In effect, he was obsessed by the fact he was obsessed. Christ.
“Sayer!”
Sayer’s head appeared around the corner. “Yes, my lord?”
“Are you distilling the brandy?”
“I’ve had to send for a new bottle.” Sayer paused. “You finished the last one, my lord.” His head disappeared.
Adam didn’t need his valet’s significant pause to remind him of how much alcohol he’d consumed lately. Especially today—his wedding day. He’d been drinking steadily since he’d retired to his study, where he was allegedly seeing to important business. Business comprised of pacing and trying to get his rampaging lust under some semblance of control. He needed to stop imagining his new wife without clothing before he made an even greater fool of himself.
Even more important, he needed to stop imagining that other men were imagining her without clothing. Just because Adam could not think of her in any other way did not mean the entire male populace was mentally undressing her. If he could not get his jealous impulses under control, his social calendar would be filled with early morning appointments on Hampstead Heath.
Lust and jealousy. Adam snorted, what a delightfully lowering combination. Would he complete his transformation to callow youth by sporting high collars, wasp-waisted coats, and festooning himself with fobs and seals?
Adam groaned as the object of his obsession flashed into his mind and he stiffened, all over. He scrubbed his offending appendage roughly, as if that would somehow scour away his bothersome thoughts.
His lust would abate after he got the bedding out of the way. That was the way it had been in the past when it came to his amours. Although perhaps he’d never been quite so consumed before. He dismissed the worry. By this time tomorrow he would be back to his normal self. He would make sure of it.
Adam closed his eyes at the soothing notion and relaxed. He’d almost drifted off when a horrible thought slammed into him. Water flooded over the side of the tub and fanned across the white marble floor as he struggled to sit up.
Good God. What if bedding her once only made his obsession worse?
* * *
Mia’s splendidly handsome husband was drunk. She glanced about the enormous formal dining room and repressed a sigh. Not that it mattered if he was unfit for conversation. The only way to talk would be to bellow over the monumental floral arrangement that dominated the center of the twenty-foot table. It was less an assortment of cut flowers and more an impenetrable hedge of vegetation that seemed to have sprouted from the table itself.
Eight footmen descended on the table to set out multiple courses that consisted of at least a half dozen offerings. Gamble was among the men waiting at the table, conspicuous in his ducal livery, a gold and green dragonfly buzzing among seven black and silver.
Mia glanced from the handsome young footman to her husband and found his eyes boring through her. He was paler than usual, the only color two slashes of crimson on his cheekbones, like cuts from a knife. He’d been watching her with a sullen intensity since the moment she entered the room and had, no doubt, noticed her examination of Gamble.
She leaned to the side and smiled around the carnivorous-looking floral display. “My rooms are quite lovely, my lord. Did you have them decorated recently?” she shouted.
He tipped back his head and drained fully half his glass of wine.
Mia’s eyes widened. Good Lord.
“You must give your compliments to Hill. He is responsible for all of it. It was done two years ago, after the death of my mother.” His voice was as cold and unemotional as ever. Perhaps he was not as intoxicated as she assumed. Or maybe food would halt the process.
He glanced down at his untouched plate and pushed it aside.
Or perhaps not.
“Have you only the one sibling, my lord?” Mia almost laughed after the question left her mouth. They were married and yet she had no idea how many brothers and sisters he had. What must their silent audience think of such an asinine conversation?
Judging by the contemptuous twist of his lips, her new husband was thinking something similar.
“Yes, my sister, Jessica. She is the younger by three years.”
The footman hovering behind him refilled his glass. The marquess glanced down and his expressive brows hooked, as if he was surprised to discover his glass had required filling.
Mia wondered if he typically consumed such quantities of alcohol. The frown he gave his newly replenished glass suggested he was wondering the same thing.
“Your sister lives at Exham Castle?”
“Yes.”
“With your daughters.”
“Yes.”
When it was clear they’d once again devolved to monosyllables, Mia gave her attention to her plate.
She ate.
He drank.
The clinking of cutlery filled the silence.
“Jessica and my eldest daughter, Catherine, assist the governess with Eva and Melissa.” The dense hedge of greenery muffled his words. “Jessica is of a retiring disposition and does not often venture out into society. She has not come back to London since her only Season some years ago.” His expression was a trifle dazed, as though he’d stunned himself with this veritable flood of information.
“Will Catherine make her come-out next Season?”
The marquess stared stonily at her, as if Mia had asked whether his eldest daughter had plans to take up bear-baiting in Hyde Park. He took a drink and glared at the arrival of more dishes. “There are no such plans.”
Why would such a man not want to give his daughter a Season? And why was she wondering about such a thing? His daughters were none of her concern. He was marrying her for an heir, not to present his daughters, something she would be woefully inexperienced at, in any case. She was marrying him to escape, and, if she was completely honest with herself, because she wished to have him as a lover. All her life she’d given sexual pleasure and never received it. Mia studied her attractive, drunk husband and wondered if that would continue to be the case.
