Page 17 of The Duchess’s Absolutely Delightful Dream (The Notorious Briarwoods #14)

D eimos stood in the corner of the long, beautiful drawing room that overlooked the loch, playing the violin with utter perfection. Octavian’s cousin went everywhere with the instrument that had been made for him in Italy.

And it was really quite a boon. Octavian found music could break the worst sorts of tension and pain.

It was something that he was familiar with on the battlefield.

Music was often played to help the soldiers stay in line.

Drummers carried the beats. Flutes were played to give some sort of encouragement and assurance.

And when the fires were lit the night before battle or when the camps were set up as they marched across the Peninsula, ever ready for facing death, the men set about in circles, singing songs and playing tunes.

Deimos could play the sweetest, most beautiful music. He could make any room sound as if heaven had come down and was vibrating out of the strings of the violin.

As he played, Scots and English alike sat rapt, held in the young man’s thrall.

Octavian’s grandmother sat bemused, staring at her grandson. Her pride shone on her beautiful, aging face. She was the great, wise woman of their family. And she loved the beauty of this world, despite having been raised in the ugliest of circumstances.

She was someone who had encouraged a tradition of artists in the family, who used their creativity to bring joy to all those around them.

Sometimes Octavian wished he had been born with the talents of a dancer or an actor or a musician, or even a writer, but he had been born with the talent for being a soldier.

And so now, as he sat listening to the last strains of Deimos’s music filter through the night, his heart ached with a melancholy pain that felt all-encompassing because he was going to have to go back into the fray.

The days had raced past, and the weeks that he had been given to be spared the hue and cry of pipe and drum were done.

And he could not thank Rossbrea more for this brief period away from the rest of the world.

Yet he now feared he was in more pain than when he had come, because now he felt like he was giving something up, walking away from something that had pressed in on his heart, daring him to be different… But he could not be different.

He could not allow himself that.

He had to be exactly who he was until the war was won, until the battles were done, until Napoleon had been entirely stopped and the world had been put back to rights.

He could not stop until his family was safe.

Until all those who had been displaced by that madman at least had hope of a life of peace.

He let out a soft sigh as the final note of the song drifted through the air.

And then Rossbrea and his brothers, all of Octavian’s cousins, and all of his family that had traveled up from the south of England lifted their hands and began to applaud.

“That’s damned beautiful,” Archie declared.

“I love a tune. Indeed, I do. I didn’t think an Englishman had so much soul in him,” proclaimed Leith.

“I now feel as if I have been kissed by an angel and also long to sob out my tears,” put in Brodie.

Deimos nodded. “Yes, it is a rather piercing melody, but I can’t leave you with that now, can I?”

“You can. It would be a right fine thing to do. We could sit before the fire now and recite poetry,” the Duke of Rossbrea said. “That would be a very Scottish thing to do.”

Deimos smiled. “If I may, I was walking down by the village, and I heard some music that inspired me. So I think there’s another Scottish thing that we could do.”

“Oh?” Rossbrea asked, tilting his head to the side, clearly intrigued.

“If you don’t mind,” Deimos said, gesturing with his violin.

“Not a bit of it,” the duke replied, gesturing for him to continue.

Deimos lifted the violin, placed it back on his shoulder, tucked his chin in, and then began to play. The fiery notes of a reel began to fill the long drawing room, and the Scots let out a chorus of laughter and cheers.

“Well done, man!” Rossbrea called.

“That’s the stuff,” Archie declared, clapping his hands together.

“Now let’s dance, ladies,” Brodie called.

The wild beat of the music filled their limbs, summoning some ancient instinct to move together. Soon all the men were up and ready to dance.

Emily, Josephine, and Anne let out squeals of pleasure as they were hauled to their feet and all but tossed into the air as the jaunty dance began.

This was no proper English ballroom reel.

No, suddenly the music was filled with clapping and stomping and jumping about, done with such excitement, such full joy of life, that Octavian sat frozen in his chair for a moment.

He swung his gaze over to Ellie.

She’d already been called to dance by one of his cousins.

He wished to curse at that. Laertes was attempting to bounce her about the room as enthusiastically as the Scots.

And he was doing quite a good job. Ellie was grinning at him, and the two of them were dancing up and down the room as if a reel could cure anything.

The whole room acted as if there wasn’t a care in the world. And for them, perhaps there wasn’t.

And then, much to his dismay, he spotted his grandmother sitting down beside him. He tensed, feeling half paralyzed by it all.

“It can, you know,” she ventured.

“What?” he gritted, holding on to his chair for dear life. He did not know why. He’d always been able to make merry before. What had changed? Why was he holding on so tight now?

“Dancing could cure anything.”

His eyes flared. Blasted Briarwoods! This was the second time his thoughts had been made plain.

“Good God, Grandmama, have you started reading minds?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. She leaned into her chair casually, enjoying the scene. “It’s all too easy at my age, my dear. I’ve almost seen it all, you see.”

“Why don’t you go and dance, Grandmama?”

“Are you going to ask me?” she asked.

He gritted his teeth.

