Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

R ichard was familiar with addictions. He had seen several members of the ton being swallowed by the lure of the bottle, squandering several pounds for the sweet oblivion it offered. For the perpetual quiet and peace that they swore could only be found at the bottom of the bottle.

Well, there was no easier way to destroy a body than a life of constant inebriation, forever lost to the real world, where lucid thoughts existed.

They believed it solved their problems, at least while the buzz lasted, but it soon faded. And when reality sank in, it was even worse, so they chased after more bottles, spending fortunes to attain that oblivion, continuing a vicious cycle that usually ended in their families' ruin and their inevitable deaths.

He knew men, intelligent good men, who had so many good qualities, but these virtues fell short in the face of their one vice: gambling. He had witnessed whole estates change owners at the flip of a card and a whole family fortune lost in a single game. He had seen several young men becoming fortune hunters, attending balls for the sole purpose of nabbing an heiress to restore the fortunes that were lost at the whims of a gambling addict.

The one addiction he was always amused by and was immune to was… women. As far as he was concerned, women were beautiful creatures, and he could never say he did not appreciate their charms, but that was just it—he appreciated their charms, sampled them, and chased pleasure with them. But no matter the level of ecstasy he enjoyed in their arms, they had never inspired any genuine feelings in him. He appreciated them, but he did not obsess over them.

He always found it mildly amusing when he heard the odd man wax poetic about some lady he had recently met or, on rare occasions, when he had the misfortune of having to be in close contact with some besotted fool who was convinced that his wife was Venus made flesh. He shook his head, assuring himself that he could never fall prey to such an excessive display of emotions.

Because while women were beautiful creatures, they could also be capricious to such an extent that he was sure even the devil would gladly take notes from them. He should know, as he had witnessed firsthand what capriciousness can do to a woman. His mother being a prime example.

His earliest memories of her were that of a shapely woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair who sometimes visited the nursery, ruffled his hair and gave him a bright smile that convinced him she could only be an angel. When she smiled at him, she praised him for how handsome he was.

Over time, he came to crave her angelic presence. Sometimes she'd come and instruct the maids to dress him in formal attire. Then, taking his hand, they'd walk together, him craning his little neck to keep looking at her angelic face. But even as she held his hand, she smiled while staring off into the distance.

His little heart always longed for his mother's smiles, but he only received one when they got to the drawing room filled with noble women so heavily perfumed that it irritated his throat. But he dared not cough or sneeze because it'd make the smile on her face disappear. So he endured the heavy perfumes while her friends oohed and aahed about his handsomeness and how he would make a perfect duke in the future.

And so it continued for at least the first six years of his life. Somehow he always looked forward to when her friends visited and he got to spend time with her—or whatever time was left after the party.

But as he got older and lost that chubby baby looks the ladies gushed about, her visits became less frequent. Until one evening when he was wandering the gardens, singing a tune that he had heard from his nanny.

He didn't really understand the words, since they were in Gaelic. His nanny was Scottish, and he had pleaded with her to teach him the language or at least explain the words to him. But she had refused, evading his maneuvers with a sad smile. But he always sang the tune when he was alone because it was calming, as it had been his lullaby for years.

On that evening, however, his singing was interrupted by a rustling in the flowers, and he paused.

"Who is there?" he asked, trying to sound fearless while he quaked in his boots.

He was pleasantly surprised when his mother stepped out from behind the hedges. His lips curled into a smile. He had missed her.

"Mama," he said, running to her hug her waist.

He had grown taller, so his head only reached her abdomen. He had been too excited to notice that she did not hug him back.

However, he felt a tug on the back of his small coat—his cue to let go. He dropped his arms reluctantly.

"Were you the one singing just now?" she asked in a hopeful tone.

For some time, Richard was confused, but he quickly recovered.

"Yes… Yes, Mama," he stuttered.

At his response, he saw her face break out into a smile that he had not seen in quite a long time. He had always known his mother was a beautiful woman, but at that point, he simply basked in her radiance, and he felt satisfaction for being the cause of her joy.

