by Liana Lefey
He’d alienated his old friends and destroyed what little reputation he’d had over a woman. The new friends he’d made were all Harrow’s, and they all doubtless thought him a treacherous bastard for attempting to poach his ladybird.
It would take him years to rebuild what he’d lost—if it were even possible.
The club was busy when he arrived and placed a brusque order for brandy. Before the servant could turn, he grabbed the man’s sleeve. “And just bring the bottle along with the glass,” he added sullenly.
By his fourth glass, he was surrounded by those few of his friends he hadn’t yet managed to estrange, and was parroting the line Harrow had given him, which was, ironically, all too true. “…made the foolish mistake of thinking she meant more to me than I should have. She’s staying with the bastard.”
“But I thought you and he were friends?” said one fellow with an altogether-too-sly look in his eye.
“So did I,” Lucas said flatly, pouring himself another two fingers of brandy. “But apparently, he did not take kindly to me dipping my quill into his favorite inkwell without his express permission. The lady, however, had other ideas. It was she who gave me the key to her castle and bade me enter in. I ask you, what man would refuse such an offer? Not I.”
It earned him a few laughs and a smattering of ribald jests.
“Yes, dear friends,” he continued, deciding to lay it on thick. The thicker, the better. “Let no man—or woman, for that matter—tell you love is anything but a damned lie.”
Silence greeted his pronouncement.
Unsure what had elicited this reaction, Lucas occupied himself with knocking back the remainder of his drink. Just then, he noticed Westing had joined the little gathering. “Ah! My good friend Westie—I was just telling everyone here that—”
“I heard,” interrupted Westing with a smile that seemed just a shade too bright. “So, you’re a free man once more?”
The way he said it nettled. Lucas drew out his next words for emphasis: “I was never not free.” Scowling, he snatched up the bottle and poured yet more liquor into his glass. Or, rather, tried to. For some damnable reason, the precious amber fluid seemed to be pouring out all over the tray instead of where he wanted it to go. Cursing, he decided it was better to just take his painkiller straight from the bottle.
But before he could manage to get it up to his lips, Westing had gently pried it from his hand.
“I say,” Lucas objected, grabbing for it. His effort was in vain, however, for his friend only moved it just out of reach again. “Can a man not drown his woes in peace among friends without some busybody interfering?”
“Certainly, he may,” agreed Westing, his manner jovial. “As I’m your oldest friend, I claim the right to host the next toast. Come, let us go to my house and continue the party there.”
Feeling rebellious and unwilling to be manipulated—he wasn’t that drunk yet—Lucas merely crossed his arms and stared him down. “I should like my brandy back, if you please.”
“Give the man back his liquor,” said one of his other friends, snickering. “If anyone has earned the right to drink himself under the table, it’s Blackthorn.”
Another muttered just loud enough to be heard, “Indeed, for he’s just lost the love of his life—or, ‘loves’ rather, as in both of them.”
Lucas froze as soft snorts and quickly stifled snickers broke out all around him. Turning, he identified the owner of the voice that had uttered the slander. He might be drunk, but he could still throw a bloody punch.
And he did.
All hell broke loose. Fists flew indiscriminately, curses were shouted, and furniture was smashed. Lucas saw it all through a red haze, feeling—despite the pain blossoming in his jaw and nose—as if he were watching from outside himself. All the rage he’d stuffed down inside, he now poured into each meeting of knuckles with flesh. He reveled in it until all coherent thought fled.
The next thing he knew, Lucas found himself in Westing’s carriage, facing his friend, who was holding a bloodstained kerchief to his nose and glaring at him. “Oh, God,” he groaned as the blessed blanket of numbness that had cloaked him was abruptly ripped away when the carriage hit a rut and nausea threatened to unman him.
“Don’t you dare,” growled Westing, his voice sounding nasally. “If you must empty your stomach, you do it outside my carriage.”