“Oh dear,” she said with a tsk. “Alas not. You are in the grips of something, Octavian. And I worry for you. I was hoping that when we came up to Scotland, that this place would shake you free of whatever has a hold on you. You’ve always been such a joyful, merry boy, but now there’s something not quite right. ”

“Oh?” he challenged, tempted to wax on about the difficulties of war.

She eyed him without judgement. “And I know what it is.”

“What?” he demanded.

“You won’t let yourself have what you want out of some strange fear. And it’s interesting to me because you know our family. You know all the fights that we’ve had, all the struggles, and you know fear is always the enemy.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” he protested.

She tilted her head to the side. “You’re not?” she queried. “Elucidate.”

“I’m not afraid,” he repeated.

“Oh? I do love the novelty of being wrong.” She smiled gently. “Can you help me to understand?”

“I have a duty,” he stated firmly.

“A duty?” she queried, that ever gentle yet knowing gaze far more frightening in some ways than any corporal on a battlefield.

“Yes,” he insisted plainly. “To be the best soldier I can be, and I cannot allow myself to…”

He licked his lips and looked away.

“What?” she queried.

“Love,” he blurted, grateful that the reel covered their conversation.

Her brow furrowed. “Do you not love your family?”

“I do. That’s not it. But, Grandmama,” he bit out, “if I were to marry her, if I were to have children, I—”

“Yes?” she prompted, truly curious as she leaned forward ever so slightly, encouraging him to free himself of those thoughts.

“You see it sometimes,” he said softly.

“What do you see, my love?”

He frowned, hardly believing he was daring to explain it. Soldiers did not talk about such things with those who did not understand the fight.

He drew in a slow breath. “The officers that have wives and children. They’re afraid to take risks.

They hold back. They don’t push as hard.

Sometimes they get their men killed because they’re indecisive, because they wish to be safe.

Sometimes they retreat too soon. Battles are lost because of those things, Grandmama.

A madman can destroy countries because of such weakness.

And England cannot lose. I cannot lose. Not after all—”

His voice broke and he looked away, unable to bear her kindness.

“I see,” she whispered.

And from the emotion deepening her voice, he rather believed she did.

“You will not have what you want because England requires more of you?” she surmised.

“Yes,” he gritted. “My men require it.”

She nodded, understanding. “Oh, my love. I cannot argue with such a cause, nor would I be such a fool as to try.”

She emphasized the word fool, and he felt a moment’s trepidation. She had cast him as the fool in the play they were performing.

“Do you think me a fool?” he demanded. “Is that why you’ve put me in that part?”

Her eyes flared. “Oh, Octavian. You know the plays better than most. The fool is always the wisest person in the play.”

He couldn’t breathe suddenly. Nor could he look away from the grandmother who had loved him since long before he had taken his first step… And who would love him until the very end, whenever and whatever that might be.

“Be wise, my love,” she said firmly. “As I have always known you to be.”

He pressed his lips together, feeling emotions shake through him them. Emotions he never allowed himself to unleash. Swiftly, he swallowed, then stood. “All right then,” he forced himself to proclaim with bravado. “Grandmama, let us dance.”

He offered his hand to her.

She smiled, her eyes still sad, but joy was there too. “I could never tell you no, my darling boy.”

“Good,” he said, “because we must cherish these moments together, Grandmama.”

“Of course, we must,” she said. “Who knows what is to come? Listen to your cousin, listen to the joy that he is causing.”

He looked over at Deimos. He was playing like a man possessed by another world entire. And the room was full of revels because of it.

The great Scotsmen were causing the floor to shake, and so were his cousins, who were embracing the spirit of the Highlands.

“Right then, Grandmama.” He grabbed her by the waist and whirled her around.

Deimos transformed the world with music.

He would transform it with justice.

Each had to play the instrument they had been given.

She let out a laugh, and soon they were all dancing in formation, the Scots leading the way.

Octavian marveled at how easy it was for the great big Scotsmen to suddenly start herding the Englishmen about, teaching them the patterns of a new dance.

They danced in, and then they danced out.

They danced to the side. Then they danced back to the other side.

And then they turned to their partners and whirled about until the room turned blurry.

They passed partner to partner until suddenly he was arm in arm with Ellie.

His breath caught in his throat.

She gazed up at him, her cheeks bright and rosy, her lips parted in a smile that would light his heart for a thousand years.

And he knew when he was on the next battlefield that this moment was the one he would carry. This look upon her face would be the last moment he would recall if ever he faced death. He held her close, drank in her scent, gazed down at her beautiful rich hair, and wished…

Oh, how he wished!

But wishes meant nothing, not really, not at the end of the day. So all he did was dance. He danced with everything he had, with every fiber of his being.

And when at last the music came to a pause and the din of the crowd faded, he turned and looked to his grandmother. She was gazing upon him with a sort of resignation in her eyes.

That was the look he had seen in someone who knew that they were losing a war.

He then gazed down at Ellie. She did not look at him with resignation. She looked at him with great hope, and he hated himself. He had come here and promised her brothers that he would make her happy, but he knew he was now going to do the exact opposite.

He had been the most terrible of men to think that he could simply charm her, that the two of them could be light and not without real connection.

What had he done? What lies had he told himself? His grandmother was mistaken.

Clearly, he had never been wise. He was a real fool, not a pretend one.