Chapter Twenty-Six
That evening, Laurence felt the need for a little space, to mull over what he had seen, without losing himself in Anastasia’s embrace.
He considered going to the club, but he found himself entering the nearby gambling hell instead.
He was not one to fritter money away—never had been—but he thought he could be distracted from his concerns for an hour too.
He was not surprised to see Oliver Carrington in the gambling hell, nor Lord Brett.
He found both men rather distasteful, but he had no issue with men choosing to gamble if they so wished—as long as they had the money to do so.
He thought it rather a pointless pastime himself, but he had no desire to judge the choices of others.
He rather thought his choice of venue for the evening had been a little silly, since he had no wish to gamble—but he ordered a drink and watched as others won and lost fortunes on a roll of the dice.
As his gaze wandered over the large room, he was struck with a sense of recognition of one of the men at the poker table.
Not wanting to look like he was staring, he continued looking around before returning his eyes to the man in question, trying to figure out where he knew him from.
He was an older man, with a trimmed goatee and a balding head.
He certainly was not someone that Laurence had been to school with, nor someone who frequented the same social circles.
In fact, the man looked more of an age with Laurence’s father.
And then it struck him.
The man was surely his Uncle Thomas, his father’s younger brother—the man who was so reckless that his father had always been insistent he must never be allowed to inherit.
Laurence had not seen him since that night in Vauxhall Gardens, when his father had extracted the promise from him that he must wed and sire an heir. His uncle had aged since then, and the facial hair made him look like an entirely different man.
Perhaps that was the point.
He had surely been staring too long, and the attention had been felt, for the man looked up, caught his eye, and then smirked.
As he stood up from the table, Laurence wondered whether he ought to leave, but it was too late. He already had him in his sights. And besides, why shouldn’t he speak to the man? Just because he had never got on with his father didn’t mean Laurence could not pass the time of day with him.
“Why, if it isn’t little Larry,” his uncle said in a rather derisive tone. “Or should I say Lord Walsham.” He gave a mock bow, and Laurence told himself to rise above it. There was no point arguing with the man here.
“Good evening, Uncle Thomas. It has been a long time.”
“It has indeed,” Thomas said. “I was sorry to hear about my brother’s passing.” His tone suggested he felt anything but sorry, and Laurence rather thought that if he had felt even the slightest bereaved, he would have attended the funeral.
But there was no point in raising that now. It would make no difference. And talking of his father—and his funeral—only made Laurence morose.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“And I hear you have been recently wed?”
“Indeed.”
“My congratulations,” Thomas said, though there was irritation behind his eyes. “Of course, I am sure you are aware that until you have a son, I am the heir to the title of Viscount Walsham.”
This made Laurence grit his teeth. “I understand the genealogy, yes.”
“I’m sure you are doing your duty diligently, ensuring there are plenty of Walsham heirs to fill that fine estate,” Thomas said, a lascivious grin upon his lips. “But just remember—I’m next in line. Your father was always so pleased about that fact.”
Laurence knew that his uncle was well aware that that was a falsehood, just as he knew that Thomas was simply trying to get a reaction from him. He wasn’t sure why; perhaps just for the sake of it. But he was determined not to give him what he desired.
“Well, it has been a pleasure to see you again, uncle,” Laurence lied. “I will bid you good evening, for I have business to attend to.”
He felt the man’s eyes upon him as he walked out of the gambling hell, choosing to pass the evening in his club instead. He was a strange man, his uncle—and still apparently keen on gambling away his fortune. Whatever was left of it, anyway.
Laurence would feel altogether happier once he had a son: his promise to his father would be fulfilled, and his uncle pushed even further down the list of heirs to the title.
*
After she had given Oliver the rest of the two thousand pounds, Anastasia thought it was at an end. For the next six weeks, she did not see her brother, and as the Season wound down, she and Laurence spent more time together, uninterrupted.
She thought that perhaps she would suggest going to his estate in Kent, when everyone had left the city. Maybe then he would wish to return to the country.
But then that calling card appeared on a silver tray once more, and her hopes were dashed.
