Philip opened his mouth… but he said nothing.
Theodore waited for several moments, his eyes flickering over Philip’s empty countenance. And then he nodded. “Just as I thought.” He turned around and walked towards the door. “Get out.”
“What?” Philip murmured, his brow furrowing.
“Get out,” he said again, and opened the door. “I won’t have you here.”
Philip’s heart thundered in his chest, slow and loud. He felt it echo the sound of his footsteps as he walked towards the door. “Theodore-” he began, in an effort to appease his friend’s rage.
But Theodore silenced him by lifting his hand and turning his face away.
“Do as I say,” Theodore said, in a calm and stony voice.
Philip stopped speaking and stepped outside.
“You know,” Theodore said. Philip stop in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around. “I don’t know why I expected any more of you.”
In the wake of those words, Philip heard Theodore shut the door and the silence of the night swallowed him whole.
When Philip left Theodore’s that night, he didn’t go straight home. Instead, he went to a tavern. He hadn’t gone to a tavern alone to get drunk since before he’d met Loraine, but with Theodore’s accusations fresh in his mind he didn’t feel able to do anything else.
He drank himself into a stupor so that he didn’t have to think about whether Theodore was right. He stumbled home late that night and made a racket when he came in, losing his footing in the foyer and falling into the cabinet.
The noise woke George, who came to the top of the stairs, squinting through the darkness. “Philip?” He whispered. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes,” Philip slurred.
George came downstairs and put his hand under Philip’s shoulder to help him walk. “You’re drunk. Let me help you to bed.”
Philip shook him off and stumbled on the staircase, his hold on the bannister being the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m fine, just fine,” he insisted, and started to fumble his way up the stairs.
George walked next to him, ready to support him if he needed it. Even drunk, Philip could feel his disappointment, but also his concern. “What happened?” George asked. “I thought you were doing well.”
“A man can’t have a drink without something being wrong?”
“Not you,” George murmured. Philip paused when his brother said this, halfway up the stairs, and looked up at him.
“What?”
“Not you,” George said again, with a sad smile. “You drink when something’s wrong.”
Philip huffed a fake laugh. “I drink all the time,” he reminded him.
George’s brow puckered. “Exactly,” he murmured.
Once again, he took Philip’s elbow and helped him walk. This time, Philip didn’t shake him off. Once they reached Philip’s room, George led him to the bed.
Philip fell into it and started yanking off his boots.
“It’s the woman, isn’t it? Miss Loraine.”
Philip grimaced. “She doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered.
“That’s not true. You’ve been different since she came into your life.”
Philip snorted. “She’s just a bet, George. Just a bet.”
George frowned as Philip lay back. “What?”
“Mmmm,” Philip hummed in answer. “You know what she is? She’s a devil come to make mischief.”
“Philip-”
“You’re a man of God. Do you know how to ward off devils, father?” Philip mumbled. “You’ve got to put them in their place. That’s right, isn’t it?”
George was silent for a long time. Such a long time that Philip began to doze off. “You’re better than this, Philip,” George murmured. “Far, far better.”
Before Philip fell asleep, he heard his brother’s footsteps as he left.
Chapter 23
Miss Loraine Beauchamp
When Loraine had first decided to go to Paris, she’d felt determined to have a good time. It wasn’t just about driving Philip crazy. It was about giving herself some space and some distance from the people who’d infiltrated her head.
Mrs. Barrow.
Aunt Esther.
Philip.
Every single lady who’d written a letter to her aunt.
All their thoughts and opinions were spiraling around her mind, making it difficult to sleep at night. And, worst of all, making it difficult to figure out what she actually thought.
The anger didn’t go away. In fact, the longer she stayed, the more it seemed to grow. But there was something simmering away beneath the anger that she hadn’t expected.
She missed Philip and she’d never hated herself more for anything in all her life. It was just that they’d spent so much time together. And having felt lonely and misunderstood for so long, she’d found his company refreshing and consoling.
Being with him was like being understood for who she really was for the first time. But now she had to wonder if that was all part of his ploy. Did he make all women feel like that?
What a clever trick.
Sometimes her mind would spin in such circles that she’d wind up pulling at her hair and holding her head in her hands.
“Oh God, Loraine,” she whispered to herself one night, when the Paris rain beat on the windows of the apartment she was staying in. “What a mess you’ve made of this.”
It hurt to think of Philip. It made her stomach ache and, sometimes, it made her eyes sting with tears. What was it about him that made her feelings so wild?
