Hearing this news from his wife’s lover made Jack flinch. Of course, he knew she hated him. She had already told him so. And he knew all the reasons why.
His lip curled. “That is unfortunate for her. However, marriages have been existing regardless of the tender emotions of the men and women involved for centuries. A loveless union is hardly anything new.”
Sidmouth’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I love her, damn you. Let her go. Let her be happy.”
Would Sidmouth make Nell happy? The notion gave Jack pause. Somehow, it had been easier to ignore the relationship his wife had built with the viscount before the man stood before him.
“You are in good company,” he told the viscount grimly. “I love her, too.”
Though the emotion did him not one whit of good.
Sidmouth frowned. “If you love her, you have the devil’s own way of showing it. No man who would spend the last few years on the Continent rather than at Nell’s side is worthy of her.”
Jack had never been worthy of her. He knew that. When they had first met, he had been a no-account wastrel more concerned with getting his prick wet and drinking himself to oblivion than aught else. Not much had changed after they had married, aside from his falling deeper into drink and his determination to remain faithful to their vows.
A determination which had failed him.
He had kissed another woman. That it had not been intentional did not matter. His self-loathing remained an acid in his gut, eating away at him.
“It was at Nell’s decree that I left,” he bit out, wondering why he bothered to defend himself to Sidmouth.
He owed the viscount nothing. Whilst Sidmouth owed him an apology for trespassing.
“Can you blame her?” Sidmouth sneered back. “You were always a skirt-chasing carouser, but what you did to Nell is beyond the pale. You could have spared her the humiliation of bedding another woman beneath her own roof. And one of her friends, no less.”
“Yes, a dreadful thing, is it not?” He could not keep the bitterness from his voice then. “One’sfriendand one’s spouse?”
The viscount’s cheeks went ruddy at the thinly veiled suggestion in Jack’s words. “We were never friends, Needham. Indeed, I would be hard-pressed to suppose you friends with anything other than the bottle.”
That barb hit too close to the truth. Though in fact, theyhadbeen friends. No longer.
“You have precisely one minute to get out of this house, Sidmouth,” he growled. “Remain a second longer at your peril. As it is, keeping myself from thrashing you to within an inch of your life is costing me all the control I have remaining.”
But Sidmouth did not go.
“I will not leave Nell.”
Rage coursed through him. He strode forward, toward Sidmouth. His every intention to act the gentleman fled. “You have no bloody choice, Sidmouth.”
Sidmouth was not intimidated. He stood stoic. “What happened to your face, Needham?”
“None of your damned concern,” he gritted from between clenched teeth. “You have until the count of ten.”
“I am not going anywhere until I am reassured of her welfare.” Sidmouth stood stubborn, unrelenting. “I would wager those scratches on your face are from her, are they not? By God, if you harmed her in any way…”
As if he would have harmed Nell. He worshiped the woman. He would sooner cut off his own hand than raise it against her. But that was none of the viscount’s concern. His marriage with Nell was private. It was between himself and Nell only. And it would not be ended so this pallid lord could take her for his own.
“One,” he began counting, “two. Leave.”
“No.”
The rage continued to boil as Sidmouth refused to retreat. Not even one step. Something inside Jack splintered for the first time since he had received the letter from Nell in which she had requested divorce. He stopped counting when he reached the viscount. His mind and his body were separated. His fist, with a will of its own, collided with Sidmouth’s nose.
There was the satisfying crunch of bone. Pain shot up his arm. He scarcely felt it. Blood spurted from the viscount’s face. His eyes were wide with shock as he clasped a hand over his bleeding nose, scarlet dripping through his fingers. Jack reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, withdrew his handkerchief, and whipped it at Sidmouth’s face.
“You are making a mess of my carpets, Sidmouth,” he told him dispassionately, feeling almost as if he watched the scene unfolding from another room.
The fury lingered within him. But he could not deny the sudden gratification rising. Hitting Sidmouth, drawing his blood, brought out the beast within him. In truth, he ought to have split the bastard in two for trespassing upon his wife. Time and distance did not matter. Nell washismarchioness, damn it all.