“No, Oliver,” she said, as she had done many times before. “I’m done. You keep saying you’ve paid everything off, and then you’re right back where you started. I cannot keep—”
Oliver reached out and grabbed her upper arm, his fingers biting into the flesh.
“When are you going to learn to do as you’re told?”
At this, Anastasia choked back a sob. His eyes were ablaze, and his grip was only getting tighter.
“If you had married Baron Brett, none of this would be a problem. But instead, you acted like a common whore, and now I must make everything right.”
Anastasia shook her head, tears falling down her face.
“I did not, and I will not help you anymore.”
Not only had she not done anything improper with Laurence before they were wed, she also did not believe that had she married Baron Brett, all would be well.
Perhaps it would have paid off Oliver’s debts to that man, but it seemed there was an endless number of odious men ready to come out of the woodwork and insist he pay debts he had racked up.
Not to mention that he just seemed very capable of amassing new ones.
He shook her—once, twice—hard enough to make her head wobble.
“Don’t be a fool, Anastasia, as you have been your entire life.”
And whether it was the realization she’d had that morning—that it had been the longest she had ever not bled for, and that therefore there was a chance that she had a life to protect other than her own—or whether she had just finally had enough, she did not know.
But her hand flew to his, and she tried to pry it off as she said, for the final time:
“No. Take your hand off me, or I will scream, and the staff will come running, and everyone will know what you are.”
She could tell by the look in his eyes that he did not believe her. His grip tightened further, and she opened her mouth, ready to follow through on her threat—when the door opened before she had the chance.
“If you want to keep that hand, I suggest you take it off my wife immediately.”
Laurence.
Her heart soared, even though his tone was steely and his eyes full of anger—and there was a good chance that his arrival in the middle of this horrible scene would mean she had to tell him what had been going on.
But he was here. And he wouldn’t let Oliver harm her. She’d known in her heart that he would always keep her safe.
It was one of the things she loved about him.
Oliver laughed and let go of her arm. She rubbed it as the blood flow returned, hoping to erase the imprint of his fingers upon her skin.
“No need to take everything so seriously, Laurence,” Oliver said, turning his back on Anastasia.
“Merely a little disagreement between siblings—nothing for you to get involved in. I’m sure you know by now that Anastasia can be rather a handful.
Sometimes she needs to be reminded of who is in charge. ”
Anger roared up inside Anastasia, but it was nothing compared to the fury she saw in her husband’s eyes. He took a step toward Oliver, and she was sure they were going to come to blows.
“You may call me ‘Lord Walsham’,” was all Laurence said, his voice surprisingly steady—although Anastasia could see his hands, which had balled into fists, shaking slightly.
“And I must remind you: you have no legal charge over my wife. If you touch her again, I will kill you.”
Oliver laughed again, but it was hollow this time. He might not have believed Anastasia’s threats, but he certainly seemed to believe Laurence’s.
“Lord Walsham, I—”
“You are not welcome in this house. Leave now—and if you ever touch my wife again, you will need to name your second, and I will meet you at Hyde Park. And I warn you, I am a very good shot.”
Oliver paled and stalked from the room without another word.
Anastasia breathed a sigh of relief, and then felt her legs buckling as the stress of the day threatened to overwhelm her.
Laurence rushed forward, his hand around her waist before she could crumple to the ground.
She leaned her head against his solid form, breathed in the woody scent she would always associate with him, and felt her heart rate slow back to its normal rhythm.
This was where she belonged. This was where she was safe—in Laurence’s arms.
“Did he hurt you?” Laurence asked.
Anastasia shook her head. Well, he hadn’t seriously hurt her, anyway. Whether he would have done so if Laurence had not entered the room, she could not say.
“I thought you wouldn’t be home until tonight.”
“I didn’t plan to be. But I…”
She looked up into his eyes, and her heart skipped a beat.
“I missed you.”
Her face broke into a smile, even in spite of the misery of the situation.
“You did?”
He nodded solemnly.
“I did. Although perhaps you wished I’d stayed away—not come in and threatened your brother. Although he’s lucky all I did was threaten him.”
She shook her head and then buried it in his shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said in a whisper.
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” he asked.
Anastasia bit her lip.
“I—” It was so hard to find the words. “I will,” she promised. “But…could it not be today?”