“Vete,” he called.Go away.Speaking to his staff in Spanish left them wearing aggrieved expressions as they attempted to decipher what he had said.
“My lord,” came the long-suffering voice of his butler. “You have a visitor.”
Alessandro raised the bottle back to his lips, taking another swig. “Al diablo con el.”
“Ahem.” The butler cleared his throat. “Are you certain that you wish me to convey to your future countess she ought to go to the devil?”
Mierda.
Either he was more sotted than he thought, or his butler had been studying the Spanish language, and his betrothed was paying him a call at ten o’clock in the evening. He placed the bottle upon a table alongside a book he had been trying—and failing—to read before he had settled for the distraction of spirits instead.
And then he rose. “You are certain it is my future countess?” he asked.
“May I open the door, sir?”
He sighed, then stalked across the room and yanked open the portal himself. “Where is she?”
“In the guest parlor, my lord,” his butler said, his countenance stoic and unruffled as ever.
“Is she alone?” he demanded next, despite suspecting he already knew the answer.
“Yes, my lord.”
What in the hell did she think she was doing, venturing out in the night—alone, no less—one day before their wedding? Had she no respect for herself? No inkling of how much unnecessary danger she was placing herself in?
Moreover, why had she come?
What could possibly be the reason?
He wanted answers,maldición, and he wanted them now.
But every thought churning through his brandy-soaked mind fled when he crossed the threshold of the parlor and saw Lady Catriona standing there with a tear-stained face. Something seized inside his chest. He had never before seen her upset, and the stricken expression on her face was enough to make fear clamp down on him, along with a sudden rush of protectiveness.
“Lady Catriona,” he said, closing the distance between them. “What is wrong?”
“Monty,” she said on a sob, hurtling herself into his chest as if it were where she belonged.
Dios, what had the scapegrace done now?
“Montrose?” His arms came around her, which felt alarmingly natural.
Right, taunted a voice within him.
Wrong, he corrected. What he felt for her was the instinctive reaction of a male body to a feminine body pressed against it. Their union was temporary in nature. He would not sully Maria’s memory by fooling himself into thinking he possessed tender feelings for a woman he scarcely knew.
Lady Catriona nodded against his chest, sobbing enough to saturate the fine lawn of his shirt. He was not wearing a cravat, coat, or waistcoat, leaving precious few layers to separate them. “There was an accident.”
Cristo.Montrose was notdead, was he?
“What sort of accident,querida?” His hand traveled up and down her spine in soothing strokes.
“He was racing Viscount Torrington,” she explained, her breath catching on another wave of sobs. “They were both in their cups, and they settled upon some foolish wager.”
“Racing?” What a pair of addle pates. He may be halfway sotted himself, but he had nowhere to go but his bedchamber. And if he knew Montrose, the racing would have been breakneck. “Is Montrose…”
“He is injured, Rayne,” she said, winding her arms around his waist. “But Hattie’s brother, Lord Torrington is far worse. H-he may not live.”
The depth of Lady Catriona’s distress made sense now. He frowned, a surge of anger coursing through him at Montrose’s recklessness. Would the fool’s stupidity know no end?