Over several months, that satisfaction became almost buried underneath the classes he had to take. His mother declared to anyone who cared to listen that her son was a music prodigy and proceeded to hire the best music teachers to refine his singing skills and teach him how to play the pianoforte.

He had endured those lessons, and when he tended to the back of his fingers, which had suffered the rap of his instructor's ruler when he hit a wrong note, he reminded himself that it was all for the sake of his beautiful mother, who had an angelic smile.

Within a few months, he was on his way to becoming a budding musician, holding mini-concerts for his mother's friends. While it was such hard work to prepare for those performances, he looked forward to them because she always praised him right after, declaring him her treasure.

His father had always spent the day with him fishing and riding, and he tried to explain away many of his mother's absences, but even at such a young age, Richard could feel the strain in their relationship. They had a frosty relationship that even a blind man could have perceived from a mile away.

He had inadvertently eavesdropped on their conversations, but that was not really his fault, since his mother's voice was raised to such a pitch that it could carry all the way to Mayfair. Her shouting was only interspersed by his father's quieter voice trying to reason with her.

All their arguments ended the same way, with his mother storming out and taking a carriage to some unknown destination, until the row they had on his eighth birthday, which had ended with his mother moving her affairs out of the bedroom she shared with his father amidst his pleas for understanding.

But if there was something Richard had come to understand about his mother as she aged, it was that she was resolutely stubborn, so she never yielded to his father's pleas. Instead, she started inviting over "new friends." The only problem was that these friends were men, and instead of receiving them in the drawing room, she received them in her bedroom.

Gradually, as he got older, the pity Richard had felt for his father turned into disgust. Disgust that a man of his father's caliber was helpless to put a stop to his wife's infidelity.

That feeling solidified as he interacted with other boys his age and observed their family dynamics. Gentlemen of his father's caliber did not follow their wives around, begging for crumbs of their affections. And while they didn't bat an eyelid at their wives' affairs, they insisted that they were discreet, provided that they had filled the nursery with heirs and spares.

Never mind that those noblemen were not particularly discreet about their mistresses, but society didn't ostracize them, unlike the ladies. But at the very least, their wives never made the unforgivable error of disrespecting them in public.

As he got closer to leaving for school in Edinburgh, the veil of love he had over his eyes lifted, and he started to see his mother in all her flaws, reinforced by the moment he had walked into their gallery to find her in a passionate embrace with one of her paramours.

It was safe to say that Richard could guess exactly what he was seeing, as the man was standing with his behind exposed, with his pantaloons around his ankles. When they noticed his presence, his mother just looked up at him with no remorse on her face. Richard had to shake off the shock long enough to run out of the room. Holding on to the handrail of the staircase, he forced himself to take deep breaths.

On that day, he came to the conclusion that his mother was dead and that whoever he had seen in that room was just a woman with an ugly, wicked soul who just happened to look like his mother.

In the days following that incident, he maintained a healthy distance from the Duchess, refusing to play for her friends and spending most of his time with his friends outside the mansion walls.

During that time, he confirmed his theory that his mother only cared about him when she wanted to show off his musical prowess and that aside from that, she had no use for him.

She proceeded to ignore his existence completely after that, not even bothering to smile at him when they crossed paths on the streets of Mayfair. She did not seek him out either the few times she was at the mansion.

While he felt a slight twinge in his chest for having lost her attention, however meaningless it was, he was predominantly relieved and counted down the days until he could leave for Edinburgh for his studies. In no time, that day came, and as his carriage pulled away from the curb, his father waved at him with a deeply sad look on his once handsome face, now marked with heavy bags underneath his eyes.

Richard arrived at school with a smile on his face, having escaped the walls of their country home and the chaos that was his parents' marriage.

However, he soon realized he was horribly wrong, because one thing the ton ate for breakfast was gossip, and no matter how far he ran, the knowledge of his mother's infidelity followed him, and if there was one thing young boys excelled at, it was being cruel for no reason.

