Chapter 25

F or as long as he’d been alive, Latimer despised the nobility.

Never had that aversion been stronger than now with Livian gone and the duchess having done everything in her power to keep Lachlan from her.

Gritting his teeth, Latimer pressed his knees against the mount he’d traded for at one of the coaching inns along the route to London and urged the chestnut stallion to a faster gallop.

Do not think of Wakefield. Do not think of him.

No matter how much he fought, tortured musings flashed in his mind.

The roguish Earl of Wakefield and the obsessive way in which he’d watched Livian. That same man, who’d preyed on her vulnerability, whisked her off and…

And, given Wakefield had been one of Forbidden Pleasures’ best patrons, Latimer’s knowledge of the bastard extended to the man’s lusty appetite in matters of sex.

And his preferences. And the way the Cyprians spoke freely of the earl’s prowess and generosity, what kind of lover he’d be to Livian—

A curtain of rage fell across his eyes, briefly blinding. The task of breathing so onerous his lungs ached.

It was too much.

An animalistic shout exploded from his chest. Underneath him, his horse whinnied with unease. In the dead of the London night, the sound of his jealous rage bounced off stucco and stone townhouses and echoed in Latimer’s mind, taunting him with his absolute hopelessness.

I’m going mad.

When he finally reached Wakefield’s, Latimer jumped down before his mount came to a full stop.

He tossed the reins to an opportunistic young urchin who’d seen Latimer coming.

Without breaking stride, Latimer tossed a hefty purse at the boy’s chest.

The child caught it with a jingle.

“There will be more,” Latimer gritted out, even as he raced up the steps of Wakefield’s bachelor residence.

Hatred and fury and rabid jealousy pumping through his being, Latimer tossed the door open with such force it flew back and hit the wall with a loud thwack .

The second butler, a man two decades past due retirement, who’d been slumbering on the bench there, released a juddering snore.

By the time the befogged older man finally got himself fully awake, Latimer had already reached the top of the stairwell and disappeared down one of the corners.

Demoniac fury consumed him.

I’ll kill him .

His nostrils flared.

Latimer didn’t waste any time. He hooked a quick right and made his way down the hall. As he went, he threw open door after door after door on either side of the corridor.

That hungering to kill raged inside.

Behind him, rose the old butler’s belated hue and cry for other servants.

That healthy rage consumed Latimer the entire way, right up until he reached the last door on the left.

Latimer staggered to a stop.

Unlike the silence behind all the previous doors, from within this room rose a cacophony to bring down the house.

Desire-filled screams and wild moaning combined with the deeper, hoarse groans of a man.

Latimer jerked like he’d been shot, and God help him, he’d prefer death to this.

All his muscles knotted up, and a hiss exploded through his teeth. Paralyzed briefly by hatred, rabid jealousy, and anguish the likes of which he’d never known—no, the likes of which he’d never believed himself capable of—threatened to bring him to his knees.

Whatever Wakefield did to Livian, sent her cries climbing to a higher, fever pitch.

And where he’d tossed open each door before this one, Latimer couldn’t bring himself to move. For he knew exactly what tableau he’d witness unfolding in that room.

For all the ways in which he’d prided himself, and believed himself, incapable of feeling anything at all, for anyone, he had discovered too late, and in the worst possible way, how terrifically wrong he’d been—he was a fucking coward.

His own body mocked him with the sudden discovery of his own frailness. His legs shifted under him, and to keep from collapsing, he pressed his damp palms upon the cold oak door panel.

Sweat slicked his entire body.

Latimer’s harsh breaths joined and twisted in some kind of sick symphony with Lord Wakefield’s grunting and Livian’s guttural pleas, her voice nearly unrecognizable from lusty huskiness because of Wakefield.

Something stung Latimer’s eyes, and he squeezed them even more tightly shut to stop the unfamiliar sensation that blurred his vision.

A cold sweat dripped down Latimer’s clammy cheeks that moisture confusingly hot.

Tears. My God, I am crying .

For the first time in his miserable number of years, he cried actual tears.

“…I’m going to make you suffer…”

I can’t suffer more than this.

“…look how wet you are for me, love…when you come, I’m going to lick you clean…”

Dimly, through horror and acute misery, Latimer registered the distant, muffled thundering of Wakefield’s servants nearing the main landing.

The need to beat Wakefield brutally, savagely, proved greater than Latimer’s need to protect himself from the debilitating scene of Livian with another man.

