Page 44 of The Ruin of a Rake
His good mood having quite evaporated, Courtenay sat in the seat Standish indicated and took the glass he was offered. He wouldn’t drink it, but he found it easier to say yes to spirits and then simply not drink them. Hardly anyone ever noticed or cared except Julian. He remembered what Julian had said about Courtenay’s habit of saying yes, of spending his life drifting between yeses. Julian had been right. He usually was.
“I’m not having an affair with your wife,” Courtenay said abruptly. He ought to have said as much a week ago, but if Eleanor preferred to let her husband believe she had a lover, that was her business and he didn’t like to interfere. But looking at this room, thinking of Eleanor’s past hopes and her best chance of future happiness, he couldn’t keep silent.
Standish didn’t seem surprised. His handsome face betrayed no reaction of any kind. “I hoped as much, given how you quite clearly are carrying on with her brother.”
A wave of cold swept over Courtenay’s body. He thought he could brazen out a blackmail attempt, but didn’t relish the prospect, especially not if Julian’s name were to be dragged into it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I had you followed yesterday. I’m not blackmailing you, so you don’t need to look like that. I’m quite aware you aren’t touching my wife. But I’d almost rather she have an affair than simply pretend to have one, which is what she’s doing by letting me believe you’re lovers. I can’t understand what’s going through her mind, but I gather she must want me to leave as soon as possible.”
Was it possible that Eleanor—brilliant, ingenious Eleanor—had somehow married an utter fool? He spoke like an intelligent man and had obviously devoted a good deal of thought to coming to this outrageously wrong conclusion. “Have you considered that she might have another reason? From her perspective, you married her and then traveled everywhere in the world where she wasn’t.”
“That’s not what—”
“I know,” Courtenay said patiently. “But put aside the circumstances that precede your marriage—please,” he hastily added, seeing a look of fury dawn on Standish’s face, “just put them aside. Medlock told me you were fond of one another. Did Eleanor negotiate her marriage settlements herself?”
“Of course not.” Standish’s brow creased. “Julian arranged everything, of course.”
Courtenay tried to imagine eighteen-year-old Julian negotiating his sister’s marriage settlements, and how protective he would have been. “Well, I daresay he felt justified in keeping Eleanor’s settlement as safe as possible. He is”—how to put this delicately—“rather dedicated to defending the interests of people he is fond of. He put you on allowance, did he?”
Standish sat back in evident surprise. “Something to that effect. She—he—paid off my late father’s debts, which were...” His voice trailed off, and Courtenay was given to understand that these debts along with the death of Standish’s father were the circumstances that made his marriage an immediate necessity. “They tied up all Eleanor’s funds for her own use and left me with a token amount.”
“Which I doubt you’ve touched,” Courtenay said with a sigh.
“I’ve refused to draw on the account.” Standish had his chin in the air.
Courtenay was striving for patience. “Which Eleanor has no doubt noticed and interpreted as a sign you regret the marriage.”
Understanding finally dawned on Standish’s face. “I see.”
“She seems to have been under the impression you would eventually join her in England—no, don’t point out that you have in fact joined her, because we both know six years is enough to make a lady doubt the strength of a man’s affections.”
Standish ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. “I know you think I ought to have had faith in her constancy, or whatever rot you’re thinking now, but the fact of the matter is that I think Eleanor and Julian tend to forget I’m Indian.”
“Pardon?”
“I didn’t—oh damn it—I didn’t know whether she’d want an Indian husband with her in England.”
Courtenay did not know what to say. “I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Did she ever say anything to make you suspect—”
“No, nothing like that,” Standish said, shaking his head. “But sometimes the stories we tell ourselves in the dead of night are hard to forget in the daylight.”
Wasn’t that the truth. “You can look around this room and come to your own conclusions.”
Standish glanced around him, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. When he reached the trinkets on the chimneypiece, his cheeks flushed. “I see. I’m afraid I don’t know what to do. We’ve spent six years thinking the worst of one another and that can’t be easily undone.”
If there were words or deeds that could silence the nighttime stories of doubt and pain, he certainly didn’t know about them.
“That isn’t why I asked you in here today, though,” Standish said, fiddling with the edge of his cuff and not meeting Courtenay’s eyes. “Oh, damn it, this is none of my business but there’s something you need to know about Medlock.”
For the second time that morning, Courtenay felt overcome with cold.
Julian was the first to arrive at the stables where he kept his saddle horses. He wanted to make sure the chestnut mare he meant to lend Courtenay was ready.
He had been almost jubilant all day. The vision Courtenay had sketched—sharing breakfasts and rides in the park and nights in bed—had left him positively optimistic about the future. He hadn’t ever contemplated the possibility of going through his life with another person, but now that the idea had crept into his mind, he couldn’t shake it loose. He wanted whatever Courtenay had to offer, and he wanted it with a force he hadn’t thought himself capable of. All the grasping and climbing he had done in society had occupied his mind like a particularly challenging word puzzle might, and had allowed him to drop invitations and recognition at Eleanor’s feet as a cat might bestow mice upon his owner. But he hadn’t yearned for any of it. He hadn’t thought he was meant for yearning—that was for warmer, gentler people.
It was tempting, this promise of days filled with shared kisses and tea cakes. He could see it so clearly it felt almost within reach. All he would have to do was to let Courtenay in past his polished façade, but that was never going to happen because he hardly even let himself consider what lay beneath that façade. He didn’t want to think about illness or loneliness or frightened purposelessness, and the idea that somebody else was thinking those things about him was terrifying. His suspicion that Courtenay wouldn’t think less of him only made it worse, because that made him like Courtenay even more. The last thing he needed was more affection for Courtenay. He was already almost drunk on it. The fact that he was even thinking of letting Courtenay inside his heart was cause for alarm.
“Medlock.” Courtenay’s voice came from behind.
