Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  Lord Pemerton's eyes had followed Wigan's to the shattered decanter and he now raised his black brows in question. "Heard you were in Town, Sedge," he said. "Heard you'd been drinking quite a lot. Hadn't heard you'd taken to smashing things."

  "Sit down, Jack." Sedge waved a slack arm toward a chair.

  Jack pulled the chair closer and set it at a right angle to Sedge's chair. Seating himself, he was forced to angle it away a bit in order to make more room, as Sedge was incapable just then of tucking in the long legs stretched out before him. "So," Jack said, settling back into the chair, "what happened?"

  "I broke the bloody decanter. So what?"

  "That's not what I mean," Jack said.

  "What, then?"

  "What really happened, Sedge?" his friend asked in a quiet, deep voice. "What's eating away at you?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Give over, Sedge. I've never seen you like this. You've seen me like this more times than I would wish."

  "Like what? Drunk, you mean?" He let out a mirthless crack of laughter. "Yeah, I've seen you drunk plenty of times. Plenty of times. You ain't here to preach to me, are you? 'Cause if you are, you can leave right now. I don't need preaching. Mary hasn't turned you up temperate, has she?"

  Jack laughed. "Not a chance. Too many years of dissipation to give it all up flat. In fact, if I may ..." He stood, moved to the side table, and gestured toward the row of decanters.

  Sedge fluttered a limp hand in a wave of dismissal. "Sorry, old man. Should have offered. Pour yourself a drink. Out of brandy at the moment, I'm afraid."

  Jack looked at the broken glass in the grate and nodded. He picked up one of the matching blue bottles and held it up to read the word Hollands written across the front in gold letters. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and replaced it in the silver holder. He then reached for one of the larger, clear etched glass decanters and held it up toward the light. There was no label on this one.

  "Claret" Sedge volunteered.

  Jack nodded again and poured himself a glass. Just then, Wigan returned with a new decanter of brandy. Sedge held out his glass and Wigan refilled it, his face puckered up in a scowl of disapproval. As the butler left the room, Sedge watched his retreating back with an irritated scowl of his own. Who the devil did the fellow think he was, anyway? Sedge did not have to put up with that sort of insolence. By God, he did not.

  Jack had resumed his chair. He took a long swallow of the red wine, and sighed with pleasure.

  "You gonna get drunk with me, then?" Sedge asked, grinning at his friend.

  "No."

  "You gonna preach at me?"

  "No." Jack kept his eyes on the shattered glass in the grate. "I was just wondering what got you mad enough to fling that decanter."

  Sedge snorted but did not reply.

  "Come on, Sedge. I owe you one, you know. Remember how you towed me out of Covent Garden and tried to shake some sense into my drunken head?"

  Sedge laughed. "What a mess you were, Jack."

  "Don't I know it. I was pretty miserable when Mary left me." He took another swallow of wine. "That's why I realize how you feel right now. Miserable." His brows knotted together as he stared into the fire, then raised slightly in concern as he looked over at Sedge. "I just don't know why."

  Sedge turned away, drained his glass, and stared into the fire.

  "Thought you might want to talk about it," Jack said. "Perhaps I can help in some way. I owe you that, Sedge."

  Sedge remained silent. Why did everyone have to harp at him? Why couldn't they all just leave him alone?

  "Tell me why you smashed the decanter, Sedge."

  "Because it reminded me of her!" he blurted without thinking.

  "Who?"

  Sedge shifted his stiff leg and crossed his ankles. Damn Jack, anyway, for poking his nose where it did not belong. "No one," he said.

  Jack bent to pick up a piece of broken glass and rubbed the smooth surface between his fingers. "No one, eh?" He turned the shard over and studied it. "No one in particular. No one with eyes the color of'—he paused as he held the blue glass up to the light—"sapphires, perhaps?"

  "Sherry."

  Jack looked at Sedge's empty glass and raised his brows in question. "You want some sherry?" he asked in an astonished voice.

  "No, no," Sedge replied impatiently. "Her eyes."

  "What?"

