With an unsteady hand, he poured a glass of brandy, spilling a few drops on the desk and clinking the decanter against the crystal glass. He swallowed the spirits in one gulp, feeling it sear a path to his belly.
His cracked ribs had healed, as had his broken arm. But his leg had been badly smashed in the savage beating at Marsham and clearly still wasn’t strong enough to carry him far. Disappointment dug deep. He couldn’t bear much more lying around on his back, with nothing to do but stew about Diana Carrick and how she’d played him for a complete clodpate.
His doctors were astonished that he’d survived at all. But then his doctors didn’t know what a tonic incendiary rage offered. Some days, he swore if he as much as
saw the traitorous witch, he’d wring her neck.
Other days, his yearning for her was so strong, he’d take her to bed. Then he’d wring her neck.
He preferred the anger. The anger was powerful, energizing, righteous. The yearning left him feeling like a dog starving in a gutter.
Tonight, before he’d come downstairs, he’d dreamed of her. That was nothing new. She’d haunted his delirium from the moment Burnley’s bullies had tossed him across his own doorstep like a handful of rubbish. Through his slow recovery, her mocking, deceitful shade had been a constant presence.
He’d give up his hope of becoming a whole man if only he could banish her beautiful, lying ghost forever.
The desk was piled high with bundles of post. More were stacked on the tables against the walls. On doctors’ orders, his correspondence and newspapers had been kept from him. But it was more than time he took charge of his responsibilities. Surely once he occupied his mind, Diana’s memory would fade. He’d no longer spend every waking hour, and most of his sleeping ones, hating her almost as much as he hungered for her.
The woman might have verged close to destroying him, but he was damned if he’d let her succeed.
With a determined gesture, he grabbed the first packet of letters. His leg still objected to the exercise, and he stretched it out beneath the desk to ease the stiffness. Agony sliced through him, clenching every muscle. When his vision cleared, he started to sift through the mail.
After an hour, he was starting to see double. His leg ached like the very devil, and his head felt like it was full of pea soup. Knowing he’d have to give up soon but unwilling to return to the cage of his bedroom just yet, he lifted one last pile of papers.
A letter dropped to lie on the blotter.
A letter in an unknown feminine hand. Completely against his will, his heart began to pound wildly. Hell, what was the matter with him? He refused to get excited at the possibility that Diana had written. He despised the trull. Anyway, surely she’d long ago married Burnley and currently suffered the torments of the damned as the bastard’s wife. Just as she deserved.
Still, his hand trembled when he picked up the flimsy missive.
From its plinth on the bookshelf, the wide alabaster eyes of the Roman head mocked him. He smothered the urge to smash the beautiful little sculpture to dust and returned his attention to the letter.
It could be from anyone. It could be from one of his cousins. Or a former mistress. Or someone requesting his assistance for a charity or in support of some reform in Parliament.
Even as he fed himself those sensible caveats, his heart lodged in his throat. And curse him, he fumbled as he broke the seal.
It took a moment to focus. His eyes went automatically to the signature.
Reality slammed down. The letter wasn’t from Diana. Even if it was, what could she say that could possibly compensate for all she’d done?
He drew a deep breath and concentrated on the message. To his astonishment, Miss Smith had written. Two lines only. Informing him Diana was to marry Lord Burnley at St. Mark’s in Marsham on Wednesday, 24 October 1827 at ten o’clock in the morning. Then a signature.
He checked the date. The letter was four days old. Tomorrow was the twenty-fourth. Or today, as it was past midnight.
For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his leg ebbed under the searing memory of Diana’s betrayal, the anguish as powerful as it had been in that sweet summer glade two months ago.
Why did you do it, Diana, why?
The question tormented him as it had tormented him since then. Except he knew exactly why she’d deceived him. Because the mercenary trull wanted to be a marchioness. Because she wanted to hold Cranston Abbey in trust for her child.
His child…
From hard-won habit, he struggled to close his mind to the thought of his baby. As he closed his mind to memories of that baby’s mother.
His efforts were never very effective.
His reluctant attention returned to the note. Miss Smith must believe he cared that his former mistress married her coconspirator.
Miss Smith was fatally wrong. Diana Carrick could rot in hell. He never wanted to see the mendacious bitch again as long as he lived.