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He spun around to face her. She looked so wounded he almost recanted. She stood her ground, raising her chin. He saw how fiercely she was trembling.
His eyes raked over her. The beautiful Patricia, in her lavender silk and lace ballgown, looking like the epitome of elegance. He had admired her fiercely this evening, her cool loveliness, a cut above every other lady at that ball. He had been counting down the hours until they could be alone together.
She was still lovely. There was no denying it. Even now, his flesh was responding to that beauty. His hands flexed, itching to touch her, to trail his fingers over that flawless alabaster skin. To hold her in his arms and make love to her with a ferocity that would make every doubt in his mind vanish like smoke.
His face tightened. It was all an illusion, a carefully constructed façade. She was a fortune hunter who had never shuddered with real delight when he had made love to her. She had been pretending the whole time. She had entrapped him, and she despised him even though her display of emotion looked genuine. He must remember that.
“You are no better than a harlot,” he said harshly. “In fact, you are worse, for at least a harlot is honest about the payment she requires.”
She started crying. Silent tears, falling down her face. And then she sank to the floor, her ballgown billowing around her. She looked like a defeated queen, who had just been told the enemy were at the gates of the fortress.
He gazed at her coldly for a moment. And then he turned on his heel, marching out the front door. He climbed into the carriage. His mind was numb with white hot rage.
He rapped on the roof of the carriage. The footman leaned in the window.
“My club on Bond Street,” he snapped.
The driver cracked the whip, and he was away. The carriage lurched down the street. He closed his eyes in pure pain.
A vision of Patricia, sunk defeated on the floor. Firmly, he pushed it out of his mind. It was a lie. Everything she was and everything she said was a lie.
He didn’t know how he would ever be able to face her again after what she had done to him.
* * *
The club was blessedly quiet as he made his way up the staircase. Only a handful of gentlemen were here, and they were all absorbed in their newspapers. The carriage ride hadn’t calmed him down at all. If anything, he was angrier than he had been at home.
He needed a drink. And he needed it now.
The footman was at his side in an instant. Jackson could barely look at the man, for fear of seeing scorn in his face. Because he knew, of course, that word spread amongst the servants as well as soon as the scandal sheets were released. They gossiped as much as theton, if not more.
“Whiskey,” he barked, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Bring a glass and bring the bottle as well.”
“Yes, your Grace,” said the footman quickly, scurrying away.
He sat in the comfortable upholstered armchair, glowering, as he waited for the footman to return. His mind felt like a white flash of nothing. As soon as the glass was in front of him, he reached for it, slamming it down his throat. He coughed, shaking his head, feeling the liquor burning his insides like fire. And then he poured himself another. That was gone just as quickly.
By the time he poured the third glass, his hand had stopped shaking. A woozy languor seemed to have overtaken his whole body. He finally relaxed back into the chair and sipped the drink. He was very glad he had made the decision to get out of that house and not see her lying, scheming face any longer.
His eyes filled with hopeless tears of rage. But they were directed more at himself, rather than Patricia. She was just like all the other ladies after all. It was not so very surprising. What was shocking was that he had let himself believe that she was different. He had wanted to believe it so fervently that he had ignored all the signs that she didn’t like him for himself. He had no one to blame for his predicament but himself.
He sipped the whisky, gazing miserably out the window. He should have known she was too good to be true.
He glowered. She had ill-used him and now he was trapped in a marriage with her forever. There was no possibility of annulment – the marriage had been consummated. She was his wife, for better or for worse. God help him.
Much better to never have had a taste of love, than to have it snatched away from him in such bitter circumstances.
Shakily, he reached forward, pouring himself another whiskey. The brown liquid sloshed out of the glass. He was well on the road to oblivion and that was exactly what he wanted.
He didn’t know how much time had passed. It was all starting to get a little hazy. He knew that the bottle was getting dangerously low but not much else. That in itself did not particularly worry him. He was rich, if nothing else, wasn’t he? There would be more liquor forthcoming if he desired it.
He didn’t bother to look at anyone when they passed by his seat. He didn’t want to see the scorn in their faces, or worse yet, the pity. The whole of London must know about it by now. The story of the Beauty who had snared the Beast. They must be laughing uproariously that he had fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
“Good evening, your Grace.”
He blinked owlishly, trying to focus on the person who had just dared to invade his privacy. It was the voice of a woman. He turned his head, making out the female form in front of him. A woman with golden hair, piled into a high bun upon her head. A large silk pink rose was nestled within it. Stray tendrils escaped the bun, framing her face, in a becoming way.
He blinked twice, trying to clear his vision. For one awful moment, he thought it was Patricia. That his wife had dared to invade the sanctuary of his club. But then, his vision cleared for a moment, and he realized that it wasn’t her at all. How could it be?
