To Bed a Beauty (Courtship Wars 2)

The thought of living without Roslyn for the rest of his life shook Drew to his core. But if he truly loved her, did he have any choice?

The question haunted him for the remainder of the day.

Through Lady Freemantle’s awkward yet strangely poignant meeting with Constance, who was pitifully grateful that her children would be provided for in the event of her demise.

Through the interview with his physician, who did indeed determine it advisable to remove the gravely ill patient from the noxious stews of London to healthier surroundings and the clean, fresh air of the country.

Through the painstaking effort to transport the invalid by slow stages to the luxurious mansi

on at Freemantle Park.

Through the wide-eyed wonder that Constance’s children displayed at their new environs; even Ben, whose defiant belligerence and suspicion faded to cautious hope that his mother and sisters might have found salvation in the person of Lady Freemantle, and that the heavy burden of caring for them had been lifted from his thin shoulders.

Through the return journey to London, during which Drew brooded and savagely debated with himself about his course of action.

The hour was late when he finally reached his home. He went straight to his library, where he locked himself inside with two bottles of his best aged Scotch whiskey. If he was going to cut out his heart for Roslyn, he had to be numb enough to do it.

Drew had advanced to the second bottle, however, before he could force himself to relentlessly face the cold, bitter truth: He had to let her go.

He would feel devastatingly incomplete without her, but Roslyn’s happiness lay with Haviland-and he wanted her to be happy, even if it meant losing her to another man. His hands were unsteady as he brought the bottle to his lips again.

He wanted her happiness more than anything in his life. More than his life.

“Sho why ’re you dallying, you pitiful sod?” he muttered. “No reashon to delay. You ’ave to give her the shance to have her dreams come true.”

With effort, Drew rose and made his way over to the bellpull to ring for his majordomo. With even greater effort he remained standing as he haltingly gave instructions for a footman to be dispatched to Brooks Club, where the Earl of Haviland might possibly be found.

Then sinking onto the sofa again, Drew brought the bottle to his lips for another long, mind-numbing dose of fortitude.

He was stretched out on the sofa, half comatose, when a sharp rap came on the library door. Shaking himself awake, Drew hauled himself up to a sitting position and bid entrance.

When a gentleman strode into the room, Drew narrowed his bleary-eyed gaze. He thought his caller might be Haviland, but his vision was blurred so much that there seemed to be two of him. Drew, however, recognized the curt voice as Haviland’s.

“I trust you will explain the urgency of your summons, your grace. I had a winning hand.”

Drew tried carefully to enunciate, but his speech still sounded slurred when he replied, “I will reimbursh you for any losh you suffered.”

Haviland’s eyebrow shot up as he regarded Drew. “You surprise me, Arden. You’re three sheets to the wind.”

“Four,” Drew responded, holding up five fingers.

“So why did you call me here?” the earl demanded impatiently.

Drew grimaced as he tried to gather his courage. “Bloody truth is, I’m sshtepping aside. You can have ’er.”

“Have whom?”

“Roshlyn! Who else would I bloody well be talking about?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Drew glared balefully. “Y’ can’t tell me you ’aven’t been purshuing her…I know better.”

“I might have had she not been betrothed to you.”

“But you made her love you.”

“You have a touching but misplaced confidence in my powers of seduction.”