Will was devoting himself to the business of getting completely and thoroughly foxed. After he’d embarrassed himself by casting up his accounts all over the front hall, his pride hadn’t allowed him to chase after her. No, instead, he’d found a bottle of fine whisky and had drained it to the last drop. He woke the next morning on the floor of the music room with an aching head and stiff back, still wearing his clothing from the previous day. Wallowing in self-disgust, he’d discovered a bottle of brandy in his study and begun all over again.
He tossed back the contents of his glass and stared with grim intent at the cuts in the crystal. She didn’t want him. She’d finally had enough, and she’d gone. He couldn’t blame her either. Damn it, he should have told her the truth when he’d first begun to have feelings for her. Telling her and making amends would have been so much easier before he’d allowed it to go too far. Maria’s unexpected arrival had not helped matters, but he didn’t fool himself on that score. The duke had been behind Victoria’s departure. Damn the old meddling bastard to hell.
As he poured his third glass of brandy and soda water, the duke abruptly burst into his study. His blue gaze, so like Will’s own, was cold as always, his face a mask of disdain.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re getting inebriated again,” his father drawled, his voice laced with condemnation.
It was a tone he’d become accustomed to from the duke, but he wasn’t in the mood to be harassed. He was a powder keg. One more spark, and he’d explode. He stiffened, trying to calm himself before he responded. Allowing the duke to see how deeply he affected him would not do. It was precisely why he’d been avoiding his father.
“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head but refusing to stand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your illustrious company?”
“You have disappointed me your entire life, but this goes beyond the pale.” The duke stalked across the carpet, stopping at the escritoire to slam his fist upon its polished surface. “You have had one duty in your miserable existence, and somehow you’ve managed to fail at it. I have it on good authority that you’ve bedded half the tarts of London and yet you won’t bed your own countess.”
“For once we’re in complete agreement,” he acknowledged tightly. “My wife wants to return to America. You can keep her gold in your blasted coffers, but you’ll not be getting your heir.”
“Nonsense. There won’t be a divorce. I won’t allow it.” The duke slammed his fist again. “How was I to have known you’d lied to the chit? By God, you’ve never done anything properly. I should have simply married that American lightskirt myself.”
The urge to land a solid punch to his father’s haughty face had never been stronger. He stood, pinning the duke with a deadly glare. “Never insult my wife. If you even so much as speak her name ever again, I’ll thrash you as I should have a long time ago.”
The duke had a large stature as well, but his muscled form had withered with age. There was no doubt that in a physical match, Will would be the victor. His father knew it. He stilled, surprise evident in his expression. It was the first time Pembroke had ever stood up to his father. The weight he’d carried with him his entire life lifted. He felt light. Liberated.
“You dare to threaten me?” The duke raised an imperious brow.
“I dare much where you’re concerned,” he assured him, a new sense of confidence soaring within him. “You’ve done enough damage here. I’ll right the wrongs I’ve done, and if I have anything to say about it, you’ll have your blessed heir. But that’s only because I want to start a family with Victoria. I’ll not countenance any more meddling or disrespect, not from you or anyone else.”
“Who do you think you are to speak to me thus?” the duke demanded, sputtering.
“I’m your bloody son.” Something that had bothered him for years returned to him then in that moment of rebellion, and he had to know. “Whilst we’re throwing all the wood onto the fire, tell me one thing, Your Grace. Who killed my puppy? I was a stripling and my only comfort in the world was that damn dog.”
His father’s expression clouded with uncontrived confusion. “Puppy? I haven’t the time to worry about your mongrels, Pembroke.”
It had been his mother, then. After all these years, he had the truth. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, but the revelation made his mouth go dry. He thought of the six-year-old boy he’d been, longing for affection from a broken, angry woman. That boy was now a man who’d treated his wife every bit as poorly as he’d once been treated. How could he have willingly visited that pain upon another? Shame was a breathtaking thing.
A new resolve overcame him. He’d spent his time enraging the duke with one scandal after the next. He’d wasted years on hollow retribution. But revenge didn’t matter. He’d never change his father, never undo the damage of the past. But he could move forward. He could choose love instead of hate. The time had come for him to be a man. He had to win back Victoria. Without her, his life was an empty husk.
His mind made up, he strode past his startled father.
“Where the devil are you going?” the duke called after him, clearly consternated.
“To get my wife,” he returned over his shoulder, not bothering to glance back at his father. The past was where it belonged, and the only future he wanted had Victoria in it. He had to earn her trust again. There was no other course.
h dear.”
Victoria glanced up from the book she’d been unenthusiastically reading in Maggie’s cheery London drawing room. Her friend had just burst into the room in a riot of pinned red curls and violet silks, wringing her hands, her countenance quite vexed. Nothing could detract from Maggie’s vibrant loveliness, Victoria thought with not a bit of envy.
She snapped the volume in her lap closed, not bothering to mark the page. As distractions went, it had served to be an exceedingly poor one. She frowned as her friend began pacing across the polished floor as if she’d just had word of a death in the family. “What is it, Maggie?”
“Forgive me, my dearest.” Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth, looking ill. “I don’t know how this has happened.”
Victoria stood at once, a growing knot of worry in her stomach. “Whatever can be the matter? Surely you’ve done nothing that requires my forgiveness.”
“I have not,” Maggie hastened to assure her, stopping in her frantic motions. “But someone has.”
“I can take no more suspense, Maggie.” She braced herself for the news. “What can it be?”
“Pembroke,” Maggie finally revealed. Even her carefully wrought coiffure was coming undone in her fervor. “I’m afraid he’s come here and he’s demanding to see you.”
Welled-up emotion gave a sudden pang in her chest. For the past three days, she’d vacillated between anger and longing for him. She’d halfheartedly waited for him to turn up with his charming grin and melting kisses. She’d even had a dream her first night in London that he’d come for her and begged her forgiveness. It had been so real that she’d woken and looked for him in bed beside her. But reality had intruded with the glaring light of dawn, and she’d been alone in a strange bed, still betrayed and broken.
