Chapter Nineteen
FOUR. TWO. FIFTEEN.
THE numbers changed, but the comfort he found in their repetition remained constant. Turning over, repeating, they burned his mind like a brand and brought him some ease, when nothing else did.
Sprawled in an uncomfortable chair, an almost empty bottle of wine propped against his thigh, the numbers swirled as Malvern stared at the tattered remnants of debauchery strewn about him. Vague memories of the previous night and the ones before it drifted before him, of moans and sighs and flashes of colour amidst bare flesh.
Lifting the bottle, Malvern took a long pull of the liquid. The wine had long since lost its taste, leaving only a trail of sourness in its wake. Grimacing, he wiped his mouth, his gaze locked on the thin stream of light the heavy curtains couldn’t quite contain. It had travelled across the floor in the last hour, almost reaching the wall opposite. Mayhap in the next hour it would realise its goal.
And so it was he had attended yet another salacious event in which he’d neglected to participate. Was it four or five gatherings Barton had dragged him to? He’d had little interest in all of them, to the point where he ended each as he had ended this, slouched in a chair with a bottle of wine and far from all hedonistic revels. His reputation, delicate flower that it was, would suffer horrendously at such poor maintenance.
Somewhere, a clock chimed the beginning of a new hour. As he stared at the shard of light on the floor, the numbers in his head shifted, changed form. Now they were four, two, sixteen.
This was what his life had been brought to, this orgy of excess. He’d not seen the inside of Malvern House for over a month, had instead caroused with little concern as to his shelter as long as it was nowhere near the study that held too many memories. He had drunk a river of wine, consumed an ocean of brandy, and he’d even tried the drug Barton claimed would cure him of his ills. The opium had made him maudlin, so much so that he’d said her name. By all accounts, he’d screamed it.
He had not tried the opium again.
This latest event Barton had brought him to was held in some godforsaken country house ensconced somewhere near the town of Maidenhead. A smile devoid of humour twisted his lips. Some lackwit had obviously thought the irony of overwhelming amusement. It had begun promisingly enough, with a bevy of beautiful whores displaying their talents, charming and flirting and being the most entertaining they could possibly be. He was yet man enough to enjoy the view of a beautiful woman.
It had all become unstuck when the orgy had begun in earnest. Pairs, trios, even quartets had begun their game, some not waiting for the privacy of a bedchamber before engaging in their practices. Putting off all who’d tried to entice with some nonsense about voyeurism, he’d steadily consumed his wine, detachment growing within him as he’d watched those he’d deemed contemporaries cavort.
The next day had begun and ended the same. And the next. And the next. Last night, Barton had attempted to pique his interest with talk of twins and some trick that had to be seen to be believed. Indifference, his companion these last months, spread familiar through him and though he allowed himself to be led down to the stage where the twins would perform, he could not summon the desire to remain through their act. Halfway through, one twin snaked about the other, he’d left and found this room, empty of all but the debris of pleasure.
Now sunlight, weakened by heavy drapes, cast long shadows about the room, the shroud-like gloom suiting his dark mood. He watched as that gash of intense light cut across the floor, illuminating the faded carpet and slicing through a discarded goblet. For now, he held grim thanks no one had disturbed him during the night. The room had been occupied before him, and no doubt would again when he left. None would notice his presence, nor his absence. The thought summoned a laugh from him, humourless though it might be.
And so, all continued as it ever had, these last four months, two days, and sixteen hours.
A raucous shout, a sudden bang, and the door burst open. Barton lurched into the room, a stupid grin plastered on his face.
Malvern swallowed a curse, and with it the bile that rose to his throat. Every time he saw Barton, he was reminded of the man’s part at La Belle Jeune Fille Pieuse. Barton’s continued company had become his pathetic attempt at punishment for the damage he had wrought. Barton was, of course, wholly unaware of his role in Malvern’s self-flagellation and now stumbled across the room, his grin widening as he realised he had found what he sought.
“Malvern!” Barton’s boisterous exclamation reverberated around the room, skittering along his spine and setting his hackles to rise. “Here you are. I thought you’d left and missed….” Confusion darkened Barton’s brow. Then, as he remembered, his face brightened. “The twins! Did you see them? Hammond, the lucky bastard, scored their services in the end, but not before we all got a bloody good show.”
Malvern remained silent.
Barton frowned again, obviously stymied by the lack of response. Not long deterred, with a shrug he cast his gaze about the room, brows raising at its dishevelled nature. “Never say you’ve stayed here all night.”