With shaking hands, Latimer let himself inside and recoiled. The horrific, carnal tableau before him was more than soul crushing.

Wakefield lay between Livian’s thighs. The speed and force with which the other man plowed her, over and over again, sent the younger man’s taut arse flexing. His pendulous balls slapped wildly against her flesh.

With a roar, Latimer sprinted across the room.

The earl only noted his fun had been interrupted, too late. When his gaze locked on Latimer, shock filled the other man’s flushed, perspiring face.

“L-Latimer?” he strangled out, his indignant voice rough from his vigorous bout of lovemaking. “What the fuck are you—?”

Wakefield’s question ended on a sharp gasp as Latimer hauled the other man away from Livian. “Bastard,” he hissed. “I’ll kill you!”

Throwing the earl to the floor, Latimer quickly stood over him, hauling back and striking the stunned earl repeatedly in the face—over and over again.

From somewhere, a primordial roar soared around the room that combined with Livian’s cries and shrieks.

Me, those are my shouts. The only thing that dwelled inside, was the sub-human need to destroy. To kill.

Wakefield had put his hands on her.

He’d made her cry out, in ecstasy.

The manacles of rage and jealousy made Latimer careless.

Wakefield brought a knee up sharply and caught Latimer hard between the legs.

His vision went black and little pricks of white light danced in his eyes. The other man pressed his advantage. He caught Latimer once more with a knee and brought Latimer’s writhing frame to the floor.

“My God, Latimer, what the hell is wrong with y-you?” the earl said between gasping pants.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Latimer rasped through that blinding pain.

Except, in a reversal, Wakefield proceeded to hand down the same exact beading Latimer dealt him. Or he tried to. The earl got four punches in before Latimer managed to jerk his head back and strike his forehead against the younger man’s.

From behind them, Latimer registered a rush of footballs. A moment later, they were separated. It took four of Wakefield’s guards to hold Latimer back. And even then, while Wakefield casually but quickly went about drawing his trousers on, Latimer managed to shake free two of them.

Given his exertions from the long ride from Hitchin, physically drained from his fight with Wakefield, and emotionally drained from having lost Livian, proved too much.

Latimer’s legs gave out and were it not for the stronghold Wakefield’s big servants had on him, he would have collapsed to the floor.

Wakefield looked to his men. They instantly released him.

Latimer fell to his knees. Beat, hurting, and spent in every way, he sagged.

Towering over him, the earl glared. “Are you bloody mad , Latimer? Invading another man’s household, storming into his room while he’s bedding his lover?”

His lover.

Livian.

Finally, Latimer brought himself to look at her, not knowing what he expected needed to see: Fear. Shock. Annoyance. Disgust.

He cocked his head and stared blankly at the dark blonde woman who sat, her back pressed against the headboard, and a silk sheet drawn close to her ample chest.

The lady gawked at Latimer.

His muddled mind attempted to put together the facts he was seeing with his own eyes. Ones at odds with all the mental images and conclusions he’d reached on his way here; the young woman’s fine hair, too fine to possess even a hint of curl. Her hair, a shade of blonde, two or three hues darker.

His soul, his heart, so fucking relieved, so light, that a shake started in his chest and spread through his entire being.

It is not Livian .

Sinking onto his haunches, Latimer proceeded to laugh.

“It is not Livian,” he rasped. “ She isn’t Livian.”

The other occupants in the room exchanged horrified and wary glances.

Crimson color splotched the earl’s cheeks. “Good God, no!” Wakefield denied with such force, Latimer’s laughter tripled.

“It is not Livian,” he said again, afraid if he didn’t keep reminding himself, the perplexed figure in Wakefield’s bed would shift and transform into the spirited, clever, witty woman he’d mistaken her for.

Wakefield said something to his servants, and those men immediately quit the room.

“If you’ll excuse us a moment, I’ll be right with you, my dear,” Wakefield said to his increasingly annoyed bedmate.

Latimer doubled over, sobbing this time with absolute hilarity and relief.

Muttering to himself, the earl grabbed Latimer by the arm and dragged him to his feet. “In my office now.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Latimer being several stones heavier and a couple of inches taller, could have easily overthrown Wakefield. Right now, his relief proved too profound.

When they reached the earl’s office, Wakefield propelled Latimer inside. That hard shove sent him stumbling a step, and also managed to clear Latimer’s head.