She helped herself to a portion of trout before steering the conversation in a less contentious direction. “You mentioned on our ride in the park you enjoy card games. Which games do you prefer?”
The marquess scrutinized her for an almost insultingly long moment before answering.
“Yes, I have an affinity for cards.”
Mia gave up waiting for more and cut another slice of fish. The food at her husband’s table was superior to her father’s, so the marquess obviously cared about such matters—even though he did not appear to be a great eater. She ate a piece of fish and took a sip of a particularly exquisite wine.
“Do you enjoy playing cards?”
Mia’s head jerked up at the question; was that a slight slurring she detected?
“My brother taught me cribbage and piquet, both of which I enjoy, although I am not very skilled. I am used to chess and Zamma.”
“Zamma?” He sounded interested for the first time that evening, perhaps even that day.
“Yes, it is played on a board with stones or beads. You may have heard it referred to as Hunt and Capture?”
“Hunt and Capture,” he repeated, his lips curling into an odd smile. “No, I have not heard of it. I am partial to games. Perhaps you will teach me Zamma?” Mia was rendered speechless by this unprecedented display of ... anything. As if determined to stupefy her with his garrulousness, he continued, “I enjoy chess with the right opponent. It is a demanding game; the requirement of seeing so many moves ahead is challenging. Many players become too attached to their pieces and are unable to sacrifice something important in order to lure their opponent into a fatal indiscretion. You say you enjoy the game?”
Mia knew he was not talking about chess. What had she done or said to give him the idea she was playing games with him? Whatever it was, she needed to stop doing it.
“I like chess very much, my lord.”
“Are you a challenging opponent?”
“We must play and you may judge for yourself.”
He signaled for the footman to remove his untouched plate and then turned to his refreshed glass, evidently finished with the conversation.
The meal was the longest of her life. Her husband’s determined drinking mediated against conversation, as did the dozen or so servants milling between them. As the daughter of a duke, Mia was accustomed to formal dining. But even at Carlisle House they dined with less pomp when it was only family. His icy manner remained unchanged but she detected a slight sway to his posture. Was he a dipsomaniac or merely avoiding taking her to bed for some reason?
By the end of the meal she was exhausted and the marquess was beyond drunk, no matter how well he hid it. After the last dish was cleared, Mia debated the wisdom of leaving him to his port. But then she met his flat stare. He wanted her to leave.
Mia stood and the marquess stood with her, bracing himself with two hands on the dining table.
“I shall retire to my chambers, my lord.” She refused to wait for him in the solitude of some cavernous sitting or drawing room. If he wanted her, he could come to her bedchamber.
Chapter Eleven
Adam exhaled after the door closed, as if he’d been holding his breath for the past hour instead of pouring prodigious amounts of alcohol down his throat. The tray of port had somehow materialized in front of him. He motioned to the footmen flanking the door.
“You may finish clearing later.”
Once the room was empty he slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The view above him was a baroque extravaganza, some forgotten artist’s rendering of Velazquez’s Triumph of Bacchus. The young god wore little more than a crown of grape leaves and a bemused frown, as though he’d been waylaid by rambunctious revelers rather than the other way around. Those who flanked him bore the inebriated leers of men who would have whopping headaches in the morning. Men like Adam.
He closed his eyes. “You bloody fool.” The words were more than a little slurred. The result of most of a bottle of brandy, Lord knew how much wine, and an almost empty stomach. And all of it had been for nothing.
The naked truth was that he was terrified of bedding his wife. Not of the act, of course. No, he was relentlessly hard for that. Not to mention disturbingly eager. Where would such an intense yearning lead? If he’d felt this way about Veronica, he certainly didn’t recall it.
Not that it mattered how he felt. He doubted he could even find his wife’s bedchamber at this point, and he wouldn’t be any good to her if he did. Besides, she had probably barred the door and wouldn’t admit him after his behavior tonight.
He groaned. The entire day had been a disaster, and he was its architect. He’d wanted to establish his self-control in their marriage right from the start with distance and formality. Instead, he’d behaved like the selfish, cold, inhuman monster society believed him to be. Not to mention a disgusting drunk.
He must have been mad to marry again; were not two disastrous, infamous marriages enough? How, in God’s name, would this one end?
Adam grabbed the glass of port and threw it back in one swallow. It only made him feel sicker and he pushed away the bottle to resist any further temptation. Pushing his thoughts away wasn’t quite as easy.
When was the last time he’d consumed so much alcohol? University? He lowered his head into his hands and squeezed his pounding temples. He’d not become a drunken sot the entire time he’d been married to Veronica. Not even after the horror of her death had he needed to suffocate his pain with drink. In fact, he’d felt no pain—or anything at all by the end of it.
He’d always assumed that was because Veronica had stolen away his ability to feel bit by bit—a little love here, some joy there—she’d even taken emotions like sadness, fear, and shame. Ultimately, she’d taken everything and left him riddled with holes. Empty gaps he’d filled with pride, contempt, and arrogance, until he’d become the man society thought he was: an inhuman monster who’d ruthlessly done away with two wives.