He soon became a pariah, going to bed every night with stinging knuckles that he had busted during his countless pointless fights to defend his mother's honor.

Over time, he understood the futility of that endeavor and focused on his studies of philosophy and accounting while ignoring the snickers and whispers behind his back.

He became the best student, and that did not exactly endear him to the petty boys. They just added ‘know-it-all' to the list of his sins.

He remained a social pariah for the first year or so till Simon, the son of the Viscount Talbot, joined their school and won him over simply because he pestered the quiet, brooding boy until he had no other choice but to become friends with him.

Together they became an unstoppable force, neutralizing the bullies through their practiced indifference. From Simon, Richard learned that bullies got disappointed when their jabs didn't provoke a reaction. He learned the art of easy charm, smiling in the faces of his haters and even joking about things that were supposed to traumatize him.

When he felt he was better as a man and could face his parents once again, he returned home to an even bigger shock.

His mother was pregnant, and according to the servants' tales, the Duchess had not been home for over six months, so it was safe to say that the Duke could not have been the father, and the faithless Duchess was most likely carrying the child of one of her many lovers.

For Richard, that was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. From his limited knowledge, he was sure that no man, no matter how calm, would take such an insult lying down. But his father had to be an extraordinary man because he claimed the child, forcing everyone to perpetuate the deception.

Richard itched to tell him that he was not really fooling anybody because everyone knew that it was not possible for him to be the father of that child. But then he decided not to give unsolicited advice because, as he had come to learn, you do not give advice to a man in love, lest you find yourself the target of his scorn.

So he ignored them both, traveling over to Simon's family estate, where he spent most of the holiday. He only returned home when he heard the news that his mother had given birth to a baby girl.

He had been drawn by some unholy curiosity to see what the child born from such a soiled union would look like. However, he was disappointed because when he looked into the cot, all he saw was a tiny little creature who opened her blue eyes and gave him a toothless smile.

Over time, he found himself returning to the nursery several times, every day, to carry her in his arms, and for some reason, the little terror seemed to stop fussing when he placed her on his chest. By the end of the week, he was so attached to the child that he became convinced that angels could emerge from unexpected places and no matter his mother's sins, that innocent baby girl was his sister, and he was going to protect her the best way any older brother worthy of the name would.

But as it has always been said, a leopard does not easily shed its spots. He was not particularly surprised when a week after his sister's birth, his mother disappeared, leaving only a note that poorly explained her choice to flee with her new lover to the Continent. That singular act reduced his father to a mere shell of a man who just locked himself in his study, rummaging through papers.

Until the day his butler found him slumped over his desk. It had been the start of the decline of his health until his demise a year later.

And thus Richard resolved to never subject himself to the whims of capricious women. Never was he going to allow a woman so much control over his heart and life that she could destroy him with a click of her fingers. He would never be addicted to a woman.

"Never say never" seemed to be a saying that applied to his current condition because it seemed that by no will of his own, he seemed to be fast on his way to being addicted to one brown-haired lady in particular, and this was terrible. Very terrible, indeed.

So when Simon walked into his study at an unfashionably early hour, he welcomed the distraction

"Well, you look terrible," Simon noted.

As much as Richard would like to deny it, it was true. His waistcoat was lost somewhere in the room, his shirtsleeves were roughly rolled up to his elbows, his cravat was partly undone, and his hair was mussed because of the countless times he had run his hand through it. He must look like a terrible mess—he felt like a terrible mess.

"Are you well? St. George?" Simon asked, furrowing his brow in concern.

"Very well, in fact," Richard answered, affecting nonchalance.

"You have been drinking. I thought you had given up the vice, and don't get me started on the state of your clothing. Did your valet go on vacation or anything of that sort?"

"Careful, Simon. You are starting to sound like my mother."

Simon's lips quirked up. "While I do not particularly care for the comparison, I can't wait for you to marry so I can quit worrying about you," he said, before heaving an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh.

