Somber now, his brother studied him with a penetrating stare. “What has you rattled, Spencer? I haven’t seen you like this since…”
Although Harry allowed his words to trail off, they both knew what remained unspoken.Millicent.The astute observation made him flinch, fingers tightening on his glass. For a moment he wondered absurdly whether he could crush crystal with a grip. He envisioned it, the glass shattering, raining shards to the floor, jagged edges impaling his hand. He deserved such a punishment, and worse.
Once, in the darkest days following his wife’s death, he had made himself bleed.
Something was wrong with him. Clearly. He possessed some inherent form of cruelty that caused him to inflict suffering upon those closest to him. First, he had driven Millicent to her violent death before him, and now he was about to watch the light flee his brother’s eyes. What blackness lived inside him? Three years outrunning his demons had not been long enough.
For now, here he stood, numb with a combined distillation of grief and spirits, on the precipice of hurting the brother he cared for more than another soul in the world. His vision darkened, a rushing sound roaring in his ears like the current of a flooded river. The glass dropped from his hand, landing at his feet.
He looked down. At least it had been empty. The soft carpet had cushioned its fall. Nothing was broken or ruined, except for Spencer himself.
“Damn it, Spencer, are you ill?” Harry rushed forward, entering his line of vision, expression drawn taut with concern. “Tell me what ails you, for God’s sake.”
He forced himself to speak. “I compromised Lady Boadicea Harrington this afternoon.”
There. He’d done it.
Harry froze. “Lady Bo?”
Ah, so his brother was familiar enough with her already to condense her name. For some reason, that revelation irked him, sending something needling through the haze blanketing his mind. He refused to believe it was jealousy. But he couldn’t help but wonder whether Harry’s tongue had ever been in her mouth. The notion made him ill.
He cleared his throat, meeting Harry’s gaze. “The same.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “How can that be possible? She was going to take a rest in her chamber, read a book. Yesterday’s journey here left her in need of settling.”
Damnation. Spencer closed his eyes for a moment. His brother imagined Lady Boadicea had been reading an innocent tome in her chamber when in fact she’d been closeted inside his library, devouring filth. The book was still in his jacket, seeming to burn a hole straight into his skin. Mocking him.
“I’m afraid she did not seek out her chamber,” he managed with as much gentleness as he could muster.
Harry seized his jacket, shaking him with surprising strength given his leaner form. “Don’t dare to suggest she went looking for you. She doesn’t even like you.”
That rather stung. She had seemed to like him well enough when his hand had been up her skirts, but he refrained from offering that particular gem of wisdom.
“She mistakenly came here. We were alone. Mother and the Duchess of Cartwright happened upon us, and I…she is ruined, Harry. I will rectify matters, but I wanted to grant you the dignity of informing you before I speak with the Marquis of Thornton to ask for her hand.”
A frown furrowed his brother’s brow, but his grip on Spencer’s jacket hadn’t relented. “You were alone with her. I don’t see the concern. With our mother pressing her, I daresay the Duchess of Cartwright won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Crisis averted. There’s no need for you to approach Lord Thornton or for you to marry Lady Bo at all.”
Harry’s insistence upon calling her Lady Bo grated on him in a way that it should not. After all, he had been courting her, squiring her about, spending time in her presence. Spencer didn’t know anything else about her save that she read bawdy books and smelled like a lush bloom and her mouth was made to be ravaged by kisses.
His kisses.
No. He mustn’t think such thoughts. It was not where his addled mind was meant to head. First, it appeared he would have to explain his follies in enough depth to compel Harry that his courtship of Lady Boadicea was indeed at an end.
He wished he had another whisky, but his glass remained on the floor, and his brother continued to hold him with the grip of a man caught between rage and denial.
“Harry,” he said again, “there is need.”
“What are you saying, damn you?” Harry growled, giving him another shake.
He allowed it, accepted his brother’s rage, for it was well-deserved, and it was the least he could do. He would let Harry imagine anything he chose of him, if it could lessen the sting of what he’d done.
“Her skirts were raised,” he elaborated with a cool, detached air he little felt. “The Duchess of Cartwright was correct in her outrage.”
“You bastard.” Harry released his jacket, face going white. “Did you force yourself on her?”
Good God. Even his own flesh and blood believed him a monster. He stared, unblinking. “Believe what you will. The salient fact is that I must meet with Thornton in half an hour’s time, and I will be asking him for Lady Boadicea’s hand in her father’s absence.”
“No.” His brother shook his head, his fists clenching at his sides. “You won’t. I will. I don’t care what’s happened. I’ll marry Lady Bo before I see her shackled to you.”