Too sick to feel embarrassed, Lucas lunged for the carriage door and opened it just enough to put his head out. Just in time, too. When he’d finished turning himself inside out, he shut the door and dragged himself into a sitting position on the floor beside it, leaning his head against the seat he’d just vacated. He took inventory as best he could without a mirror. He hurt. His lip felt split, his nose was either broken or badly bruised, and his left eye ached abominably. Several places on his body did, too. “How bad is it?”
Westing let out an indignant snort, then cursed roundly as another gout of blood ran from his nose. “If you think I look bad, you should see yourself. You won’t be winning any prizes for beauty anytime soon, I’m afraid. Charlotte is going to kill me,” he groaned. “When her parents hear about this, it will be the end of our courtship, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry.” But then his temper made another attempt to rise. “You did not have to defend me, you know.”
The look Westing leveled at him was scathing. “Oh, bollocks, man. If I had not, you would be lying in the gutter right now, beaten senseless and possibly left for dead.”
Quiet shame filled him. Shame for how he’d treated his truest friend. Shame for having been so stupid. “I thought they were my friends.” His mind replayed the words that had broken him. Diana had been right—which made him feel no better at all.
“Broomfield is an arse, and everyone knows it,” offered Westing.
“He only said what they were all thinking—what the whole of London doubtless thinks.”
“I don’t believe that to be true. Several of our comrades back there fought on your side.”
“Wonderful. Except that I don’t know who was fighting who,” Lucas countered sourly. He couldn’t take offense at Westing’s chuckle, because it really was funny. “I’m such an idiot.”
“That you are, my friend. But we are all fools in love.”
Oh, how Lucas wished he could take it all back. Now everyone would know he’d been the world’s greatest dupe. “What will you do about Charlotte?”
Westing shrugged, his expression dismal. “Throw myself upon her parents’ mercy, I suppose?”
“Elope.” He said it without thinking, but in truth it seemed like not such a bad idea.
“I beg your pardon?” said Westing, his eyes widening.
“You love her, correct?” He saw the other man nod a little. “Then fetch her tonight and take her to Gretna Green. Don’t overthink it. Don’t wait. Just do it.”
“But she’ll want a wedding and—”
“If she loves you, I think she’d rather have you than a fancy wedding with some other man waiting for her at the altar.”
Westing’s gaze narrowed. “I thought you did not believe in love?”
The only thing that kept Lucas from curling in on himself and letting out his pain was the brandy still coursing through his veins. It wasn’t enough to numb him, but it was enough to let him keep a shred of dignity. “Love is for people like you, Westie. Not people like me. You are good and kind and loyal. Me? I’m just a selfish hedonist and a gambler. I pushed to get what I wanted, and it has landed me exactly where I deserve to be.”
The look on Westing’s face shifted. “You want my advice? Go after your Diana. To hell with Harrow. If he calls you out, I’ll second you.”
Lucas tried to offer him a smile in thanks, but his swelling lip prevented it. “There are numerous reasons why that would be a terrible idea. Reasons I cannot reveal, even to you. It’s over, Westie. She’s gone, and I’ll never get her back. In truth, she was never really mine. It’s better off this w
ay. For both of us.”
Chapter Eighteen
Diana threw down her paper and tried with no appetite to nibble at the toast Francine had brought her. London was rife with scandal heaped upon scandal. A week had passed, and still all of London was talking about the terrific row in which Lucas had attacked several of his old friends.
It wasn’t hard to guess why he’d been throwing his fists about.
As Harrow had predicted, no one dared directly broach the subject of his falling out with his mistress and his newest friend, but he’d reported the looks he’d been getting whenever he went out as “telling.” The few people he’d confided in—purposely—about the whole unsavory affair had set about industriously spreading a tale of his anger at having been betrayed. The reason he’d given for not calling out Blackthorn was that he could hardly blame the man for having fallen prey to her skilled seduction. Thus had the blame been shifted from Blackthorn’s shoulders to hers—which was exactly what she wanted.
