Page 59 of In Scandal with the Duke
Pulling away from his arms, she stared up at him. Elizabeth gritted her teeth to muster up a rebuke, wanting to let her frustrations and anger at being betrayed out. But what came were more silent tears coursing down her cheeks and a pain so deep she pressed a palm over her chest.
“Bette,” Brandon said, sounding shocked. “This is … you … you really love the duke?”
She flinched, lifting her shaking fingers to wipe away her tears. “I never want to speak of the duke again. I am going home.”
Her mother frowned. “We are home—” her words broke off sharply.
Elizabeth held her mother’s gaze for a few beats, then her aunt’s and her brother’s. “I am going home to New York, and I am never returning to England.”
A reproachful silence lingered, and then her mother sighed heavily. “Must you always be this … decided?”
Elizabeth did not reply. She hastened from the room, ignoring the strident calls of her mother and aunt. Elizabeth went to the library, took a decanter of the viscount’s finest brandy, and rushed to her room. She took several swallows, and warmth rushed through her body and unknotted the cold knot of pain and doubt. She drank until the pain blurred, then dropped the empty bottle to the ground, crawled into her bed, burrowed her head beneath the pillow and sobbed.
Elizabeth could not understand the loss she felt. James had not promised her anything beyond their moment, yet how they parted was a burning pain inside her heart that seemed it would never quench. Exhaustion claimed her, and as she slipped into sleep, she silently prayed he would no longer enter her dreams and pierce her heart with love and longing.
CHAPTER21
James rolled over in his bed and with a frustrated growl, he punched his pillow for what felt like the tenth time that night, each thump a futile attempt to expel the building tension. The bedclothes were in disarray, the sheets twisted, and the coverlets crumpled at the foot of the bed.
“This is damn nonsense,” he muttered into the plush, fragrant pillows that did nothing to soothe his restlessness.
His mind was a whirlwind, replaying every moment, every glance, and every word exchanged with Elizabeth. Exasperated, James threw back the covers and swung his legs off the bed. He raked his fingers through his tousled hair and stood up, his movements sharp and agitated. Padding over to the window, he drew back the heavy drapes with a swift tug. The cool night air brushed against his skin as he opened the window, leaning out slightly to gaze into the dark, starless sky.
It had been nine days since he had walked away from his lover with a firm resolve to end whatever had been budding between them to prevent future regrets. As he stood there, the chill of the night air seeping into his bones, James wrestled with how to handle the strong connection that refused to fade despite his best efforts. The coldness that he anticipated to shroud his heart never arrived. Knowing that he had lost Elizabeth and would no longer wake up with her nestled in his arms, nor witness her smile, hear her laughter, or experience her vibrant spirit was unbearable. These nights of longing for her left him with an ache so deep that it almost destroyed him.
A rough sound of annoyance left James, and he tugged on trousers and boots, dressing well enough without the aid of his valet. He bounded down the stairs and went outside, inhaling the crisp air into his lungs. It was his fortune that one of his friends lived only a few houses down from him. A few minutes later, Oliver’s butler opened the door and informed James that his lordship was not at home.
“I will await the marquess in the room he reserved for boxing,” James clipped, already shrugging from his jacket, and he walked down the hallway.
Thankfully, the sandbag that Oliver used to practice his boxing was still mounted. James did not bother to wrap his wrists with thin strips of linen. He merely removed his clothes and boots, standing bare feet and only in his trousers. He went to pounding on the bag, sharp jabs that ricocheted up to his elbows. Still, he did not stop his punishing pace, pushing his body until his muscles screamed for mercy. If this did not calm the demons riding him, James would find an underground fighting ring and pick one of their most ruthless bare-knuckle fighters to get in the pits with.
As James assaulted the sandbag with relentless force, each punch unleashed more of his pent-up frustration and regret. That sound of pain she’d made haunted him like a specter. Her eyes had been wounded, and the very memory of it plagued James’s dreams.
I hurt you, Elizabeth, and I am so damn sorry.
He increased the strength and speed of his punches. The fabric of the bag thudded under the impact of his fists, a satisfying sound that momentarily drowned out the chaos of his thoughts. The sound of footsteps approached. James paused mid-swing, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow. He turned to see Oliver striding into the room, his expression a mix of concern and resolve.
“You look like hell, Basil,” Oliver said, eyeing the unbound wrists.
James wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a grim smile touching his mouth. “I need a partner,” he said, his voice rough with exertion.
Oliver, without saying another word, began to strip off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. He moved to a corner of the room where the linen wraps lay discarded and started to bind his wrists methodically.
Knowing that he needed a vigorous outlet, James said, “Are you certain?”
“I could use a good fight,” Oliver said, finishing with his wraps and moving to stand opposite James.
They squared off, their bare feet shifting on the soft matting of the floor. They began to circle each other, each feint and jab a silent conversation. As the bout progressed, their movements grew faster, more forceful. Oliver was a skilled boxer, his punches precise and calculated, but James met each attack with equal ferocity, his own strikes a blend of raw power and honed skill. For James, each punch thrown was a release, and with Oliver, he could be as fierce or as calm as he needed to be without the need for words. They moved around each other with the grace of dancers, punching and feinting for almost an hour. Eventually, they both stepped back, chests heaving, skin slicked with perspiration.
Oliver clapped James on the shoulder, a gesture of solid, unquestioning support. “Better?”
“Better,” he affirmed, feeling a measure of peace settle over him. “I have been a damn fool.”
Ambrose lifted a brow. “It takes special awareness for a man to realize he is a damn fool.”
James made no reply to this, merely watching his friend walk over to the mantle and pluck up a pressed newssheet.
Walking over to him, Oliver held it up. “Have you seen this? Is this the reason you seem so out of sorts?”
