Page 73 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“My lady,” Mr. Beckett said, holding the brim of his hat in his hand. “My deepest condolences. I can see that this news has upset you. If you will have your husband call upon my office at his earliest convenience, I’m certain there will be no need to trouble you further.” He resettled his hand upon his head and tipped the brim to her, squeezing past her as she lingered still in the doorway.
Her breath scraped through her lungs as if it had come down her throat with bared claws. Luke, she thought. Of course, Luke would know what to do. And she turned on legs that threatened to collapse beneath her, tottering past the footman who had returned with a fresh pot of tea just a bit too late, and made for the stairs.
∞∞∞
It was a fine night for brandy, and Luke had foregone the glass entirely. Probably he’d have the devil of a headache on the morrow, but what did it matter? No oneexpectedanything of him but this.
Blast it, why couldn’t she see that he wastrying? He’d attended every damned dinner, every damned event for two weeks now. She’d never evendancedwith him. What more was he meant to do?
Another long pull from the bottle. He cast himself upon the couch and threw the tangle of his cravat to the floor. It had been torturous to see her tonight, so cool and remote. Reserved and quiet. It wasn’tlikeher, damn it all. When not engaged for a dance, she had simply stood at his side, still as a statue. As if she wanted to be there no more than she thoughthedid. Well, he would have—if only his wife would acknowledge him. Dance with him. Pay him even the slightest bit of attention.
Another drink. It wasn’t even midnight yet. He was going to finish the whole of the bottle before morning and damn the consequences. She didn’t want him to accompany her at her events? Then there was no reason he ought to restrain himself.
Another drink. Another. Another. There—that was a quarter of the bottle gone already. It was fine stuff; French, expensive. It tasted like the back end of a horse. Resentfully, he drank again. How the hell had he lost the taste for it? For years he’d pickled himself in spirits, it had been the easiest thing in the world. So easy just to lift that glass to his lips, and drink, and drink—until his mind fogged and his thoughts went pleasantly dim.
They were not dim now. There was no soft pull of inebriation to shield him from the wretched jumble of them. There was only the anger, the pain—
Pain? His hand patted at his chest, there over his heart, where that damned ache kept cropping up time and time again. Each time she rebuffed his efforts. Every event that passed by with hardly more than a few stilted sentences exchanged between them.
Christ,no. He didn’tloveher. Hedidn’t.
A scratch at the door caught his attention, and then he watched, horrified, as the door opened and Lizzie slipped into the room. As if he’d somehow drawn her here with the bent of his thoughts.
Still in her evening gown. Beautiful. The delicate peach-colored silk trimmed in gold lace a perfect complement to her pale skin. Her dark hair gleamed with auburn undertones in the lamplight, its elegant twists and loops studded with little pearl-tipped pins shining amongst them like scattered stars.
His heart gave another painful pulse in his chest, and he wrenched himself to his feet, furious anew. His hand clenched around the bottle of brandy.
“Luke,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I need—”
“No.” How dared she. Howdaredshe intrude upon him now? Hadn’t shejustrefused him? When he had humbled himself enough to ask?
When he had finally failed to resist the compulsion to drown himself in an excess of spirits. When he had succumbed to the lure that lay there at the bottom of the bottle still held in his hand.
“No, damn you,” he hissed, and he saw the words hit like a barb, her body going stiff, rigid with shock and hurt.
She took a tiny step back, reeling from the lash of his anger, those dark eyes going wide. And that was good. She wasmeantto be hurt. As she had hurt him.
“You don’t have any right at all to invade my privacy,” he said. “We’re notfriends.” The taunting words emerged on a sneer. “I’ll thank you to leave me well enough alone from now on.”
A ragged whisper barely reached his ears. “I only wanted—”
“I don’t give a damn what you want any longer,” he heard himself say, and it wasn’t eventrue, but in the moment it satisfied something dark and vindictive within him. Something pitiful and fearful. Something that had borne too much tragedy already. “I never promised youlove,” he snarled. “I never even promised youfidelity.”
She trembled beneath the force of his ire, her eyes stark and haunted. “No,” she said, in that barely-breathing whisper. “I know you didn’t.”
A tiny whisk of guilt pricked at his conscience. He shoved it to the back of his mind. “You will not scorn my company and then demand it when it suits you. Is that perfectly understood?”
The smallest of nods. A fine tremor made her movements jerky and uncertain. She gave a tiny gasp as her back hit the door jamb. He refused to feel the shame that prodded at him.
“Get out of my sight,” he said. And there—that was it. She fled.
As ifhewere the villain. His knees shook as he collapsed onto the couch once more.
The bottle was still in his hand, amber liquid swirling within, promising absolution, forgetfulness, oblivion. He wanted that. Didn’t he? It was just there, at the bottom of the bottle, if only he could reach it.
And what then? He would wake up, and he would be no better than he was. No better than he hadbeen.
Besides, it wouldn’t erase the cruel words he’d spoken, or the misery he’d wrought of Lizzie’s face, etched into every tense line of her body. He cast his hand over his eyes. He hadn’t evenmeantthem, not really. It was just that her reticence hadhurthim, made him feel…foolish. Unwelcome. Small. A pleading child, begging for justonemeagercrumbof—
