“Why did Her Grace leave? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said curtly. “We should return to the house.”
“No…I want to swim.”
“You don’t have to.” He dragged a wet hand through his hair. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to be impatient with her, a mere girl, but his mood was ruined. “You’re scared, and it’s not my place to push you—”
Before he could finish, she took a running start off the boulder, landing with a loud splash several yards away in the deepest part of the swimming hole. Panic thudded in his chest when she did not surface, and he rushed toward the frothing spot where she’d hit the water…
Her head popped up, hair plastered over her eyes.
“Hadleigh,” she gasped.
“Right here, I’ve got you.” He caught her against his chest, where his heart was still hammering. With his other hand, he brushed the wet hair from her eyes. “Bloody hell, you could have given me some warning.”
She grinned at him. “I knew you would be there to catch me...if I needed it.”
The knot in his chest loosened a little, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“Are you saying you don’t need my help?” he asked.
When she nodded, he let her go. She began treading water like she’d been born doing it.
“I just remembered,” she said with an infectious smile, “that I am an excellent swimmer.”
“In that case.” Reaching out, he placed his palm on the top of her head and dunked her.
She broke the surface seconds later, sputtering. A playful yet unholy gleam lit her eyes.
“You,” she said cheerfully, “are going to pay for that.”
After spending the afternoon splashing around with Livy, Ben returned to his bedchamber to get ready for supper. His valet helped him to bathe and dress, and when there was no more delaying the inevitable, he went and knocked on the door of the adjoining chamber. While he was still simmering over his and Arabella’s latest row, he didn’t want it to color the rest of the evening. The other guests were bound to notice the Siberian state of affairs between them, and the last thing he wished was to cause an unpleasant scene at his sister’s party.
Luckily, he knew how to appease his wife. He’d brought along several pieces of jewelry, including the diamond bracelet he had in his pocket, precisely for this purpose. While he did not like to resort to bribes, he’d become a pragmatist where his duchess was concerned.
The door opened to reveal Arabella’s maid.
“Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy.
“Where is my wife?” he asked.
“She has not returned, Your Grace.”
His anger, already smoldering, burst into flame. “Bloody hell, supper is in fifteen minutes.”
“I-I am sorry, Your Grace.”
Seeing the fear in the maid’s eyes, he dismissed her with a curt wave. He stalked through Arabella’s chamber, trying to calm his temper, his thoughts whirling like a dervish.
Where in the devil is she? Is she still gallivanting with the Horsemen? What will the other guests say—is she determined to humiliate me and lay waste to our marriage?
A roar left him, and he swept his arm across her dressing table, sending the pieces of her vanity flying onto the floor. Her cloying perfume assailed his nostrils as he gripped the edges of the table, trying to regain his control. He looked in the mirror and hated what he saw: a worthless bastard capable of nothing but destruction.
Why does everything I touch turn to shite?
Anguish roiled in him as he took stock of his handiwork, smashed up bottles and broken bits everywhere. Then something caught his eye: Arabella’s vinaigrette. Going over, he picked up the globe-shaped locket. The body was constructed of pure gold mesh to diffuse the perfume it was designed to hold within. Exquisite enamelwork in the shape of peacock feathers adorned the sphere, diamonds glittering among the swirls of cobalt and turquoise.
A pretty piece, for which he’d probably paid a bloody fortune.
Bringing the vinaigrette to his nose, he smelled nothing. He released the latch, and the two halves split open, revealing a small pouch. He dumped the contents into his palm: opium.
He’d known Arabella would not go without it.
Despair and dark craving overcame him.
And tonight, damn my own eyes, neither will I.
27
Present Day
Entering the exclusive club, Ben headed for the private chamber where he knew he would find his former cronies. The establishment was the premier domain of scoundrels and rakehells, and he hadn’t set foot inside for years. He saw the lifted eyebrows as he strode through the opulent surroundings toward the room at the back.
Several acquaintances called out greetings.
“The prodigal son returns,” one said drunkenly. “Good to have you back, old boy.”
Misery always loved company. Ben gave a terse nod and continued to his destination. He didn’t bother knocking, opening the door with the key he had never returned. The men in the four wing chairs swung their heads in his direction: Thorne, Bollinger, Edgecombe, and Stamford.
Perfect. All the bastards are here.
“Your Grace.” Edgecombe rose, concealing his initial surprise with a smirk. His brows rose toward his pomaded auburn hair. “To what do we owe the honor?”
Ben closed the door behind him. Faced the men who were all standing now.
“I want in,” he stated.
“M-membership in our group is by invitation only, old boy,” Thorne said. “And you forfeited your right to be h-here when you abandoned the Horsemen years ago.”
Ben fought the distaste that rose like bile in his throat. Thorne hadn’t changed a whit. With his artfully mussed blond curls and brooding gaze, he had a Byronic magnetism that drew females to him like moths to a flame. It didn’t matter that he was famed for his cruelty and inconstancy, discarding his lovers like last season’s fashions.
“I concur with my brother.” Bollinger stood next to Thorne, striking a belligerent pose. “You are not welcome back.”
Back in the day, Bollinger had been the follower in the pack, content to take the others’ orders and leftover scraps. Apparently not much had changed. The brown-haired