  "Her eyes. The color of sherry, not sapphires."

  "Ah." Jack leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Sherry- colored eyes. I see." He fingered the blue glass shard, furrowing his brows as he studied it, then looked at Sedge in question. Getting no response, he shrugged, tossed the shard back in the grate, and picked up his wineglass. He took a long swallow, then returned his gaze to the fire. His elbows rested on the arms of his chair and he absently tapped a finger on the rim of his glass. It was several moments before he broke the companionable silence.

  "And what about her hair?" he asked.

  Sedge had been conjuring up images of those sherry eyes, darkened and heavy-lidded just after he had kissed her. He expanded the image to include her hair. Unruly wisps escaping the severe knot at her nape and framing her face like a soft halo. How could he describe the color of Meg's hair? It was red, of course. But somehow that simple description did not suffice. He thought for a moment. "You know those cliffs down at your Devon estate?" he asked.

  "Pemworth? The cliffs at Pemworth?"

  "Yes. The red ones. Sort of that color."

  "Ah," Jack said. "Terra-cotta."

  "Yes, that's it. Like old Tudor brick. Like... like at Hampton Court, or some such place. Or... or maybe more like an October sunset. You know, all sort of fiery and bright?" Sedge's hands fluttered in circles around his own head as he struggled to describe Meg's hair. He caught Jack's eyes, flashing with amusement, and quickly dropped his hands.

  "So," Jack said, smiling broadly, "fiery red hair and sherry eyes. I am intrigued. What else?"

  Sedge's lips curled up into a grin. "You won't believe this, Jack. She's taller than you. Almost as tall as me."

  "Good God!"

  "With the longest, most beautiful legs you've ever seen."

  Jack threw back his head and laughed. "So, who is this no one in particular with red hair and sherry eyes and legs up to here?"

  And so Sedge, his tongue surprisingly loose, told his friend everything. Without having intended to do so, he found himself telling Jack all about his accident, his rescue by the fiery- haired angel, his recovery at Thornhill, and all that had happened with Meg.

  "She turned you down flat?" Jack shook his head in astonishment.

  "Just like that!" Sedge said as he reached over and snapped his fingers in front of Jack's face. "'I think you had better leave,' she said. Now what's a fellow to think of something like that, I ask you?"

  "And you have no idea what could have set her off?" Jack asked.

  "None."

  "Hmm. And you say that up until that moment she had been very receptive to your... your attentions?"

  "So I had thought," Sedge replied, staring into the bottom of his empty glass.

  "And you had thought that you ... that she was The One?"

  "God help me, I did." Sedge ran his fingers through his hair. "I did. What a bloody fool!"

  "Ah, don't be so hard on yourself, old man," Jack said. "Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not recall any other woman ever before affecting you this way. If you think she is The One, then she probably is. In which case, I would advise you not to give up just yet. Let her cool down. Then try again. Perhaps she was just playing coy, and wanted to be chased a bit, wooed a bit longer."

  "Not this woman."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Sedge slid deeper into his chair and groaned. "That's just it," he wailed. "I can't be! 'Pon my word, Jack, I shall never understand women!"

  Jack raised his glass in salute. "I'll drink to that."

  * * *

  Meg tossed an
d turned and could not seem to fall asleep. She pounded the pillow again, the thick, muffled sound an echo of her loneliness. How could she be lonely in this busy farm, with people coming and going every day? But the truth was, she was lonely for Sedge. She missed him. How could she have grown so used to him in so short a time? And what business did she have missing someone who had treated her so shabbily?

  Her head still told her to forget him, but her heart could not forget. She rolled to her side and hugged a pillow to her stomach, remembering his kiss. Maybe Terrence had been right after all. Perhaps she had never had the typical feminine sensibilities where men were concerned. But not once in all that time had a man stirred the feelings in her that Sedge had awakened. The memory of those feelings—warm, sensual, breathless, yearning for more—caused her body to relive them all over again. She hugged the pillow tighter and smiled against it. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, she had finally discovered what all the fuss was about.