Theirs was not the only scandalbroth brewing in London, however. Rumor had it that Lucas’s erstwhile comrade, Lord Westing, had disappeared the day after pulling his friend from the fight—as had the young lady to which he’d been paying court. They’d been missing for several days now, and it was widely accepted that they’d gone to Scotland.
Diana was glad, both for the young couple and for the much-needed distraction from her and Harrow. Now, however, the spyglass would once again focus on them, for they were due to have their first public disagreement. They’d spent the first few days after their shock sequestered in their respective houses, cancelling all appointments and calls. The two parties they’d attended together since then had been painfully awkward—deliberately so. Harrow had pretended coldness toward her, and she’d pretended resentment. Tonight would be damned uncomfortable, but it had to be done.
When they arrived at the ball it was no surprise that eyes followed them everywhere. Harrow’s instructions had been clear. She was to remain glued to his arm the whole evening—and he would resolutely ignore her.
It was working beautifully until she saw Lucas staring down at her from the gallery.
“What is it?” hissed Harrow, stopping along with her involuntary pause.
“He’s here.”
His gaze followed hers up to where his supposed rival stood. “Come,” he said tersely, pulling her back into motion. He led her out of the other man’s line of sight before stopping. “Don’t worry. This can only work to our advantage. Change of plans. In a little while, I’m going to leave you to talk with one of my friends. If Blackthorn comes to you, let him. I’ll step in after a few moments and pull you away before anything truly untoward can occur. You must object—tell me you’re not a child or something to that effect—and then we’ll improvise until we can circle back to what we rehearsed.”
Nodding, she agreed. Her pulse was racing, her skin felt too hot, and her head light. Just get through this. It will all be over soon, and then you can go home. Home. I should not be thinking of it in such terms anymore.
Her home was now a tiny village far to the north, almost in Scotland. Soon, she would leave everything behind. Again. Only it felt far worse this time. There would be no Harrow or René there to talk to and ease her loneliness. There would be no Lucas to share her innermost thoughts with and set her aflame with his touch.
These thoughts made her want to cry, but she couldn’t afford that luxury quite yet. Stiffening her spine, she nodded. Nerves on edge, she waited.
When Lucas finally found his way to her, she gasped at the fading purple and yellow bruises on his face.
“It’s not as awful as it looks,” he said in greeting. “I believe the other fellow looks much worse.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, staring at him. “Why torture us both when you know there is no other way?”
His brows pinched, but he offered her a faint, lopsided smile. “Torture? Why would I consider this torture? You’re nothing to me.”
She jerked as if he’d slapped her across the face, and tears sprang into her eyes. She had no words to counter the pain he’d just inflicted. None at all. She just stood there, feeling like a giant hole had been punched through her chest where her heart had once been.
Fortunately, Harrow was as good as his word and came to her rescue before it could become any more awkward. “I thought we made a gentlemen’s agreement,” he said to Lucas in the chilliest of tones. “You vowed to stay away from her.”
“So I did,” said Lucas in the same flinty manner. “I cannot help it if we are both in attendance at the same ball. We’re bound to cross paths. Or perhaps you’d like to meet in private to compare our schedules so we can ensure this does not happen again?” he added sarcastically.
Diana heard his words as though from far, far away, drowned out by the blood whooshing in her ears. Dizziness swept over her in a great wave, the room tilted, and all went dark.
When she opened her eyes, it was to see Harrow bent over her, his face lined with worry.
“Here,” he said, helping her sit up a little and pressing the rim of a glass to her mouth.
Cool water bathed her tongue and slid down her throat. Her head was pounding. She closed her eyes again, but her lids shot open only a moment later. “Lucas?” Her voice sounded cracked, as though she’d not used it in a week.
“Gone,” he answered, again helping her drink. “He left a few minutes ago after helping me bring you in here.”
Confusion made her scowl at her surroundings. They were in an unfamiliar parlor. “He helped you?”