He made her miserable, furious, curious and sick to her stomach. He made her feel good about herself and he made her seethe with self-loathing.
It was almost two weeks before Loraine felt ready to return to England. Even then, she didn’t send word to Philip that she’d returned.
When she came home, her aunt was keen to see her. She ran across the foyer and threw her arms around Loraine’s neck.
“Oh, my dear,” she cried. “How I’ve missed you. I wish you’d written.”
Loraine hadn’t wanted to write, because she’d needed space from her aunt as much as she’d needed space from Philip. But she smiled for Aunt Esther and said, “I am sorry, auntie.”
Her aunt drew back, still holding her shoulder, and beamed at her. “It was just as you predicted,” she said, excitably. “Your absence drove him absolutely mad.”
“Has he come often?” Loraine asked.
“Yes! Almost every day!”
Just as she’d wanted. Loraine nodded. “That’s good.”
“So will you send word to him now?”
“Certainly not,” Loraine answered. Her aunt frowned.
“Then what will you do?”
Loraine shrugged. “I’ll wait.”
And she did wait. She went about her usual business, having lessons with Tristan and going to town, without ever sending word to Philip that she’d returned. This went on for three days, during which time Philip did not visit.
She’d expected him to lose his patience eventually, so this didn’t surprise her. He wasn’t the sort of man who would continue to humiliate himself indefinitely. No doubt he was waiting for word from her. Trying to take back the upper hand.
Loraine wasn’t going to let that happen.
She would not be the first to give in. But in the end, it wasn’t a case of who surrendered first. It was a case of coincidence.
When Loraine was in town purchasing some ribbons, she spotted Philip out of the corner of her eye. Knowing that he’d approach the moment he saw her, she decided to pretend not to have seen him.
Even when he came over, she didn’t look up at him. She continued to look down at the ribbons she was holding, with a musing expression. She felt him standing beside her for several moments, but he didn’t say anything.
His presence was like a fire getting hotter and hotter.
As if she’d just become aware of him, she looked up and blinked. “Hel
lo, Philip,” she said. “Are you buying ribbons?”
His face was like a cliff’s edge. Sharp and stony. She could see a red hot blaze in his eyes, which he was clearly struggling to keep from bursting out of him.
“You’re back,” he said, stiffly. “When did you get back?”
“A few days ago,” she remarked, as she put the ribbons she was holding back on the stall. She moved to the next batch of ribbons and picked up another so that she could look at it more closely. Just like their time spent together at the flower market, he followed her steps closely.
“A few days ago,” he echoed. “A few days ago.” He was raising his voice, which was drawing attention to them, but Loraine pretended not to notice.
“Is that a problem?” She asked, with fake innocence.
Philip stepped between her and the stall, forcing her to look him in the eye. He took the ribbons from her hands and returned them to the stall. “I won’t be played with anymore,” he snapped. “You left without sending word. Why?”
Loraine quirked a brow. “I did not realize I had to ask your permission to leave.”
“What?” He balked. “You know that’s not what I mean. Why did you leave without telling me? Without saying goodbye?”
“You sound rather upset, Philip,” she noted. “I did not realize we were so close.”
She knew it was an unkind thing to say, but she didn’t realize how hard he’d take it until after she said it. His lips parted and he blinked rapidly as if she’d slapped him.
Before she could take back what she’d said, he snapped his jaw shut. She could see the vein in his temple pulsing. His pupils were dilating and his entire body seemed to tighten. “Well perhaps I was mistaken,” he said, stiffly. “You’ve made a fool of me.”
Loraine shook her head. She told herself that his show of emotion was nothing more than another rouse to make her think he cared about her. And she wouldn’t fall into his hands again. So she smiled sympathetically and touched his hand.
“You fooled yourself, Philip. But I am sure there are plenty of other women in your life who can validate your ego.” She said it out of pure meanness, because she’d been living with so much rage since she’d read those letters, and because she wanted him to feel as stung as she did.
Loraine turned to walk away, but she continued to feel his eyes on her. “There certainly are,” he called after her, in a savage voice. “Plenty who don’t care for games the way you do.”
Loraine paused.
“Then perhaps you should seek them out instead. But if there has been any game between you and I, it has been of your own making,” Loraine said, without turning around. “And you may find yourself bored by those who refuse to play.”
With those final words, she walked away.
***
Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill
When he caught sight of her in town, he thought for a moment that he was imagining her. He hadn’t visited the Beauchamp estate in a few days, because every time he did he felt worse and worse. Hearing everyday that there still hadn’t been any word was driving him truly insane.
