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As he stared down at her, the pain in his chest blossomed into an unbearable, empty ache. He filled it with cold fury. “I, for one, will be glad to put this whole disaster behind me,” he said with an air of supreme indifference. Did he imagine that flinch? The idea that she might actually feel something brought him great satisfaction, and he craved more. “My father was right. It’s time I set aside selfish fancies and attend to my duties. I hope your plan works as you imagine, and that you’re able to put this all behind you, as well. Good day, madam, and I bid you the best of luck.”
Still nothing. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t even breathing. She might as well be a marble statue. His eyes burned again. Before he lost all remaining dignity, he turned on his heel and strode away.
As he approached his carriage, he realized he didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t bear the thought of catching a glimpse of her house from his windows. He didn’t want to see the gardens he’d navigated on so many nights just to spend a few stolen hours with her. He’d just as soon burn the whole place to the ground as see it right now.
Going to the driver, he instructed the man to take him to his club. He could go to any tavern and drink himself into a stupor, but then people might think him a coward—as well as a molly. This thought only stoked his anger.
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.”
