart cracks, threatening to break as fissures form along the delicate tissues. It would be cowardly to flee. I may be many things, but being a coward is not one of them. Shuffling forward, I force myself to face my future, to look upon death as it resides deep in the bowels of this townhome.
She's so peaceful lying there. Her lips lie curved in a natural smile, one that never left her even when times were hard. The only way I know she's no longer with us is the slight stench of death that clings to her even with all the flowers surrounding.
Or maybe that's my curse. No one else seems to notice as they pass by. Then again, it's not as if the servants would dare say anything. My friends certainly have better taste than that.
A tight restlessness cinches my chest as I pace the room, desperate for my cheroot cigar. Now is not the time nor place, but once I can honorably steal myself away, I shall indulge. Not a moment sooner.
As I glance at my Mother's body, a small niggle of guilt assaults my brain. I shouldn't be thinking of leaving. Not like this. Not when her body is barely cold from death. Leaning over, I take in every bit of her, committing it to memory.
Each pass of my gaze only further cracks my heart, driving pain deep inside where no one else can see, no one can heal or even touch. If I were to be honest with myself, any time would still be too soon.
It only hurts so much because it was so sudden. I had no time to prepare, no time to make my peace. Now, I'm forced to make it with an audience.
A hint of movement trembles at the corner of my eye, but I pay it no mind. No doubt, it's one of the other Alphas paying their respects as the wives linger back. But no. They continue to hang around the perimeter of the room, giving the family and servants time to properly grieve.
Miss Cappelli slides over, her slight figure moving silent like a ghost. Her slim hand snakes out, still clad in black silk, to rest upon my forearm. That's all it takes—that one touch. That one simple forbidden touch makes my gut clench with feral need.
A waft of rose and earth tickles my nose as her head lifts to look up at me. Has she always smelled so good? I can't recall. Even as I gaze into those deep brown eyes of hers, mesmerized by the flecks of gold streaking through them like rays of the sun, I try yet fail to see her as the child who came to stay with us those years ago.
It's as if she's transformed before my very eyes. Instead of a clumsy, rambunctious youth whose only job was to find every single way to whittle out a bark of annoyance, I find a poised, polished girl on the cusp of womanhood.
But no. This can't be. Stark desperation clambers inside my brain, begging her to go back to being that child. I cannot look upon her like this. I cannot help but notice the swell of her breasts heaving with every breath. Moreso, I cannot see those tears staining her cheeks and desire to be the cause of them, to bring more sliding down her pale skin as she begs for pleasures she's not allowed to experience.
With a jerk of my arm, I rid myself of her damning hand and force my mind and thoughts onto my mother, where they belong. Miss Cappelli means nothing to me. She merely caught me in a moment of grief. In that haze, I pictured something I shouldn't.
And yet, as she slides back away, that maddening scent of rose clings to my clothes, my nose, and my mouth, suffocating me with every breath. It's not the surrounding flowers. No. This is different. This is uniquely and utterly hers. All I can hope for is a chance to rid myself of these demons before they infect her, causing even more harm and chaos than has already visited this cursed house.
Glancing her way, I note the utter devastation etched into her young face. Easing my way over, I give her a soft bow in an attempt to make amends.
“Your touch caught me off guard. You know I do not entertain that sort of familiarity. Even with family.”
“At some point,” she whispers, “you will need to excavate yourself from behind that wall of nettles and thorns so you can see that you are not alone. You are cared for and wanted. Grousing and all.”
Her lips twitch in the ghost of a smile as she teases me, no doubt trying to lighten the mood. It’s admirable. I’ll give her that. Unfortunately, all it makes me want to do is rid her of that mirth with a bit of leather against her impertinent virginal flesh.
It is to my credit, as well as all the witnesses around me, that I do not indulge. This is dangerous. As much as I mourn my mother’s loss, I thank the heavens for the reprieve it will give me. Hopefully, this time away will give me a chance to breathe air not tainted by her alluring scent.
