CHAPTER12
Zachary woke feeling as if the devil’s blacksmith had been using his head as an anvil. Beginning the day with regret and bitterness was not a novelty. It was, however, a state he found himself wishing he had left in the past where it belonged.
Groaning, he rolled his arse out of the bed and stalked to the bowl and pitcher, splashing some of the cold, clean water on his face. It had been some time since he had over-imbibed to the extent that his memories of the evening before had been rendered hazy and indistinct. As he scrubbed his cheeks, vague snippets fell into his mind.
He had taken Izzy by the little falls, unable to control himself.
Then presided over dinner.
And promptly had hidden himself away in his father’s old study with Greymoor and Wycombe.
Followed by port.
Whisky.
A gunshot.
“Christ,” he muttered, recalling Potter and the shotgun and the imaginary mice and the hole in the bloody wall of the pantry which he was going to have to hire someone to fix.
What a hopeless muddle the day before had been.
As he dried his face on a towel, another memory hit him.
Beatrice in the hall, tears in her eyes as she told him she loved him, had always loved him. As she had begged him not to carry on with his wedding to Izzy.
He paused, searching his drink-fogged mind to be certain he was not recalling a dream but in fact a reality. But no, not a dream, he realized as he remembered what she had done next, throwing her arms around his neck and rising on her toes to press her lips to his.
It had been real.
Fucking hell!
He tossed water over his mouth, scrubbing it with more force than necessary, until it was tender. And then he scrubbed it some more. Reached for the soap and worked it furiously over his tightly closed lips.
Once, the kiss she had bestowed upon him, like the words, would have been welcome. So very welcome.
But she was eight years too late, a decision too wrong, and the betrayal she had committed against him would never be forgotten. Had not been.
He had pushed her away from him last night, ending the kiss, and then he had pulled her into his chamber so no one would see them speaking or overhear their heated exchange. He would be damned if any hint of scandal tainted Izzy because of Beatrice. He had told Beatrice there was no future for them, that she had turned her back on that when she had chosen Horatio over him.
Beatrice had pleaded prettily, claiming she had been young and foolish and terrified, that her father had forced her into making the match with the future earl rather than the third son. In the end, her protestations, whether true or false, no longer mattered. What had been done could not be undone.
She had made her choice, and now he was making his. And his choice was the future. His choice was Izzy. A woman who was bold and original and eccentric and passionate. Who loved fiercely and did not give a damn what anyone else thought of her. Who wore silk artichokes and tassels and fringe and roses and all manner of nonsense hanging from her gowns and held her head high.
She was a woman he admired, despite the unfortunate events that had united them.
He scrubbed harder, thinking of Izzy. Hating himself for having not pushed Beatrice away quickly enough to avoid the kiss. If he had not been so thoroughly sotted, he would have taken action with haste. But the night had been a tangle of guilt over the manner in which he had taken Izzy’s innocence on the grass, the shock of Potter’s shotgun blasting off, and then the aftermath. Friends and whisky and a mad butler and an impending wedding and a woman from his past who continued to haunt him like a ghost he could never be free of…
The soap leaked into his mouth and it tasted bloody awful, but he deemed it penance. And just as well to remove all traces of Beatrice from his mouth before he faced Izzy again. He was going to have to be honest with her, to reveal what had happened with Beatrice. Although it had not been his fault, and he had not wanted her kiss and had pushed her away with all haste, it had still happened.
It remained a betrayal.
Izzy deserved to know.
He could only hope she was forgiving. That she understood none of what had transpired had been his intent. And after the manner in which Beatrice had all but thrown herself into his bed the night before, he could not deny that what he needed was to make certain she no longer shared a roof with him.
He had no doubt that her sudden desire to rekindle their affair was predicated upon jealousy and the desperate need to make certain she could continue the life to which she had become accustomed. The widowed Countess of Anglesey was entitled to a shabby dower house and less than two thousand pounds per annum. Not enough to fund her society life.
“Damn her,” he said, tasting the bitterness of the soap and his resentment both.