“Very well.” Malvern’s grip tightened on the bottle. What business was it of Barton’s where he spent the night? If he chose to remain ensconced in a dank room with no more than a bottle for company, that was his own concern.
“Damnation. You did stay here, didn’t you? One of the finest house parties in the country and you stayed—alone I might add—in this room. I cannot believe you did not partake of the festivities. Do you know how exclusive this place is, what it took to wrangle these invitations?”
Clearly he’d rattled Barton. He found he didn’t much care. “To whom do you think you speak? To gain entry, you merely had to mention my name.”
A quick grin flitted across Barton’s features. “True, true. You have a marvellously useful reputation, which you are ruining by remaining here. Come. We could rustle up some entertainment, I’m sure of it. I spied a dark-haired lass whom would suit my bonds quite well.”
“I’m not in the mood for sport.” Surely the bottle should shatter beneath his grip. “Go dally with your whore and leave me be.”
Barton’s grin dimmed a little. “Come now, don’t be like that. We’ve always had fun, you and I. With that dark-haired girl, we could have it again.”
Why was Barton insisting on his company? They’d never been the greatest of companions. On occasion, they’d found themselves engaged in the same debauchery, at the same venue, with the same whore. Barton’s proclivities had been amusing for a time, his penchant for bondage and domination games of some interest in an unending sea of vice. But Malvern had grown bored of that too, and their acquaintance had dwindled. Until they’d met again at the orgy he’d taken Eliza—
Barton. Think only of him. Why was he acting so affable? The man had never undertaken anything without the right enticement. Be it money or be it favours, always Barton was paid. When Malvern had arranged the display in La Belle, he’d offered him a substantial enticement, which the man had accepted without hesitation. However, to have him now attach himself without obvious merit, to have him playing at being a friend, there had to be an ulterior motive.
Of a sudden, Malvern realised what it had to be. “How much did Lydia Morcom pay you?”
Barton stilled. All foolishness disappeared and the man beneath the mask emerged, the man who would do anything for the right price.
“Enough,” Barton finally said.
“Enough.” Anger began a slow burn inside him, so different from the cold that had consumed him for so long. “What, exactly, comprises enough? Tell me, Barton, how much am I worth?”
No answer.
Malvern laughed, the rasp of it harsh in the quiet room. “It is exquisitely ironic, is it not? A whore paying an opportunist on a degenerate’s behalf. Come, what does that make we three?”
“Lydia was concerned, Malvern, as was I.” Barton’s face, so open only moments before, was now as unreadable as Malvern’s own. “You have not been yourself.”
“Aye, well, we who make our bed must lie in it.”
“You have not been yourself,” he repeated grimly. “And for what? For some insipid widow who has probably not thought twi—”
Barton choked, his eyes bulging. Malvern watched dispassionately, his grip tightening on the man’s throat. “You will not speak of her.”
Barton nodded wildly. Malvern released his grip, retreating to the chair he had no recollection of leaving. His hands shook. He’d been ready to kill Barton. Kill him for an insult she’d never hear.
“’Tis obvious you care for her. That little blonde.” Voice a harsh rasp, Barton cradled his throat. “Why do you not send for her?”
Malvern stared at his hands, the ones that had gripped Barton with such intent. “You saw. You know why.”
“You are right. I did see.” Compassion filled Barton’s voice. “She would forgive you.”
The hands before him blurred, becoming shapeless lumps of flesh and bone.
“Malvern.” Barton sighed. “I count you as a friend. Even without the money, I would have done what I could.”
Drawing composure like a shroud, Malvern fixed Barton with his stare. Disconcerting to most, and Barton was no different. “Friend? I, your friend? We’ve never been friends. Acquaintances only, you and I.”
All fell to silence as Barton studied him. “Is that what you told her?” he finally said.
Barton’s words conjured hers. She had said he pushed people away. She had said that he playacted, that he pretended. But it was only because Malverns didn’t have friends. They didn’t need them. They—
His father’s words, spewing hyperbole in his mind. The man had been dead for years, but his lessons had been learned too well. Too fucking well.
As if any other had never been, Barton’s face assumed that bemused, half-drunken expression once more. “Forgive me, Malvern. I speak of things best left unsaid. Never could stomach the opinions of others. Don’t know why I’m subjecting you to mine.” A grin stretched his mouth, almost foolish after the gravity of a moment ago. “I’m off to find that dark-haired lass, if you’re interested.” He sketched a bow and wandered out. The ghost of his voice echoed from the hall, a robust ditty to his dark-haired lass.
