Chapter 13
Felix Greycliff rose before the world, before the sun had made its low, resigned crawl up the London sky. He left the warmth of the master suite and let himself drift down the silent corridors of Carden House, his footfalls muffled by tapestries older than the century.
He moved by habit, following a route so deeply carved into his bones that he hardly saw the lacquered wood or the armor lining the gallery.
If the corridors of Carden House were a puzzle, he was the only one who knew the solution, and he solved it daily, restlessly, with the nervous energy of a fox pacing its pen.
He found his way to the stables and saddled his own horse. Ranger was a muscular, unlovely chestnut with a white blaze and the temperament of a mercenary.
No one stopped him as he led it out into the mist, and no one would.
The ride was not urgent, but he pushed the mare hard, needing the rhythm, the wind, the soreness in his knees and back to crowd out the ache in his chest. Still, Rose reappeared: Rose in the nursery, Rose in the bath, Rose with her impossible, unyielding need for something more than him.
He remembered the way she had rebuffed him. She was far from cruel, but her voice had held such soft, assured finality that it made his ears ring even afterward. She wanted not just hunger, not the transactional warmth of bodies, but something else. She wanted to be wanted, not possessed.
He could have railed against it, but he found himself instead hollowed out. He was not a sentimentalist. He had spent his whole life armoring himself against that sort of vulnerability.
And yet…
The memory of her voice, the delicate ache of her body pressed against his, the knowledge that she was too good for him—that she wanted him, even, but not like this.
He reached the outskirts of London by the time the sun had cleared the roofline, the city already alive with carriages stacking up in the fog, men and women of this world darting in and out of sight.
Felix stabled the mare at a mews he favored for its lack of gossip, then walked the remaining blocks to White’s.
At the club, the doorman nodded him through with the unctuous familiarity Felix despised.
The interior was as he remembered: low light, heavy chairs, and the kind of masculine bonhomie that reeked of brandy and ancient disappointments.
He found a seat near the fire, ordered coffee, and waited for the heat to work its way into his fingers.
He pulled his battered brass snuff box from his pocket and tapped it on the armrest in a nervous, repetitive rhythm he was sure gave away the fact that he had barely slept. The lid snapped open, and the powder hit the back of his nose with a violent sting.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the pain bring him back to the present.
The sound of low conversation drifted in from the other end of the room, someone debating the odds on a parliamentary bill, someone else laughing at the predictable foibles of a mutual acquaintance.
None of it touched him.
He tried to remember a time when he had not been at war with himself, but the recollection would not come.
The first glass of brandy tasted like a dare, the second like an apology, and the third like fate.
Felix had been drinking since eight, which in White’s was not exactly cause for scandal, but did draw the sidelong glances of men who were more accustomed to brandy as punctuation rather than the morning’s entire grammar.
He had found a battered wingback in the corner, the color of old liver, and occupied it with the intent of a man besieging a city.
He was not alone for long. David slid beside him—somehow, the man was always within arm’s reach—with a smirk and a glass of his own.
“Dear God, Felix, have you started without me?” David regarded Felix with the fond exasperation usually reserved for younger brothers. “Sleep poorly, did we?”
Felix thumbed his brow. “It was an eventful night.”
“Still at war with the child’s fever?”
“Lizzie’s on the mend. The real battle was elsewhere.”
“Do tell,” David said, leaning in, his lips twitching in anticipation.
Felix rolled the snuff box between his palms. “She won’t have me.”
David choked on his sip. “I beg your pardon?”
Felix nodded, staring into his glass. “Rose has made it clear. She prefers distance. I am to keep to my side of the house, not trouble the arrangement with sentiment.”
“You poor bastard.” David’s laughter was bright, teasing him the way only someone so close to him can.
Felix’s jaw clenched. “She wants affection.” He stretched the last word out, practically spitting it.
“What is stopping you from giving it?”
He fixed his friend with a steady glare. “In our world,” he sighed, “love is a currency more volatile than the pound. It turns on a whim and leaves you penniless.”
David twirled his glass, watching the amber spin. “You say that as if you believe it.”
“I do.” Felix finished the third glass, then poured a fourth. “She’s better off without it. I’m better off as well.”
“And yet here you are,” David said, watching him over the rim. “Drunk before noon, sulking in the only club where heartbreak is still considered a sport.”
“I am not heartbroken,” Felix shot back. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Perhaps not,” David agreed. “But you are certainly sulking.”
Felix fought the urge to roll his eyes at his friend as they both lapsed into silence, the only sound the distant clack of billiard balls and the low murmur of parliamentarians arguing over the newsprint.
At last, David said, “You could always try, Felix.”
“Try what?”
He smiled wickedly. “Affection. Vulnerability. All those things you pretend to abhor. You might even like it.”
“She would see through it in a moment.” Felix snorted. “She’s not a fool.”
“No, she’s not. Which is why you’re in such trouble.”
Felix wanted to retort, to change the subject, to do anything but sit in the gaze of a man who knew him far too well. But instead, he watched the smoke curl from the fireplace, saw the way it wove itself into the sunlight, refusing to be banished.
He felt very much alone.
David finished his drink, setting the glass aside. “You’ll see her again soon enough,” he said. “Maybe by that time you’ll have your mind made up.”
Felix said nothing.
“Don’t ruin it, Felix,” he leaned in, his voice dropping. “You’ve been given something rare. You’re just too damn proud to claim it.” Then, David stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “If you come crawling back, bring a decent bottle. The brandy here is terrible.”
He swept out, leaving Felix alone with the fire and the certainty that nothing he did would ever change the facts of his life. He sat there, watching the clock edge toward noon.
He thought about Rose, about Lizzie, about the cold halls of Carden House waiting for his return. He thought about his father, about what it meant to be a Greycliff, about the sharp, unwelcome possibility that maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be this way forever.
But those were thoughts for a different man.
He poured a final glass, let it warm his hands, and drank to the only thing he could count on: himself.
Outside, the city went about its business, utterly indifferent.