“Father,” he began. “I—”
“Donotcall me father.” For the first time, rage coloured his voice. The cane swished again and lightning flared across Jacob’s back. Despite the lip caught between his teeth, he made a mewling sound of agony. “You’re a coward,” his father continued, tone biting, the words falling almost as hard as the cane’s metal tip. “And you are unworthy of the name of Barrington.”
A different kind of hurt settled in Jacob’s chest—not the sting of pain, or the aching sensation of being beaten, but something colder that wrapped around his heart with frosty fingers and ate away the last of his desire to belong. He had known for a long time that they would never accept him, but this beating was the final straw, and his desire for acceptance was the camel’s back.
If they would refuse to love him, he would not love them. If they thought he was bad, he would be worse; if he was to be hated, he would give them something to hate.
And he would make them all regret every day he carried the name Barrington.
Chapter One
January 25th1814
Lord Jacob Barrington crawled out of the ditch that held his curricle and took stock of the situation. Groaning, Mrs Clarissa Bentley also extracted herself from the splintered wood, and he extended a lazy hand to her.
“How gentlemanlike of you,” she said with a trace of irony.
“For you, my dear? Anything.”
“You could have not taken the corner too fast and upturned the carriage,” she said impatiently, but he was already striding towards the horses, examining them with a critical eye marred slightly by the fact he was, as it happened, somewhat drunk.
“Damn,” he said as he noted one of the horses had twisted its fetlock. “Riding home is out then, I suppose.”
Clarissa sighed. “I suppose I should have known better than to accept the Devil’s offer of company.”
“You should,” he agreed. People often said that about him. He was known as the Devil of St James, which meant that most who involved themselves with him grew to wish they had not.
Two years ago, Clarissa had been unfortunate enough to marry a gentleman many years her senior, and fortunate enough to see him buried within six months. Now, she was a rather fast widow, and Jacob offered her company and entertainment with no expectations. Both things she provided, to an extent, in return.
“And yet,” she said, “I still chose to accompany you.”
“A poor decision.”
“I should have known better.”
“I quite agree.” He freed the horses and looked at the curricle again. One of the wheels had detached entirely and the other had shattered spokes; the seat was, regrettably, pierced by a shard of wood they were lucky had not impaled them too. All in all, the chances of getting this particular carriage fixed were small. Especially at the side of an empty country road.
Of course, it was unfortunate they had crashed. But considering he’d stolen Cecil’s horses and carriage, he didn’t feel burdened with the cost of replacing them.
He would, however, arrange to have the remainder of the curricle towed back to his brother, as a token of goodwill. That would be sure to get a reaction. After twenty-six years of less-than-cordial rivalry and being the inferior brother, baiting Cecil was as much habit as inclination.
“Well?” Clarissa asked, her arms folded and her eyebrows raised. Her bonnet had all but fallen off her head and her gloves were muddy. “What are you going to do?”
“Regretfully, I am not going to ravish you on the blanket I had procured specifically for the occasion.”
“Regretfully?” She looked at him in exasperation. “If you had thoughts of ravishment in mind, you would have done better to visit my house. Where there is a bed.”
“Then where would be the adventure?” he mocked.
“Between the sheets. Or perhaps on the floor. Against the wall. There are plenty of places the more adventurous of us might look.”
“And yet it lacks a certain something,” he murmured, looking at the empty road. London was not far away, but they were surrounded by green hedges and fields, with not another soul in sight. “I believe we are going to have to avail ourselves of a stranger’s generosity,” he said. “We passed a farm a mile or two back.”
“My shoes,” she said in resignation.
“How unfortunate,” he said, not giving a damn about her shoes or any other aspect of her appearance. In addition to being a widow, she was fabulously wealthy, which was more than he could claim. His income came from the generosity of his brother—which was to say, he had little income except for when he won it at the card table.
“If they ask, I shall claim to be your wife,” Clarissa warned as he cut the horses free and took hold of their reins.