Richard shivered in revulsion, and his reaction made Simon chuckle loudly.

"You know my stance on marriage. I would do almost anything to escape the Parson's mousetrap," he scoffed.

"We will see about it," Simon drawled, eyeing him speculatively.

Richard narrowed his eyes in suspicion, heaving a tired sigh. He decided to change the topic.

"St. George? Since when do you address me by my title?"

"I do when my friend becomes the newest duke in the ton," Simon said, a triumphant smile on his face. "I can't wait to see those pricks swallow their words."

While they had outgrown their experiences as schoolboys, unfortunately, noblemen seemed to carry their grudges into adulthood.

Simon, with his blonde Adonis looks, might seem like the fun-looking, charming nobleman, but Richard could attest to the fact that beneath the layers of his pristine clothing, his friend had a streak for pettiness. It could be amusing sometimes, but Simon was the best friend any man could ever ask for.

"… so we could go to the club. I am sure we could make some dents in their ego with well-placed blows."

Richard snapped back to reality, realizing that Simon had been speaking with him the whole time he had been distracted.

"The club? I am in no mood for boxing now."

"Come on, man, I am sure there is nothing like physical exertion to take your mind off whatever thoughts seem to plague you."

Richard reluctantly agreed because if he refused, Simon would pester him till he agreed anyway.

When they arrived at the club, Richard swore that some part of him enjoyed the extra respect that was accorded to him by the patrons. It was nice to patronize the men who had once gossiped about him within hearing distance.

Within moments, he and Simon stood opposite each other in the boxing ring, but after a round, he gave up because he just kept getting hit by Simon. Considering that he was a better strategist than his friend, it was a testament to his absent-mindedness.

But why wouldn't he be distracted when his mind seemed to develop a fixation on Catherine's pink lips and how they felt underneath his, soft, succulent, sweet…

Damn and blast, he was back to that train of thought even while he made efforts to curb it. He guessed he should be grateful that he had only had a match with Simon. If he had a match with another opponent, he would have been nursing something worse than a broken nose and a black eye.

"What is wrong, man? Money problems?" Simon asked teasingly.

"Simon, I just inherited my father's title. Trust me, I have more money than I know what to do with," Richard answered, exasperated.

It was true, because it seemed the one good thing about having a father who buried himself in his estate accounts was that the estate's accounts were meticulously arranged, every penny accounted for.

"So, it is a woman then," Simon concluded with a cocky arch of his eyebrows.

"How did you get to that conclusion?" Richard asked, bewildered.

"Those are the only things that could bother a man deeply," Simon said, a solemn look in his eyes. But then, his lips curled into a smile. "How is the beautiful Cynthia?"

Richard only gave him a blank look.

"Remember Cynthia?" Simon stressed the last syllable of the woman's name like he was talking to a child or a very dumb person. "Your mistress?"

Richard's expression remained blank for some time before the name finally registered.

"Oh, Cynthia is well," he answered a little too quickly.

After a pause, Simon said mischievously, "Don't tell me you have gone and fallen in love with another woman. Cynthia must be very disappointed."

Richard shifted uncomfortably at how close that was to the truth.

Simon's mention of Cynthia made him come up with a plan. It seemed that slender, beautiful Cynthia, who he had met several months ago and taken on as his mistress, would probably be his solution to regain his sanity. Although it had been a while since he'd visited the woman, she had always been the warm and welcoming sort.

He paid her too well for her not to be.

There was nothing like a satisfying romp beneath the sheets to chase whatever blue devils plagued him. Perhaps he'd entice her to show him whatever new tricks she'd learned. He wasn't a fool to expect loyalty from her, and knowing his money spoke louder than any of the other gentlemen she let into her bed, she would be more than eager to please him.

He would try that in a week, so he would finally be free of this inconvenient attraction to good old Catherine.

Yes. His prolonged celibacy could be the reason why his manhood seemed to have a mind of its own. That had to be the only logical explanation for why he suddenly couldn't get her out of his mind even though he'd grown up with her.