So he’d decided that he wouldn’t call again. And that when Loraine returned to England, she’d have to contact him. This was his plan.
But when several days passed and he still hadn’t heard anything, his desperation escalated further and further into fury.
He drank more and gambled every evening. He flirted with the women he met in taverns and had every intention of going home with them, but was always too drunk by the end of the night to do so. So drunk, in fact, that Bradley would have to help him get home.
Theodore didn’t come out with them, because Philip and he had yet to make up after their fight. And Philip missed his friend, who had always been his true confidant, which made him want to numb the pain with liquor all the more.
The night before he spotted Loraine in town, Bradley had expressed his concern. Having assisted in getting Philip back home, Bradley said, “Perhaps we should give it a rest for a few nights?”
Even drunk and practically passed out, Philip hadn’t taken well to this suggestion. He’d tried to sit up in bed and shaken his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “I’m good to go,” he insisted. “I can keep going forever.”
Bradley had shaken his head and insisted that he couldn’t. He suggested that they meet for breakfast the following morning, cure their hangovers, and take a break from drinking.
Philip hadn’t agreed, but didn’t disagree either. He’d just grimaced and fallen asleep. The next day, Bradley came to pick him up and dragged him into town. Philip winced up at the sun, nursing a terrible headache.
“I don’t want to be outside,” Philip grumbled. “It’s too sunny.”
“It’s good for you,” Bradley insisted. He was coping far better with his hangover than Philip, because he hadn’t drank as much.
While looking for a good place to eat, Philip saw her. For several moments, he’d just stared, looking like a damned fool. Convinced he was dreaming. Waiting for her to vanish like a vision in the desert.
But she didn’t vanish. She was as real as he was
He went to stand beside her, but she didn’t notice him, not for a long time. And when she finally did, she just looked mildly surprised. As if she’d forgotten he existed entirely.
And just like that, he snapped.
He wished he wasn’t in a hangover. If he’d been on top form, he wouldn’t have let her run circles around him as she did. But in his current state he was ruled by emotion and too disorientated to be cunning.
When their argument came to a close and she left, he was trembling with emotion. He was a ticking time bomb ready to explode, with her words stuck on replay in his head.
I did not realize we were so close.
How dare she? After all they’d done together? How could she say such a thing?
“Are you alright?” Bradley asked, as he appeared beside him. “You look God awful.”
He felt God awful.
Philip didn’t answer. Just continued to stare at Loraine as she walked away. “I found a place to eat,” Bradley added, in an attempt to distract Philip.
But he would not be distracted. This was all-consuming.
“I don’t want to eat,” Philip said, tightly.
“I thought we were getting breakfast?”
“Did you see her?” He hissed. “Did you hear what she said to me?”
Bradley swallowed and shook his head.
“She has some nerve. Some damned nerve!”
“I think you should sit down,” Bradley said, putting his hand on Philip’s arm. “You’re shaking.”
“Get off me!” He shouted, ripping his arm out of Bradley’s grip. Bradley blinked and stepped back. With short, unsteady breaths and gritted teeth, Philip turned on his heel and left.
He didn’t look back at Bradley, or say another word. He just kept walking until he found a tavern. The same one he’d been in the night before. He tapped the bar. “Whiskey,” he said, impatiently.
The tavern keeper frowned. “Weren’t you here just a few hours ago?”
“Is that your business?” Philip snapped. “I’ve got money. That’s all that matters, right?”
The tavern keeper frowned, but served him his drink.
Chapter 24
Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill
By six in the afternoon, Philip was passed out on the bar. He woke to the tavern keeper shaking his shoulder lightly. “Hello? Sir? Think you best go home, chap.”
Philip blinked his bloodshot eyes open. Some dazed part of him expected to be in bed, but when he woke and saw the tavern keeper and the empty glasses, he realized where he was.
Philip stood. He was a little wobbly on his feet, but he managed. He walked out of the tavern and took a deep breath of the air, hoping it would help sober him up.
He stood outside for a long time, with his coat hanging in his hand. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a
tavern in the afternoon. It had happened once before, a few days after his mother’s funeral, when he’d been in America.
Philip recognized this feeling. This hollowed out pain that sat in his chest. Wincing, he rubbed at his sternum as if he could rub some warmth back into his heart.
But all he felt was this cold emptiness, mingled with so much anger that he felt like it was poisoning him.
Seducing The Vengeful Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 17
