His feet ached, his back ached, and his bloody head damn well ached.
He had never been wearier in his life. And yet, he had been unable to sleep. Instead, Zachary conducted a perambulatory prowl of the old library at Barlowe Park, struggling to numb himself against the day and the ghosts of the past as he drowned himself in Horatio’s brandy stores.
The brandy had been a happy discovery.
The only one.
At least he could blunt some of the sting by pouring his brother’s cherished spirits down his gullet. Every other part of the day had been met with abject failure. Not enough servants. Not enough food. Mice in the kitchens. Dust everywhere. A housekeeper of questionable experience. A butler who was perhaps daft as well as deaf.
The list went on.
Innumerable.
Even the assortment of books in the library was dreadfully disappointing, filled with treatises on sailing, which had been Horatio’s and Philip’s love and which Zachary did not give a damn about as a result. He and his brothers had been bitter enemies to the end. It had not always been so, however.
And returning here to Barlowe Park was an unexpectedly poignant reminder of that. The house and lands had been in the Barlowe family for centuries, and Zachary had spent much of his youth here within these walls, chasing his older brothers as they excluded him from riding, hunting, and fishing. Sadly for his younger self, he had not been blessed with the prescience to understand the early divide between Zachary and his brothers would only deepen, widen, and become insurmountable over time.
“Forgive me. I did not know you were within.”
The soft voice startled him. And yet, he could not say he was sorry to hear it.
Zachary bit back a grin as he turned to the threshold of the library, where the woman he was going to marry in one week’s time hovered. Her dark hair was unbound, trailing over her shoulders, and she was wrapped in a dressing gown patterned with roses and lily of the valley. It was not nearly as garish as her traveling attire had been, when she had resembled nothing so much as a peacock, what with all the bold colors and plumage.
“Izzy,” he greeted her, offering a bow before he straightened to his full height. “I am surprised to find you here. I had not expected the rest of the household to be awake at this late hour.” He withdrew his pocket watch and consulted it. “Half past one.”
And tomorrow, he would need to rise early so that he might further investigate the state of the park. Why was it that he had been unable to sleep?
Ah, yes. Beatrice. Izzy. Impending nuptials. Memories.
This, too, was an endless catalogue as unwanted as the first.
Lady Isolde ventured nearer, clutching a lone taper she must have used to guide her through the maze of halls and bring her here. “Did you wish for silence and solitude? I can well understand it, after the day. I’ll not be insulted if you ask me to go.”
“Stay,” he said, holding out a hand to her. “I do not mind the company, particularly when it is so lovely.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it, as she placed the taper on a table and moved toward him. “I do not suppose it is proper for me to linger.”
He grinned. “Proper is for two sorts of people, darling. The boring and the dead.”
“You are sacrilegious, my lord.”
Her hand settled in his, their palms connecting, the heat of her soft skin sending a flare of awareness through him.
“Zachary.” He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. Then, unable to resist, another on her inner wrist. “And I try my best to be profane whenever I can. It makes life ever so much more palatable.”
Speaking of palatable, her pulse was pounding fast against his lips, and her scent lingered sweetly, as if she had dabbed some of her perfume there earlier. He inhaled lilies and violets and kissed her inner wrist again.
“You are incorrigible,” she said, but there was no sting in her words, only a smile.
He grinned at her and refused to relinquish her hand. “I am interesting.”
He nipped her with his teeth.
She inhaled swiftly. “And wicked.”
He raised his head, meeting her gaze. “Guilty, I am afraid. Not repentant either, however.”
“I should go to bed,” she said, her voice hushed.
