Chapter Sixteen
Grasped gently, a nettle will sting.
A writhing darkness unfurled within Rakecombe’s chest.
It wasn’t the darkness of a summer’s eve, fragrant and warm, but the ugly mean darkness of winter. The type that froze men in their steps and caused one to spill blood just to keep warm.
His wifegiggledas the infamous Lord MacDougall whispered in her ear, and he wondered how the rascal would like another scar to complement the one which marred his toadying mug.
Not that females cared about the facial blemish. The broad-shouldered Scot had never revealed the cause of his disfigurement but many a lady shivered in delight at the whispered tales of a duel or acts of piracy.
Rakecombe had a feeling he’d simply fallen in a ditch when foxed and slashed his cheek on brambles.
Nevertheless, the anger that had seeded itself at the masquerade continued to grow at this soirée. He could sense it, erasing all control and authority.
Admittedly, he had no right to be jealous as this was what he’d wanted. Separate lives. But what he hadn’t been prepared for was the violent awakening within.
He’d thought it would be possible to command this hideous feeling, to ignore it or bludgeon it into submission, but it kept rearing its snarling jealous head.
Some pallid chit encroached upon him, and he was about to tell her to remove her objectionable person when Aideen glanced over. So instead he smiled at the unsuspecting pigeon.
Two could play at this game…
Rakecombe suspected his lips must have held a hint of cruelty as the chit visibly shuddered, but instead of walking in the opposite direction, as her instincts were surely screaming, she tentatively smiled back whilst fidgeting with a curl.
The motion reminded him of Aideen and his expression chilled.
Jealousy was a fool’s game with no winners.
The pigeon flew away and he didn’t even notice.
“I say, Rakeshame, you look like you’ve pissed on a nettle.”
He turned that chill on Winterbourne, who’d arrived at his side to survey the horde crowding Buckland’s drawing room. “’Tis purely this Stafford issue. I have to meet an informant in Seven Dials at a half after midnight and I am fatigued.”
“Of course, of course. Never said it wasn’t. Do you need me?” The marquess rocked on his heels, claret in hand.
Rakecombe shook his head. Bluey wouldn’t show if he observed an unfamiliar face.
Despite knowing Winterbourne would never attempt to seduce his wife, Rakecombe’s thoughts still churned at the intimate scene he’d witnessed on the sofa. And it wasn’t that the rogue’s fingers had been on his wife’s shoulder, although that did bring a dull ache, and it wasn’t even that she’d been displaying a long luscious leg.
No, it was that she’d been laughing, her sooty eyes wrinkling in joy.
When was the last time he’d brought his wife joy? When she’d lain beneath him in their marriage bed? But that was a different joy, not the carefree type he’d observed yesterday.
When had he ever made Aideen laugh?
He’d even been jealous of Miss Greenwood after he’d supressed his male appreciation of two beautiful women cuddled together. Aideen was so caring and affectionate. He remembered the touch of her hand on his bruised eye, and God how he yearned to feel it again.
“Alex, would you like some advice?”
No, he bloody wouldn’t. People had been full of it lately. But he had a feeling he was going to hear some gormless drivel anyhow. He waited for Winterbourne to drag out some trite rule or ridiculous plan.
“Life is short. It can even be brutal in this day and age.” The marquess tipped his glass to a glowing Aideen. “So when some happiness comes into your life, don’t deny it.”
“You don’t understa–”
“Yes, I think I probably do.” Dark, flat eyes hollowed into him without mirth. “To deny happiness is to deny life, and we insult the dead by doing so. Don’t forsake the present for past mistakes.”
