Page 91 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
So why hadn’t he stayed with her? What was it that kept him running, a fool who couldn’t muster the courage to slay his own doubts?
He threw his arm over his eyes, as if that would block out the torment of his own thoughts.
Picturing her in his mind’s eye, he felt an ache in the region of his heart. God above, he wanted her here. At his side. Close enough to caress the satin of her skin, to press a kiss to her mouth as she welcomed his touch.
Welcomed his love.
The prospect of imminent death heightens emotional response.
His words haunted him. She’d come to him with vivid hope in her eyes, the tiny quiver in her voice betraying her nervousness at taking the initiative.
She loved him.
She’d wanted to embark on a life with him, forging a partnership they would infuse with love, passion, and tenderness.
And how had he responded? Like a cruel arse.
He’d offered a verbal slap in the face. His cold cynicism had cut her to the core.
What a bastard he was.
He’d wounded her deeply. Her face had clearly betrayed her pain. She was not practiced at hiding her emotions, as he was.
He’d cultivated that dubious skill for so long, since he’d been a boy enduring his father’s relentless brutality, both physical and verbal. The memories careened over him, like a nightmare that haunted him year after year.
An image of his mother’s face flashed in his thoughts. She bore the marks his father had inflicted upon her on that horrible night when she’d put herself in Benedict’s place.
It should have been him. He should have borne the brunt of his father’s anger.
How many times had she protected him from the rage? He’d lost count of the times she’d powdered over the bruises on her cheeks, as if she could actually hide them.
He’d wanted so badly to protect her. Later, once he’d grown into a man, he’d towered over his father. He’d packed on muscle. He’d gained strength. He would have protected his mum from the man who alternated between loving words and heartless violence.
His father’s death had ended that nightmare.
And began another—the dire impact of his father’s gambling and foolish business decisions had soon become evident. Benedict had needed funds. Damned if he would see his mother treated as a pauper after all she’d endured.
He’d done what he had to do.
Even if it meant breaking Alexandra’s heart.
Could he ever forgive himself for walking away from their love, bloody fool that he was?
How long could he go on pretending he didn’t give a damn about what he’d lost?
He swung his legs off the bed and went to the sink, wet his hands, and splashed water on his face. In the waning light, his reflection stared back at him, a stranger whose eyes betrayed his weariness and the ache in his heart.
Memories of Alexandra filled his thoughts. He missed her so—everything about her. The temptation in her sparkling amber eyes. The seductive curves of her lithe, lovely body. The honesty in her expression that made it impossible for her to bluff at cards. The way her eyes flashed daggers at him when his arrogance vexed her.
He wanted her—the woman, the perfections and imperfections—more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
Long from now, when he was an old man and their hair had turned to silver, she would remain the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He’d been such a fool.
He’d lost her.
He scrubbed a hand over his bristle-covered jaw. It was too late.
