Chapter Twenty-Six

Jacob reclined in his armchair, a glass of scotch—or was it brandy?—in one hand, a lady somewhat drunkenly playing the piano at the other end of the room. A few gentlemen cheered as they competed to see who could drink faster. More of an Oxford pastime, but Jacob hardly cared. They could do what they wished. And if they spilt wine on the carpets, fine by him. Other gentlemen perched ladies on their knees. Courtesans, mostly. A few wandered the room with pitchers of wine or decanters of brandy.

Everything had sunk into a delightful haze that numbed the pain in his chest.

In the month that had passed since Annabelle left, Jacob had fallen back into all his old habits with abandon. He sought ruination.

And if he sometimes lay awake, his body missing a woman it had only just begun to know, he shut down all awareness of it. Time would erase her from his life, and he threw himself into forgetting.

His friends, if he could call them that, cheered him on, and he fell further into the pit he had been digging since the moment he was born.

Smythe handed in his notice. Jacob told himself he didn't care.

There was nothing in the world that could affect him now. No mother would ever want him for her daughter; no moneylender would grant him the sum needed to clear his debts. And Jacob Barrington, reluctant Marquess of Sunderland, told himself he was happy.

"My lord?" came a husky voice. She had striking dark curls that tumbled loosely down her back. No doubt she had just exited a bed with another man. He found he didn't care. And, although she was objectively extremely pretty, he had no interest in seeing what skills she had learnt as she had worked her way up the courtesan ranks.

He trailed an absent finger along her shoulder and then flicked her away. "I already have a drink."

"I thought perhaps you could do with some company, my lord," she said, not shifting from where she was bent over him, breasts visible through her gaping neckline. "You haven't had any entertainment all night."

He gave her a sharp smile. "I'm not looking for entertainment, my dear." Even inebriated, he knew that much.

The only lady he wanted had left London because he had chased her away. And now she was gone, he was beginning to understand just how much of a hold she had on his heart. The only thing that kept him from chasing after her was the knowledge that she would be happier without him. And even that certainty was losing its allure. Once he'd thought he would be happier without her, and he'd been drunk for three days and nights now, drowning the pain the only way he knew how.

The woman pouted at him, no doubt intending to showcase her plump bottom lip. "Then why are we here?"

"For everyone else." He gestured.

"You would like it, my lord, if I could show you how to relax."

"I am certain you are skilled." He caught her hand as she attempted to walk it up his thigh. "And yet your beauty leaves me indifferent."

Her eyes flashed with irritation. No doubt that wasn't what she was accustomed to hearing. And in the past, he had been very generous with his mistresses. No doubt she wanted a bite of his estate.

Too bad.

"You'll be paid for your troubles," he said, taking another long drink. It was scotch after all. "And if it concerns you, you may tell whoever you please that you were with me. Say whatever you like."

She frowned. "Don't you care?"

"I care for nothing."

"Barrington," one of the other gentlemen called. "Have you tried this wine?" He laughed drunkenly as the woman on his lap poured it into his mouth, the burgundy liquid splashing down his shirt. "Imported directly from France."

"I'll bring you some, my lord," the girl in front of him said quickly, rising to fetch a jug of it. While he waited, he tossed back the remainder of the scotch in his glass and put it unsteadily on the table.

When had this ceased to be fun? When he was younger, he had revelled in the parties, the women, the drinking. Now he just felt tired.

The dark-haired girl returned with the jug of wine and straddled his lap, one hand holding the jug and the other skating along the side of his jaw. He didn't have the energy to remove her.

Perhaps the wine would be enough to help him forget. Finally.

It was as the wine was being poured down his throat that pandemonium broke loose. The door slammed open and a familiar voice rang loud and disgusted.

"What the devil is going on here?"

"Louisa?" Jacob blinked, pushing past the girl to look at his old friend. She strode into the room as though she owned it, and was looking around with her lip curled. Her eyes flashed when they met his, and he gave her a lazy grin. "I'd invite you in, but it seems you've dispensed with the necessity."

She gave him a poisonous glower. "Send them away."

"But they're having so much fun."

The girl on his lap gave him a frown, clearly expecting him to remove Louisa, but if that was what she hoped for, she had misjudged. He valued Louisa far more than a nameless girl. He shrugged, pushing her off, and the wine clattered to the floor, staining the carpet. Scowling, she picked herself up.

"Leave," he said before she could protest at his treatment of her. Yes, he was an unmanageable bastard; yes, she should hate him. Everyone else did. "Get out. I don't know or care how you do it so long as you leave."

The music faltered to a halt. Conversation and laughter dimmed. A few hastily rebuttoned their trousers.

Jacob clapped his hands. "You heard me," he said. "The party is over."

Under Louisa's glower, no one dared argue, and the room slowly emptied. Jacob felt no twinge of remorse. It was hardly as though he had been enjoying himself, and if Louisa was going to flay him with his words, well then she could do her worst.

Villiers clapped a sympathetic hand on Jacob's shoulder in passing, and offered Louisa a bow. "My lady," he said. "A delight."

"Leave," she said with icy finality.

Finally, they were all gone. Jacob wiped the last few drops of wine from his chin. His head spun and he knew the moment he tried to rise, he would lose his balance, so he stayed where he was, narrowing his eyes on his unwelcome guest.

"What in the name of all that is holy do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

He gestured around with a slightly clumsy hand. "What do you think, my dear? I'm having a party."

"You are destroying this house and yourself. Half your staff have left. Loyal retainers, Jacob." She flung her gloves onto a table before making a face and picking them back up. "I've stood by and watched as you've done your best to ruin yourself, but enough is enough."

"You sound like my brother."