The minute Wakefield shut the door behind them, Latimer didn’t waste any time. “The Duchess of Argyll indicated Miss Lovelace left with you, Wakefield. Am I to take that to mean Her Grace lied?”

Any fabrication on the angry peeress’s part would have been far preferable than Livian having willingly gone with—

“She did not,” Wakefield said tersely. “I escorted Miss Lovelace from Her Grace’s house party.”

Fresh fury coursed through Latimer. He took an angry step toward the other man. “I’ll k—”

“Yes, yes. I know, you’ve said it before.” Wakefield scoffed. “You’ll kill me.”

The mocking derision sent a wave of heat climbing up Latimer’s neck.

“Please,” Wakefield said, sounding positively bored. “Spare me your outrage and show of anger, Latimer. You have the audacity to storm my household like some raged lunatic when you made it quite clear,” the earl’s voice climbed, “your intentions for the lady were anything but honorable.”

“As if yours were,” Latimer exploded. “I saw the way you could not take her eyes from her.”

Wakefield snorted. “Of course, I couldn’t.”

A low growl started again in Latimer’s chest.

“You bloody fool,” the earl snapped. “Miss Lovelace is my sister .”

Latimer rocked back on his heels. He opened and closed his mouth several times to say something—all to no avail.

He tried again, with minimal success. “Your…”

“Sister.”

Latimer’s mind raced. All knew the Earl of Wakefield had but two sisters, one married to the Duke of Banbridge, the other the Earl of Stanhope, and—

“The previous Earl of Wakefield sired Livian,” Latimer said on an exhalation.

A muscle in the other man’s jaw worked.

Still reeling from his discovery, Latimer recounted in his mind everything Livian had revealed about her journey.

Her need for a husband. The desire to avoid being a needy relation.

All along, there’d been a wealthy caregiver.

Latimer followed the path Wakefield took to his tidy, well-stocked sideboard.

Fury sent his fingers curling into tight fists. “You could have easily seen Livian was comfortable and cared for,” Latimer snapped, his ire climbing. “You could have set her up somewhere. Instead—”

“Oh, please, spare me your indignation,” the earl interrupted, fetching a decanter and glass.

Wakefield didn’t even bother turning as he made himself a drink. Liquid hit the earl’s glass. “I believed her marrying some lord was a horrible idea.”

Latimer tensed.

The earl paused his pour. “Not because I believe Miss Lovelace to be inferior. She isn’t. There’s nothing noble about a nobleman,” he said.

Brandy in hand, Wakefield turned and dropped a hip on the corner of the Chippendale sideboard. “But then,” he drawled. “there’s nothing really noble about men, in general, eh?” He sharpened a deservingly disdainful look on Latimer.

A flush heated Latimer’s neck. “I deserve that.”

Wakefield took a swallow of his spirits. “No, you deserve a bullet.”

“Aye,” he said, under his breath. “And far worse.” Latimer should be drawn and quartered for how he’d treated Livian.

Wakefield toasted him. “On that, we can agree.”

Agony cleaved at his insides. Latimer dragged a shaky hand through his hair.

He’d taken her innocence. Yes, she’d freely given herself to him and asked him to bed her, but she’d been an innocent lady in every meaning of the word.

Even now she could be carrying his child and never once had he told her how much she meant to him.

A peculiar blend of grief and longing brought his eyes weighted closed.

I want that. I want to see Livian big with our babe and spend my life making her and that innocent daughter with Livian’s enormous eyes and big blonde curls, smile.

His throat worked. “Where is she?”

“I escorted her to the Earl and Countess of Maxwell’s country seat.”

Of course. It would be the last but only place she could truly turn.

Not anymore.

I am her future. I am her pillar, as she is mine.

That is if she will allow me to share a life with her.

She would. Even if he had to spend the rest of his days convincing her of his worth. Steel infused his spine, and Latimer looked to Wakefield. “Thank—”

Wakefield’s snort cut across the rest of his expression of gratitude. “I’ve not told you this to help you, Latimer. You’re no friend, and I certainly don’t take you as worthy of so much as licking the scum from Miss Lovelace’s boots. Furthermore, you’re wasting your time,” Wakefield said, positively gleeful. “Maxwell isn’t like me. He won’t show you mercy. You won’t make it through the front door.”

“He won’t be able to stop me,” Latimer said, and, turning on his heel, he rushed from the room and continued his quest to find—and this time, win—Livian Lovelace.