It’d been a gut punch to uncover the ruse Lucy perpetuated, and hurt and bitter and angry as he’d been—Or was? He couldn’t make sense of anything anymore—he’d viciously, unforgivably mocked Lucy.
Grief scissored through him. He’d taunted her with an adorable habit that’d endeared him.
Fingers shaking, Arran tossed back the rich, spiced contents.
It didn’t help.
His damned heart was attacking him. He rubbed that place where that organ rested. Rested? The traitorous organ thudded in a sick beat, an acrimonious laugh beginning deep in his chest.
Soused. He was going to get jug-bitten. Properly shot in the neck. Ape drunk.
To succeed in forgetting Lucy and his abominable treatment of her, he was going to need something a good deal stronger than sherry, and a whole bloody cask of it. Arran angled his head and locked in on the footman behind him. “Helmsworth, why don’t we try something more fortifyi—fortifiedthan claret, eh? How about some rum?”
As the obedient servant went to collect a bottle, Dallin leaned behind his wife’s seat to secure some privacy with Arran.
“Hey, little brother,” he said quietly, “why don’t we save the stronger spirits for after?”
Ignoring him outright, Arran accepted the glass Helmsworth came bearing. He was all too happy to reach the state of mind-numbing inebriation as quick as he could.
Oleander and Quillon, recently inducted to polite spirits, exchanged a look. In unison, the pair tossed back their respective drinks.
With the countess scolding the youngest ladies and the earl staring pensively off, Arran’s brother-in-law, the Duke of Aragon, schooled the boys. “It’s meant to be sipped, lads.”
The recalcitrant Oleander and Quillon’s attempts to secure a second sherry were thwarted by Lord Winfield shaking his head once at the footmen stationed behind the younger gentlemen’s chairs.
Someonemay as well be the responsible adult in the room. Lord knew it wasn’t Arran. Not after his bloody explosion that afternoon.
Arran was content to reach a state of mind-numbing inebriation as quick as possible.
For three short dayshe’d been happier than he had in the course of his miserable existence. He’d learned to laugh again. He’d spoken about life and…by God, he’dbaked. He’d baked bloody gingerbread. And…Christ save his soul, Arran had fallen in love with the breathtaking Scottish lass.
The truth he’d resisted these past days for different reasons slammed into him with the weight of a cannonball to the chest.
There it was.
That there was the reason he’d off-loaded on Lucy. He’d been humiliated and hurt and horrified to know he’d fallen so hard and fast for her, that she’d managed to seize his heart, mind, and soul so quickly, so completely, when her feelings for Campbell defied time.
Arran stared into the pale gold contents that reflected back his own misery; the echo of her sobs as he’d shut the door on her and walked away, pounded inside his head.
Ah, God. Arran drank deep.
He chose the wrong moment to drink away his sorrow.
“…It is unfortunate you were not forthright in the kitchens last night, Miss LeBeau…”
The last, hate-filled barb he’d hurled at Lucy ravaged him.
“…If I’d in fact known Campbell had no claim to you, I would have satisfied both our itches…”
The sweet spirits turned to vinegar on his heavy tongue, choking him.
But not merciful enough to kill him.
Alas, in the end, his family opted to finish him off once and for all.
“Wherever is Lucy?” Myrtle pondered aloud.
“…It did not occur to me that none of you would recall me. I should have…I’m just a serving girl. And no one did…”