  As quickly as those warm feelings were resurrected, an enormous sense of loss overwhelmed her. She choked on an unexpected sob, and tears began to course down her cheeks. She clutched the pillow more tightly against her breast and sobbed for what could never be. Meg had been shown a glimpse of the secrets of love; but that tantalizing glimpse was all she would ever know. For she had lost Colin Herriot, Viscount Sedgewick, the one man in all the world who could have taught her those secrets.

  But how could she lose what she had never possessed?

  Ah, but she could have had him. If only she had accepted his offer, she could have had him.

  Meg sat bolt upright in bed. Now, where had that notion come from? If she had accepted his offer. There was no question about accepting that hateful offer. Was there? No, of course not. She was being ridiculous. She sat back against the headboard, propping a pillow behind her head. To accept an offer such as Sedge had made was unthinkable for a young, gently bred female such as herself. Then, why had he made it? He should have known she could not accept. Shouldn't he? But perhaps such liaisons were more common among his social set. Perhaps she was simply too sheltered here at Thornhill to know how other people, more sophisticated people, went on. Still, it was not the sort of thing that Meg Ashburton could do. She could never live with herself if she agreed to such a tiling. Could she?

  That afternoon she had been strolling in the herb garden with her grandmother, and, as usual, Gram had turned the conversation to Lord Sedgewick.

  "I still cannot understand that young man," she had said, plucking off a leaf of Spanish lavender and rubbing it between her fingers. "The least he could have done was to make some kind of plans to see you again. I was so certain he was taken with you." She had brought the leaf, now fragrant with released oils, to her nose and sniffed. Smiling, she held it out for Meg. "Did he say nothing about seeing you again?"

  Meg held the lavender under her nose and nodded her appreciation. "Well, he did ask if I was coming to London for the Season," she said.

  Gram's eyes had lit up like candles. "He did? Well, then, we must go!"

  "I think not, Gram. You know how I feel about London. Besides, I told Lord Sedgewick that I would not be going."

  "Oh, my dear girl, are you so sure?"

  "Yes, Gram. You know I much prefer it here in the country."

  "I know, dear," Gram had said. "But Lord Sedgewick—"

  "You must get over this obsession with Lord Sedgewick, Gram. He is gone and will not be returning."

  Gram had looked at Meg with an expression of resigned sadness in her eyes that had almost broken Meg's heart. "I am sorry, my dear," Gram had said. "You are right, of course. He was a charming gentlemen, but there will be others." She had reached up and gently cupped Meg's cheek. "Someone else will come along."

  Gram's words rang in Meg's head as she burrowed herself more deeply into the stack of pillows.

  Someone else will come along.

  But Meg knew in her heart that no one else would come along. In twenty-four years no one else had come along. And even if they did, Meg knew that there was only one man she would ever want. Had wanted for over six years. One tall, lanky, blond-haired gentleman with a smile to turn a person's knees to jelly.

  And she could have had him. Perhaps she could still have him. If she accepted his terms. But how could she possibly do such a thing? She snuggled close against her pillow, imagining Sedge's arms around her, and wondered how she could not?

  She was six feet tall and firmly on the shelf. It was next to impossible to expect that she would ever receive an honorable offer of marriage at this stage of her life. Unless it was from some older, widowed gentleman who needed a nursemaid, or a mother for his children. How was that to be preferred to a less honorable but more passionate arrangement with a man who set her blood on fire and made her heart soar? How could a convenient match offering little more than occasional nights of decorous coupling compare to an arrangement with a man she loved, who wanted to hold her naked in his arms? To make love to her night and day? To reveal to her all the secrets she longed to know?

  Was it so horrible to want all these things? Was it better to live out her life alone, never knowing the fulfillment hinted at by Sedge's kisses? Even if that fulfillment came through an arrangement outside of marriage?

  Somehow, it was no longer a matter of whether she could live with herself if she accepted such an arrangement, but whether she could live with herself if she did not.

  When sleep finally overtook her, Meg had determined what she must do.

  The next morning at breakfast, she announced to Gram and Terrence that she had decided to go to London for the Season.