"Perhaps one of us should. For God's sake, Jacob." She began pacing, skirts rustling around her ankles, and he attempted to see the drawing room through her eyes. One of the sofas was upturned; glasses were abandoned on the floor where they had been left. Candle stubs were left on every available surface, and the light was now a little dim. He was probably out of candles and would have to send for some more.

"Oh, look at you." Louisa stopped before him. "This is pathetic. Do you think I lost myself when the man I loved allowed me to marry another?"

"I don't care."

"Yes you do. This is all because you care. Too much." When his eyelids barely flickered, she snorted. "Oh, go stick your head in a bucket. Then maybe we can talk." She took hold of his wrist and dragged him out of his chair with surprising strength. "Outside, now."

"Why are you here?" he asked as he made his unsteady way to the front door. "You weren't invited."

"As if that means anything to me," she said impatiently. "You know I've never been one for convention."

He wrinkled his brow in ponderous confusion. "Did you come here alone?"

"Considering no one knows I'm here, it hardly matters, does it?" She led him into the courtyard to where a pump sat. She pointed underneath it. "Head."

"Now then, Louisa." He attempted a charming smile, though his face was a little numb. "We should talk about this."

"Now, Jacob."

He eyed the pump. The evening was cool, though the day had been extremely warm, and he knew the water would be cold. He swayed on his feet. "I could refuse."

Muttering curses under her breath, she took a handful of hair and dragged his head down. Before he could protest or regain his balance, she doused his head with water. It was shockingly cold, so icy it immediately made his bones ache.

"There," Louisa said as he staggered back. "Now we can talk."

He shook his head like a dog. An element of sobriety fell back into place and he frowned at Louisa with fresh understanding. "What has happened? Why are you here?"

"There we go." She eyed him for a long moment. "Annabelle has run away from home."

The words rang dully in his ears and he heard the sound of his breath as he dragged it in. "Impossible."

"If that were true, I would not be here. She sent me this letter." There was a note of hysterical amusement in Louisa's voice as she drew a slip of paper from her reticule. "Asking me to pretend I'm concealing her if her brother comes asking. Ridiculous girl. Thinking I would not object to this plan of hers."

He ran a clumsy hand over his face, struggling to make sense of everything Louisa was saying. Annabelle had no reason to run away from home. "Why?"

"That idiot Henry thought it would be a good idea to force her into matrimony, but she refuses to marry." Her laugh was slightly wild. "But do you know who she would have married, Jacob, if you had just asked her? That girl is head over heels for you."

"But—"

"And if you mention anything about your family or your name or this ridiculous notion in your head that no one can love you, or that you destroy everything in your life, I will duck your head back under there." She whirled and stormed back to the house. "We leave in half an hour, so get your valet to pack for you—if you still possess one. In fact, never mind. I will ask your valet to pack." She paused at the doorway and glared at him. "And if you refuse, Jacob Barrington, so help me they will never find your body."

Jacob had never been so hungover in his life. The rattling, swaying motion of the carriage was doing nothing good to his stomach, and after travelling through the final hours of night, the sun was beginning to rise, sending sharp shafts of pain directly through his eyeballs.

Coffee. He needed coffee. Then, preferably, sleep for a few days. After that, he could perhaps manage some dry toast.

His stomach rolled again and he gritted his teeth against the wave of nausea.

"Only another few hours now," Louisa said, entirely too cheerfully.

He shot her a dour look. "You don't have to enjoy my suffering quite so obviously."

"Oh but I do, Jacob. You've been enjoying yourself for far too long."

"I'm merely doing what I swore I would always—"

"Enough." She waved an impatient hand. "That story is old and you don't believe a word of it, anyway. All that progress I saw when you were courting Annabelle . . ." She sucked in a breath. "Well, I suppose it is a good thing you're going to ask her to marry you."

"I never said I would," he grumbled, though his skin heated at the words. Marry her. Annabelle would be his. Such a primal word—such a primal feeling. Better his than anyone else's. Every piece of darkness in him rose at the thought of her marrying another man. Being with another man. Submitting to his caresses.

To marry her, he had to accept he would not be the end of the Barrington line. If he married her, he was setting aside a lifetime's worth of hatred in exchange for . . .

Annabelle.

For years, he had thought he did not have a heart, but the truth of the matter had become too pressing to ignore: he had a heart.

And it belonged to Annabelle.

"You will ask her to marry you. And then you will clean up your act and figure out what it means to be happy, because I don't suppose you've ever encountered happiness once in your life."

"History is repeating itself," he said.

Louisa glanced at him sharply. "No it isn't. For one, Madeline was a conniving hussy who wanted all she could get without paying the price. She was greedy, Jacob. She wanted your love and she wanted Cecil's position and she was willing to relinquish neither." She shrugged. "Madeline would never have gone to a boxing match to see you."

The tightness in Jacob's chest only increased at the memory of seeing Annabelle in that awful place—the urgent, all-consuming need to get her out. His anger she was putting herself in danger, and his anger that she was seeing the worst part of himself. But she had not run from him even after he had sent her away, she had come to his home to apologise. To him. Even after she had learnt of Madeline and all the mistakes he had made.

He didn't deserve her. But by God he wanted to learn how to.

"When did she send the letter?"

"Two days ago," Louisa said. "She intended to leave shortly after, so I expect she's already gone."

"And you don't know where?"

"If I did, I would hardly be involving you in this state," she said tartly.

His head ached. His nausea was a clawed beast climbing up his throat, and more than anything else, he couldn't stop thinking of what might have happened to Annabelle. When Madeline made her way from Cecil's house to his, she had never arrived.

Fear raked its way along his insides. Ignoring his pounding hangover, he gripped the seat and leaned closer. "Can this thing go any faster?"