“Indeed. Damned stupid thing to do, too, but I could not dissuade him. I think I was lucky he allowed me to carry you.” At her askance look, he continued. “You fainted. I’ve sent for a doctor to examine you.”
“A doctor?” She tried to sit up and suffered a wave of nausea. Gasping, she braced herself on the edge of the couch and bowed her head, willing the room to stop moving. “Why? I only fainted. I suppose I should have eaten something before coming here, but I was too nervous.”
“No doubt, but the lump on the back of your head bears looking at,” he said drily. “It probably hurts like the devil, but at least it’s on the outside. I was quite worried for a while when you failed to awaken.”
She muttered something like an agreement, but her thoughts, hazy as they were, were elsewhere. If she truly meant nothing to Lucas, then why had he stayed?
…
He’d regretted his ill-chosen words the instant they’d left his foolish mouth. Yes, he’d wanted to hurt her, but he’d thought it an impossible task after her lack of reaction that day at Harrow’s house. Not so, apparently.
She loved him. He’d seen it in her eyes. And he’d probably just killed that love.
London’s streets passed by his carriage window, but he saw nothing of them. All he could see was her face and the pain etched upon it. That had been right before Harrow had stepped in like a wrathful avenging angel to fend him off. Right before her lashes had fluttered against her white cheeks and she’d gone down.
The resounding crack as her head had hit the marble floor had all but stopped his heart and would haunt him forever. He’d only left once she started to show signs of coming ’round.
What a damnable mess he’d made of things. He’d probably ruined whatever plan they’d been enacting tonight. Even so, he couldn’t help the tiny spark of joy that flared to life from knowing she loved him.
You’re a damned fool. He knew it and didn’t care. Everything he’d ever considered an absolute where women were concerned had been set on its ear. She’d sacrificed her own happiness to spare him being caught up in what would undoubtedly be the most damaging scandal in a decade. It didn’t matter that she’d done it to save her friends, as well. Love—for them and for him—had been at the root of her actions. She’d put them all before herself when she could’ve simply cut and run. Her loyalty shamed him, and though it hurt to be on the wrong end of it, he couldn’t help admirin
g her all the more.
Hot prickles stung his neck at the thought of his family’s reaction when it became clear he intended to continue their relationship. Father may never forgive me. Mother certainly won’t. But he couldn’t bear the thought of being without Diana. Tomorrow, he’d write Harrow and ask after her health, social consequences be damned.
On arriving home, he found his housekeeper all in a dither, requesting a private moment with him in his office. Perplexed, he ushered the woman in and bade her sit and be at ease as he closed the door.
She politely refused and at once drew from her pocket a letter—an opened letter. “I’m sorry to be disturbing you, my lord, but I felt you had better see this at once.”
He took it from her, frowning. “What is this? Who is it from?”
“You should read it,” she said quietly, nodding at the note in his hand. “I found it in Anne’s room—she was sent to the market this morning and has yet to return. I was worried—one of the other girls said she’s been seeing a beau—so I went into her room to make certain she’d not run off and left us. I found that on the floor beside her bed. I can only guess she must have dropped it.”
The way her gaze slid away told him otherwise, but he let it go in favor of opening the letter to scan its contents. What he read made his blood run cold. “How long has Anne worked for me?”
“A few weeks, my lord. I hired her to replace Gertrude.”
Bloody hell. He tucked the letter into his pocket. “I want to know the instant she returns. You’re to say nothing to her. Just come and get me. I don’t care about the hour.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course, my lord.”
When she left, he again pulled out the letter to read it over once more. Now he knew whose spying eyes had discovered their trysts and whose lips had told the papers about them; it’d been one of his own servants. What he didn’t understand was why.
Lucas couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to, such was his anxiety by the time the housekeeper returned several hours later to inform him the girl, Anne, had returned and was back in her room. He dispatched the housekeeper and two footmen to escort her down.