  Chapter 17

  Lord Pemerton opened the door of his town carriage and stepped out. He spoke briefly to his coachman, instructing him to return the carriage home to Hanover Square rather than wait for him. These long nights with Sedge were unpredictable. He never knew how long he would need to stay. Anyway, he could take a hackney later. Or perhaps he would walk home. It was an unusually warm night for late April, and Jack enjoyed a brisk walk.

  As the carriage pulled away, Jack turned and strode up the steps of Lord Sedgewick's town house. His lips pursed into a scowl as he noted the knocker was still removed. It could only mean that Sedge still sought peace at the bottom of a bottle. And, as Jack knew from personal experience, drinking alone was the worst sort of relief. No relief at all, in fact. Whatever miseries of the soul caused one to drink to excess in the first place were only amplified with each swallow.

  Jack hated to see Sedge in such a state. Of the three friends who had caroused together for years, Sedge was the least likely to have taken such a turn. Jack himself had been the most likely, and had in fact hit the rock bottom of despair and debauchery not all that many months ago. The contrast of that dreadful time and the joys of today was nothing short of incredible. Seven months of marriage to his Mary had brought him a contentment he had never thought possible.

  His own state of happiness made Jack ever more aware of Sedge's misery. Ever since his first visit, when Sedge had finally told him about Meg Ashburton, Jack had made a point of checking in with Sedge at least every other evening, trying desperately to lead him away from total dissipation, struggling for the right words to bring him out of his despair. So far, he had failed. Nothing he said seemed to make a difference. Jack had been able to do little more than offer Sedge a drinking companion, for it was clear he had no intention of giving up the bottle, or of venturing out into Society. So the best Jack could do was to keep him talking, for it meant he drank less.

  Night after night of talking and drinking had brought Jack no closer to wrenching Sedge out of the black despair into which he had sunk. Jack had alternately suggested that Sedge either try to forget Meg Ashburton or go back to her. But his friend did not seem capable of doing either. Jack knew all too well that the more one drank the harder it became to make any sort of decision, other than to pour one more drink. But Jack had continued to stop by Mount Street regularly, hoping t
hat at some point his friend would reach the end of his tether and begin to climb his way back out of the bottle.

  Tonight he was especially optimistic, for he had some news that he thought might jolt Sedge back to reality.

  Wigan answered Jack's knock with a look of relief in his eyes.

  "Good evening, my lord. Please come in."

  "How is he tonight, Wigan?"

  The butler hunched a shoulder in resignation. "A little worse, I am afraid. He has not come downstairs since yesterday."

  "Good Lord. You mean he hasn't left his bedchamber?"

  "No, my lord," Wigan replied. "Pargeter has been able to get him out of bed once or twice, but only to sit in a chair by the fire."

  "Has he eaten?"

  "Very little."

  "Well, perhaps I can coax him into sharing a tray with me," Jack said as the butler took his hat and gloves. "I will just go on up, if that is all right. Perhaps you can have a tray sent up? With a pot of hot coffee?"

  "Of course, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

  Jack charged up the stairs, more concerned than ever. It sounded as though Sedge's state of mind was deteriorating rapidly. If he didn't get out of that bed and out of that room soon, he might sink into a decline from which he would never recover.

  As Jack reached the landing on the second floor, he stopped in his tracks. What was that smell? He lifted his nose and drew a deep breath. Good God, he thought, choking back a cough. Smoke! What the devil?

  A terrible foreboding twisted Jack's stomach into a knot as he rushed toward Sedge's suite of rooms just on the left. He flung open the bedchamber door and was met by a wall of smoke and searing heat.

  Oh, my God, Sedge!

  Jack waved his arms about wildly to clear the smoke. "Sedge? Sedge?" he called out, unable to see much beyond the reach of his hand. When he received no response to his shout, he backed quickly out the doorway and poked his head into the corridor.

  "Wigan! Pargeter!" he shouted at the top of his voice, then broke into a spasm of coughing. "Come quickly!" he added when he was able to find his voice again. "Fire! Fire!"