He raised his shoulders in an indolent shrug. “I wanted her as my wife, and now I have her. Go play hazard or tup a whore, Whitley. I care not what you do, so long as it does not involve me.”
But Whitley’s expression only grew more determined. “Why did you want her, specifically?”
“Why not?” He forced a smile he little felt, raising his glass toward the duke in a mock salute. “My bride is beautiful, and I could not be more pleased with her.”
Which was the truth and the reason for his inner torment. He could not want her and use her at the same time. He could not need her as much as he did, with a ferocity that threatened to tear him in two, if he was also using her to lure Rayne back to England. He could not spend all the hours in his day either fucking her or thinking about fucking her if he also meant to make her his weapon of revenge upon her heartless bastard of a brother.
“Lady Leonora is indeed beautiful,” Whitley agreed. “And a very kind, gentle-natured sort, as vulnerable as a kitten, which makes your choice all the more intriguing.”
“She is the Marchioness of Searle now,” he reminded his friend, sending another damning gulp of spirits down his gullet. By God, for a moment, there was not one Whitley exuding ferocious disapproval but two. He closed his eyes, collecting himself as a wave of dizziness assailed him.
If he passed out in the midst of the public rooms, would Kirkwood have his arse hauled to a private room? Perhaps Whitley could help him to his carriage. It may be time to execrate—er,extricatehimself—from The Duke’s Bastard.
“You look hideously cup-shot, Morgan. Let me get you to your carriage before you pass out on the floor and piss yourself.”
How like Whitley to couch a friendly request with an insult. Morgan thought about consuming more whisky, but his gut roiled at the notion. The familiar sights and sounds of the club swirled at the edges of his vision. Perhaps he ought to have spent the day at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon with Monty, beating him to a pulp. Violence was a restorative where drink was a curse.
“I can get myssself to m’bloody carriage, Cris,” he slurred, attempting to stand and falling back on his arse in an undignified heap.
Well, this had certainly taken a turn for the best.Er, the worst.
His mind was muddled, as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The warm glow of oblivion that had been tingling within him now felt like the heat of the sun, burning him, making him sweat. Or perhaps that was his newfound sense of guilt, eating him alive.Damnation, he had taken up the whisky to avoid such unpleasant emotions, not to wallow in them further.
He blamed this entire cratastrop-catastero…eternal hellfire, why had even his brain ceased functioning? This entirecatastrophe, he blamed upon the Duke of Whitley. Without his presence, Morgan never would have consumed so much whisky in such a short amount of time. Never mind that he had already been well on his way to becoming drunk as an emperor before Whitley’s arrival.
“I shall have Duncan prepare a private chamber for you,” the duke said coolly. “I am not certain you can travel in this state. Whatever has happened to you, Morgan, I can assure you that playing the toss pot at one’s club is decidedly not the rage.”
“I do not need a private chamber, and nor do I give a proper goddamn what is the rage,” he snarled, growing angry with the duke for his cursed persistence.
Kirkwood appeared at his elbow then, and it should hardly come as a surprise, for Morgan had learned quickly that the man presided over his club like a king seated upon his throne.
“Lord Searle, allow me to direct you to a private chamber for your comfort,” Kirkwood offered, his tone convivial but with an underlying edge even Morgan could discern, in his cups though he was.
Kirkwood was not making a polite request of him but making an order.
Christ, he had not imagined the day when the Duke of Whitley and the bastard son of a duke would become his bloody jailers. He stood, and this time managed to keep his balance, grinding his jaw as he allowed the two men to flank him and lead him into a side door which led to a series of interior halls Kirkwood no doubt used to manage the club.
In icy silence, the three of them traveled to a private chamber that was comfortably appointed. The door had scarcely closed before Kirkwood was upon him. “See here, Searle, as you are the husband of Mrs. Kirkwood’s most beloved friend, I am choosing not to toss you on your arse or ban you from my club. But by God, if you dishonor or embarrass Lady Leonora in any fashion, I will not hesitate to cut you to size and lay you low. Am I understood?”
“It seems to me you are too fond of my wife, Kirkwood,” he countered, a sharp pang of possessiveness shooting through him. “I will remind you she is now the Marchioness of Searle and Lady Leonora no longer.”
“Consider yourself warned, Searle.” Kirkwood bowed, and then exchanged a look with Whitley before leaving.
Whitley turned to him then, his gaze frank and assessing. “What happened to you, Morgan? In Spain, the day you were taken captive?”
The mere wordSpainwas enough to make the snake coiled within him strike. He could not control himself, not his rage, not his tongue, not his fists when such moods came upon him. “What happened to me is that I was savaged, Whitley. I was taken captive first by a cutthroat band of Spaniards and then by an even more cutthroat and vicious group of Boney’s forces. They tortured me until I bled. They made me scream so they could laugh. Is that what you want to hear?”
Whitley had paled, his nostrils flaring. “No. Christ, no, Morgan. You are my friend. I have carried with me for so long the guilt of that day, knowing I failed you, wishing it had been me instead.”
“It never would have been you,” he said, stopping himself when he realized he had revealed too much.
Whitley did not miss the revelation. “Why do you say that?”
“Because…” He swayed as the chamber spun about him.
Because it had been planned by their superior officers. BecauseEl Corazón Oscurowas the alias of the Earl of Rayne, and because Rayne had been given orders to secret Morgan behind enemy lines in what would have been a highly dangerous mission. He had known the mission was coming, but he had not knownEl Corazón Oscurowas actually one of his own forces. That knowledge had only come much, much later, and even then, purely by accident during his recovery.
One eavesdropped conversation. The shuffle through some encoded correspondence. And the truth had been his. So, too, the need for revenge. Rayne’s ineptitude had been the cause of his imprisonment. Rayne deserved to suffer.