A bitter smile twitched at the thought of his second wife, who technically did not qualify for the title of wife. Poor, poor Sarah. While Veronica had done her best to capture his attention and drive him insane, Sarah had only wanted to escape his notice—and him. Adam filled his glass and lifted it in a silent toast to his unfortunate second wife and their very short-lived marriage. He tipped back the glass and then hurled it at the far wall. It exploded with a sharp pop and he blinked at the glittering shards on the floor. That had been foolish. Now he would need to drink from the bottle.
Sarah had come and gone quickly, her departure far more noticeable than her actual presence in his life. Veronica, on the other hand, had left none of his family unscathed. For all his wealth and power, Adam had been helpless to shield the people he loved any more than he’d been able to shield himself. Everyone had suffered because of his lack of judgment—his daughters most of all. Had he just committed the same offense again? Had he allowed desire for a woman to plunge his family into Hell?
Even in his drunken, self-pitying state he knew that was unfair. Euphemia Marlington had done nothing to inspire such fears. It was his own enfeebled character that seemed to be unraveling the more he saw of her. He owed her an apology.
Adam tried to read the time on the longcase clock that stood only a few feet away but couldn’t focus. He fumbled for his watch. Even holding it two inches from his face, he couldn’t read it. His face became hot with shame. He was too damn drunk to read his own watch and he’d abandoned his bride on her wedding night. His hand crept toward the port and this time he didn’t stop it.
* * *
Mia woke with a start and sat bolt upright. She blinked and looked around, trying to recall where she was. As her vision became less blurry and her brain less sleep-addled she remembered she was in her new chambers at Exley House. It was her wedding night, the only one she’d ever had; Babba Hassan had not married his concubines.
She looked down at her now-rumpled clothing. She’d instructed LaValle to dress her in a lovely confection of pale green lace. What a waste. Mia dropped her head back onto the pillow. Evidently, Exley really was as bored as he appeared. The man had forgotten her existence before even bedding her. She told herself that was just as well. It was better that he never came near her at all. That way there would never be the slightest danger of a child.
Mia clasped her hands over her stomach and waited for that argument to become more persuasive. But the only thing that sank in was anger. How dare he neglect her like this, especially when she burned for him—or at least his body?
She gave a growl of frustration. What a fool she was, lusting for a man who was so clearly damaged. But also so very, very intriguing.
Her bedside clock read almost three o’clock. Fueled by emotions she didn’t want to examine, she rose and put on her dressing gown before stalking to the door that led to her husband’s bedchamber. She tapped softly. The door jerked open and she gave a squeak of surprise.
Not her husband, but a servant, stood before her.
“Yes, my lady?” the reserved-looking man inquired.
“You are Lord Exley’s valet?” It was a stupid question.
“Yes, my lady.”
Mia refused to feel any embarrassment. She would leave that to her husband.
“Has Lord Exley left the house?”
“I believe he is still in the dining room, my lady.”
“Does he sleep there often?” she snapped, annoyed by the man’s aloofness, which was so similar to his employer’s.
He coughed. “No, my lady.”
She planted a hand on each hip. “Is it a de Courtney family tradition for grooms to spend their wedding nights in the dining room?”
The valet colored. “I do not believe so, my lady.” He paused. “I’m afraid I cannot say why His Lordship is still in the dining room. He sent me away earlier and requested me not to disturb him.”
“Come with me.” Mia stormed past h
im, not bothering to see if he followed. She flew down two flights of cold marble stairs in her bare feet, marched past rooms she’d not yet been inside, and flung open the dining room door before the valet could reach it and open it for her.
The Marquess of Exley sat in the same seat he’d occupied at dinner. His head, instead of an untouched plate of food, rested on the table before him. Loud, sawing snores filled the room.
Mia let out a stream of crudities in three languages and the valet jolted beside her. “Fetch some help,” she ordered.
The valet left and Mia went to her husband, noting the glitter of broken glass on the far side of the room. She brushed back the dark lock of hair that hung over his cheek. There was a rather large scratch on his forehead and she wondered how he’d hurt himself.
Rough bristles scratched her hand and she smiled at the masculine friction.
“My lord?”
His eyes fluttered open, his expression sleepily confused as she stroked his face, feathering away the lines that radiated out from his drowsy eyes.
His lips curved. “Mia?”
Mia started. She couldn’t have said which stunned her more, his unexpected use of her diminutive name or the sweet smile. Who was this man? He looked nothing like her condescending husband.
“Go back to sleep, my lord,” she counseled, sliding her hand beneath his cravat and rubbing his neck. His muscles were hard and knotted, like rocks beneath the hot silk of his skin.
He muttered something unintelligible and his face went slack with pleasure, and, no doubt, alcohol. He closed his eyes and resumed snoring.
“My lady?”
Mia had been so intent, she hadn’t noticed the valet’s return. A large footman stood beside him.
“Please take him to his room.” Mia stepped aside to let the men do their work.
Exley appeared slim, but he was solid muscle, sinew, and bone and the two men were gasping for breath by the time they took him up several flights of stairs and finally deposited him on his bed.
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