Malvern gripped the back of the chair, the remnants of Barton’s song reverberating through the room. With great care, he picked up the empty wine bottle, turning it carefully in his hands. The glass was cheap, probably made in some workhouse somewhere, imperfections and bubbles frozen into the finish. He balanced the bottle on its side, cushioned it in his hand.
And then, he hurled it against the wall.
The bottle smashed into myriad pieces, the sound of shattering glass discordant in the silence of the room. Gaze arrested by the crimson stain it left, he watched as a lone drop of wine separated from the mess, winding slowly ever down until it bled into nothingness.
Abruptly, he turned on his heel and quit the room.
Four months, two days, sixteen hours. He stalked through the halls, past fellow guests, past the debauchery, past everything he’d ever known.
Anger, regret, they followed him, trailing him as he strode outside, as bright sunlight pierced him, ripping away the pretence.
The pretence he didn’t miss Elizabeth.
He closed his eyes, halting in his mad stride to allow the sun to wash over him. Jesus, he felt the lack of her. Every day was a reminder she was not near, that he had pushed her away with lies and half-truths. In the months since their parting, he’d not seen her. He hadn’t expected to. Even if he hadn’t expended effort to ensure their paths never crossed, they moved in vastly different circles, she in her cosy life of family and friends, where parents cared for their children and drank eggnog at Christmas, embarrassing their offspring with tipsy banter.
He, of course, lived…this.
None of it, though, stopped his heart leaping to his throat when he saw a woman with her build, her hair. The last had been two weeks ago, on Bond Street. The woman had passed him by and it hadn’t been her. It never was.
No matter how he told himself it wouldn’t be she, he didn’t stop looking for her. Even as he did, he called himself a fool. She was gone and wouldn’t return. He had succeeded too well.
The sun blazed. Abandoning the open space, he found the shade of a tree, collapsing beneath it. Why had he done it? Why had he pushed her away? At the time, it had seemed right, necessary even. At the time, he had not known months without her, without her easy smile, her open affection, her questions. He’d not imagined the gaping hole inside him, the keen sense of loss nothing could fill.
This life, the life he’d lived before her, had never made him happy. Knowing little different, he’d imagined himself content. It had been life, and he’d gone through it, rising in the morning, retiring at night, the legacy of his father pushing him during the time between.
And thus he’d continued until he’d chanced upon Italy, until he’d succumbed to the seduction of simplicity. But he’d never been comfortable, always aware he was doing something against his father’s wishes, that if he’d known, his father would have dragged him back to London so fast his head would have spun. So in the end, not even the lure of simplicity could not keep him from the path his father had set him upon. His father had died and he’d assumed his mantle, as if Italy had never been. He’d fallen back into old habits, and even he couldn’t have said why. And so he would have continued but for her.
But for Elizabeth.
These last months, he had gone through the motions, had pretended he was the same. He had attended the debauches, had gambled and drank and pretended lust when he felt none. And all the while, he had wished himself back in his study. With Elizabeth.
Ploughing his hands through his hair, he hung his head, the bark of the tree biting into his back. Why had he allowed fear to rule him? Now, right now, he could have been with her; they could have been together and he would not feel this emptiness. If she were with him.
His head snapped upright. Of a sudden, everything became very clear. The house, the gravel on the ground, everything.
If she were with him. Fuck, he was an imbecile. True, he had pushed her away. True, he’d hurt her but true also—he had been wrong. Idiotically, crackbrained, stupidly wrong.
He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed, in his life. He wanted her, to the exclusion of everything else. Probably he had done everything to ensure she would never speak to him again, but that didn’t preclude him trying.
All this time he had wasted. All this time, he had bemoaned her loss, and all because he couldn’t face what he had done. He had done it. There was nothing for it now. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make it up to her. That didn’t mean he couldn’t beg her forgiveness.
It didn’t mean he couldn’t try.
Good god, he was moping like a fool. He deserved to lose her if he couldn’t get a hold of himself. He was the goddamn Earl of Malvern. He took what he wanted and laughed in the face of regret. Well, maybe not laughed as much as stared it down, but still.
A laugh did bubble at that thought, a proper laugh, a happy one. God, that was pure Elizabeth, that thought. That was her influence, on him.
He leaped to his feet and strode into the house to collect his belongings. Enough of this. He knew who he was. He knew what he wanted.
Now all that was left was to convince her she wanted it, too.