Page 68 of Again, Scoundrel

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Alistair drank the whole of the day after Violet left and then the whole of that evening too, returning home only to see the sun ascending. He slept for a few restless hours on the settee in his study and then left to do it all over again.

He found he could not bear to be in his bedchamber at all. Not until he could eradicate from his mind the memory of Violet’s hair spread across his pillow. Or the one of her body beneath him. Or her blue eyes staring up at him on the brink of her release.

The problem was, he couldn’t rid himself of her memory at all, no matter how much whisky he drank. The best he could hope for was a slight dimming of the ache that burned in his chest and a momentary forgetting of the overwhelming sense of loss that stole his breath every time he thought of her. Which was often when he was sober. He tried to be sober as little as possible.

Such that by the end of the week, he was sunken-eyed and withdrawn, his bronzed-coloring faded to a pallid blue undertone, and his cheeks thinned and hollow. Nearly a month had passed since they’d met again, and she had ruined him, not the other way around.

He was eating little and sleeping less, usually just a few hours dozing in the harsh early morning hours. When he awoke, he sat alone, drinking the whisky he kept on his desk until he could sleep again for a few hours in the late afternoon. Then, like clockwork, he visited Jess and left once more for the evening.

Five days after Violet had refused him, when the glaring light of midday hammered through the cracks in his draperies like a spotlight on his face, he awoke to a loud knocking at his study door.

Alistair cracked one eye open into the harsh shine of the sun and closed it again. He did not care to be awake.

The knocking continued. A loud thumping that reverberated through his head, exacerbating the headache he always seemed to have now.

“What?” Alistair yelled, when it became clear that the knocking would not cease.

“You’ve a visitor, my lord,” Williams said.

For just a moment, in his bleary-eyed, half-awakened state, Alistair thought it might be Violet. His heart leapt at the possibility until his brain kicked in and he knew that it could not be her. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d looked him in the eye and refused. He’d wanted to spend his life with her. She did not care to follow suit.

The sudden frisson of hope at her presence, followed by the pulverizing disappointment of her absence, made him snarl.

“Go away,” he snapped. “It’s too early.”

“It’s four p.m., my lord, and the visitor is already downstairs.”

“Send them away, Williams. I’m sure you understand how that might be done. No visitors at all this week.”

“Yes, my lord,” Williams said as he entered Alistair’s study. “I’ll make sure to alert Miss Goodwin next time she arrives.”

“What?” Alistair sat up. “Miss Goodwin is the visitor? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No, my lord. But Miss Goodwin visits Miss Jess. Quite often. You’ve been out, or—” the man paused delicately, “indisposed.”

Alistair collapsed back down. He’d missed her. Though it was probably for the best. His head felt like Satan’s own, and he was in no shape to see any visitor. Especially not Violet.

Williams stood by his door, face implacable, until Alistair finally asked, “What?” from his supine position.

“It’s Lord Pembrooke that is visiting.”

“Send him away.”

Alistair wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything that reminded him of Violet. How was it that after five whole days he could still, improbably, feel her missing from his townhouse? As if the few hours she’d spent there had forever engraved her in his home and on his body.

I ought to move, he thought.

And then, I ought to flee. Leave London entirely.

McGann’s half-cocked plan, his family, and Violet Goodwin could all be damned.

“Pembrooke says he is here about the trading company funds. Shall I have him leave you a note, my lord?”

That brought Alistair back upright. “What funds?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the particulars. He did mention having written some number of messages. Shall I bring up your correspondence after I’ve shown him out? It’s been neglected of late.”