Page 32 of Dangerous

Once the room was empty he slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The view above him was a baroque extravaganza, some forgotten artist’s rendering of Velazquez’s Triumph of Bacchus. The young god wore little more than a crown of grape leaves and a bemused frown, as though he’d been waylaid by rambunctious revelers rather than the other way around. Those who flanked him bore the inebriated leers of men who would have whopping headaches in the morning. Men like Adam.

He closed his eyes. “You bloody fool.” The words were more than a little slurred. The result of most of a bottle of brandy, Lord knew how much wine, and an almost empty stomach. And all of it had been for nothing.

The naked truth was that he was terrified of bedding his wife. Not of the act, of course. No, he was relentlessly hard for that. Not to mention disturbingly eager. Where would such an intense yearning lead? If he’d felt this way about Veronica, he certainly didn’t recall it.

Not that it mattered how he felt. He doubted he could even find his wife’s bedchamber at this point, and he wouldn’t be any good to her if he did. Besides, she had probably barred the door and wouldn’t admit him after his behavior tonight.

He groaned. The entire day had been a disaster, and he was its architect. He’d wanted to establish his self-control in their marriage right from the start with distance and formality. Instead, he’d behaved like the selfish, cold, inhuman monster society believed him to be. Not to mention a disgusting drunk.

He must have been mad to marry again; were not two disastrous, infamous marriages enough? How, in God’s name, would this one end?

Adam grabbed the glass of port and threw it back in one swallow. It only made him feel sicker and he pushed away the bottle to resist any further temptation. Pushing his thoughts away wasn’t quite as easy.

When was the last time he’d consumed so much alcohol? University? He lowered his head into his hands and squeezed his pounding temples. He’d not become a drunken sot the entire time he’d been married to Veronica. Not even after the horror of her death had he needed to suffocate his pain with drink. In fact, he’d felt no pain—or anything at all by the end of it.

He’d always assumed that was because Veronica had stolen away his ability to feel bit by bit—a little love here, some joy there—she’d even taken emotions like sadness, fear, and shame. Ultimately, she’d taken everything and left him riddled with holes. Empty gaps he’d filled with pride, contempt, and arrogance, until he’d become the man society thought he was: an inhuman monster who’d ruthlessly done away with two wives.

A bitter smile twitched at the thought of his second wife, who technically did not qualify for the title of wife. Poor, poor Sarah. While Veronica had done her best to capture his attention and drive him insane, Sarah had only wanted to escape his notice—and him. Adam filled his glass and lifted it in a silent toast to his unfortunate second wife and their very short-lived marriage. He tipped back the glass and then hurled it at the far wall. It exploded with a sharp pop and he blinked at the glittering shards on the floor. That had been foolish. Now he would need to drink from the bottle.

Sarah had come and gone quickly, her departure far more noticeable than her actual presence in his life. Veronica, on the other hand, had left none of his family unscathed. For all his wealth and power, Adam had been helpless to shield the people he loved any more than he’d been able to shield himself. Everyone had suffered because of his lack of judgment—his daughters most of all. Had he just committed the same offense again? Had he allowed desire for a woman to plunge his family into Hell?

Even in his drunken, self-pitying state he knew that was unfair. Euphemia Marlington had done nothing to inspire such fears. It was his own enfeebled character that seemed to be unraveling the more he saw of her. He owed her an apology.

Adam tried to read the time on the longcase clock that stood only a few feet away but couldn’t focus. He fumbled for his watch. Even holding it two inches from his face, he couldn’t read it. His face became hot with shame. He was too damn drunk to read his own watch and he’d abandoned his bride on her wedding night. His hand crept toward the port and this time he didn’t stop it.

* * *

Mia woke with a start and sat bolt upright. She blinked and looked around, trying to recall where she was. As her vision became less blurry and her brain less sleep-addled she remembered she was in her new chambers at Exley House. It was her wedding night, the only one she’d ever had; Babba Hassan had not married his concubines.

She looked down at her now-rumpled clothing. She’d instructed LaValle to dress her in a lovely confection of pale green lace. What a waste. Mia dropped her head back onto the pillow. Evidently, Exley really was as bored as he appeared. The man had forgotten her existence before even bedding her. She told herself that was just as well. It was better that he never came near her at all. That way there would never be the slightest danger of a child.

Mia clasped her hands over her stomach and waited for that argument to become more persuasive. But the only thing that sank in was anger. How dare he neglect her like this, especially when she burned for him—or at least his body?

She gave a growl of frustration. What a fool she was, lusting for a man who was so clearly damaged. But also so very, very intriguing.

Her bedside clock read almost three o’clock. Fueled by emotions she didn’t want to examine, she rose and put on her dressing gown before stalking to the door that led to her husband’s bedchamber. She tapped softly. The door jerked open and she gave a squeak of surprise.

Not her husband, but a servant, stood before her.

“Yes, my lady?” the reserved-looking man inquired.

“You are Lord Exley’s valet?” It was a stupid question.

“Yes, my lady.”

Mia refused to feel any embarrassment. She would leave that to her husband.

“Has Lord Exley left the house?”

“I believe he is still in the dining room, my lady.”

“Does he sleep there often?” she snapped, annoyed by the man’s aloofness, which was so similar to his employer’s.

He coughed. “No, my lady.”

She planted a hand on each hip. “Is it a de Courtney family tradition for grooms to spend their wedding nights in the dining room?”

The valet colored. “I do not believe so, my lady.” He paused. “I’m afraid I cannot say why His Lordship is still in the dining room. He sent me away earlier and requested me not to disturb him.”