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Chapter Eight
May 10, 1819
The longcase clock at the end of the hall chimed the noon hour as Percival sat slumped in a leather wing-backed chair in his library. He’d thrown open the windows to catch the spring breeze that brought with it a trace of warmth as if heralding the imminent arrival of summer.
But not even that could lift him out of the current ennui that held him captive. Yesterday’s outing with Lavinia had changed the way he saw her. The sadness in her eyes whenever she’d glanced at Deborah haunted him. It made him remember his own, and it also pushed him to delve deeper into her life, to know her as the woman she was.
As his wife.
He took a hearty swig from a brandy bottle, and with that swallow, he hated himself, for he filched the liquor from the butler’s pantry. Once more, he’d failed in the quest to separate from the reliance on the drink, but it was too fucking late to do anything about it now. He stared at the bottle with a frown. It was half empty and he’d barely gotten started on attempting to dull the guilt at disappointing his dead wife’s memory and cushion the blow of disappointment he’d undoubtedly see in his new wife’s eyes.
I’m failing on all fronts, drowning without a hope of help.
Thoughts of Lavinia wouldn’t leave his mind. There were more questions than answers regarding her, but how to broach any of those subjects when he was still ill-at-ease around her? It didn’t help that his damned desire had flared anew when he’d caught sight of her naked ankles in the Serpentine or that the rush of lust had roared to life when she’d clutched at his arm to keep from falling into the water. Yet the curiosity wouldn’t quiet. If he asked the questions he wanted, she would undoubtedly wish to ask some of her own, and he wasn’t ready for that.
Was he? Or was it past time he’d unburdened his soul so he could immerse himself into the act of living once more?
Bloody confusing existence.
“Ah, there you are, Percival. I’ve been hunting all over for you.”
The dulcet tones of his wife’s voice sent him further into a brown study. “I wished for time alone.” Of course, that would assume he’d filled the whole of his days by being in her company or that of Deborah’s. Which he hadn’t. In fact, since he roused this morning, he’d done his level best to avoid them both.
Why?
Because he wasn’t worth the time either would waste on him when he couldn’t tear himself away from the demon of the drink. Not even the prospect of having to attend to his duties in Parliament later that evening could halt the need for that burn of alcohol in his throat.
“So I can see.” With a subdued huff of frustration, Lavinia took the bottle from his hand. “I thought Lord Randolph removed all temptation from this house?”
He shrugged. “Stole it from Stanton’s storage shelves.” Though he frowned as she moved across the room toward one of the windows, he didn’t offer a protest, for he simply wasn’t strong enough to resist the call of the drink without assistance.
“I shall have a talk with the butler.” She glanced at him from over her shoulder. Censure reflected in her dark eyes. “No more drinking. It won’t solve anything.”
“That may be so, but it makes me feel better.”
“Does it truly? Perhaps you should try being honest with yourself.” Then she proceeded to dump the contents of the bottle out the window. “This causes more problems in your life, and you have a daughter to care for. You made great strides with her yesterday. Don’t toss that away merely to chase the high brandy gives you.”
A stab of annoyance went through his chest. Now that the security of his brandy had been yanked away before he’d got into his cups, panic set in. He’d have no choice but to face her wrath or emotions as a nearly sober man, and that might make him examine his own shortcomings. How dare she dictate to him how he should live his life? Percival snorted. “My being sober didn’t exactly solve problems either.” He scowled as she crossed to the rolling cart when he’d previously stored his collection of spirits for this room. His wife methodically checked the contents of the carafes to make certain they were empty. When satisfied, she rested the brandy bottle on the tray.
“That is beside the point. You have the habit of letting emotions guide your actions instead of having them run their course so they can be dealt with.”
What the devil did that mean? And why was she suddenly the expert on how to deport oneself? “Life is difficult enough without bringing everything to the forefront.”
“However, that’s exactly what you need to start over.”
“Fuck off, Lavinia.”
“And no more vulgarity while you’re in a woman’s company. It’s unseemly and rude.” She turned around with narrowed eyes. “You’ll need to practice at being sober, Percival. It won’t happen overnight, but it will happen if you give it some stick.”
Immediately, he was contrite. “I apologize. That wasn’t well done of me.”
“No, it wasn’t.” When she came properly into his line of sight, he was struck again with how attractive a woman she was. “As I’ve told you before, I won’t be married to a drunk. No good can come of that.”
The turquoise silk of her dress appeared like living water with her every movement. The thin fabric clung to her curves, fairly begged him to touch her body, explore it, for it had been too long indeed since he’d had her in his bed, yet the censure in her voice grated over his nerves. “As if your past is so sterling.” Damn, but it was bad form of him to bring it up.
“It’s not, of course. You would know that better than anyone, but I never hid what I was, what I did. I lived with it, made the best of it.” Lavinia settled in the chair next to his.
Cold disappointment snaked through his gut, for he’d thought she might settle into his lap as was her usual wont when they’d previously occupied this room. But then, that had been when she’d been his ladybird instead of his wife… “Hmph.”
