Chapter 7
JOHN
After a fitful night of sleep and barely speaking a word the following morning at breakfast, John watched from the window as Maddie moved through the garden path.
Her chestnut hair gleamed in the winter sunlight while her gloved hand rested far too affectionately on Ashworth’s arm.
The sight sent a knife of pure agony twisting in his gut.
He shouldn’t feel this way—shouldn’t care that she was smiling up at that proper, dull buffoon.
Well, Ashworth wasn’t a buffoon. He was actually a really kind, amiable sort, but that did little to make his heart feel any better.
Every time he watched her smile and then cover her mouth with laughter felt like she was driving another nail into the coffin of hope he held.
The hope that things might be salvageable between them.
Last night’s conversation echoed in his mind.
The memory of her pained expression and her admission that she’d been with the man made his throat tighten.
He leaned against the frost-rimed window, watching them through the glass as they continued on their stroll.
Knowing it made him only slightly better than a stalker and that he was only torturing himself, he still couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
“Enjoying the view?” His sister’s voice startled him from behind.
John straightened, barely forcing a smile. “Just admiring your grounds, Sister. Quite spectacular in winter.”
His sister came to stand behind him. “Indeed. Lord Ashworth seems particularly taken with our grounds, does he not?”
John fought to keep his expression neutral, though his jaw tightened so hard it hurt. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course not,” Rosina replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sleeping at all, John? Those shadows beneath your eyes have deepened since you arrived.”
“I sleep enough,” he said dismissively.
“And eating? You’ve barely touched your meals.” Her voice softened. “I should have stopped you from leaving. I couldn’t put aside my grief to think straight, let alone recognize the state losing Ryan had put you in. But it had never been that bad before.”
John’s head snapped toward her, her words making him uneasy. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You needn’t pretend with me,” Rosina said gently. “I didn’t put it together until now, but there were signs, even when we were kids. Times when you were so melancholy, and I did everything I could to cheer you up. Ryan was always the one who could . . .”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, but the words were half-hearted at best.
Rosina sighed, her expression softening.
“I just want my brother back.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm.
“You have made mistakes, particularly where Maddie is concerned, but you deserve to be happy, Brother. I think if you explained it to her . . . made her understand. I just don’t think you should give up yet. ”
John pretended to ponder her words. He didn’t have it in him to explain the depths of his affection or the darkness he lived in.
Maddie wasn’t a woman that one could just move on from, but that voice in the back of his head nagged at him.
Was it right to risk dragging her down into the darkness with him?
“I’ll give it some thought,” he said, giving his sister a small smile before excusing himself.
He ducked into a small, empty parlor, where he could pace in silence. His hands shook with the effort of restraint. He wanted to punch something—preferably Ashworth’s perfectly chiseled face. Even if that made him a jealous ogre.
“Fuck,” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do. He’d love Madeline Dawson for the rest of his life. She was it for him.
He surely wore a hole in his sister’s carpets from his endless pacing like a caged animal. And then worse, after he forced himself to rejoin the other guests, the afternoon dragged on endlessly as John watched Maddie spend the day in Ashworth’s company.
John partook in a couple of extra glasses of wine at dinner, even if it had been his practice to drink rather sparingly. But he was beyond annoyed that his sister always seated Maddie and Ashworth beside each other at every meal. Was his sister aware that Ashworth wanted to wed Maddie?
The man didn’t even love her. Not as much as John did. He wanted her for a convenient marriage . . . to bear his children and keep him company. The notion made his meal taste like ash, so he ditched the food for more wine instead.
After dinner, one of the other gentlemen suggested a game of cards, which sounded preferable to torturing himself by watching the woman he loved. The sooner he faced his future with Maddie, the better.
Once he reached the small parlor with a couple of tables set up for cards, Ashworth sat down beside him, much to his disappointment. At least the duke and Viscount Callan sat down with them before John could be forced to make conversation with the man alone.
The game began, and John watched Ashworth’s every move with undisguised contempt.
The man’s perfect manners, his careful bets, his polite conversation.
All of it grated on John’s nerves. The wine had loosened his tongue and dulled his judgment, which was precisely why he should stop drinking. Instead, he signaled for another glass.
John laid down his cards with unnecessary force. “It seems I’ve bested you again, Ashworth.”
The man chuckled, the sound irritatingly pleasant. “I’m afraid you’ll soon find yourself at a disadvantage after a few more drinks, Ravensworth. Cards require a clear head.”
“Do they?” John drawled, feeling the heat of the wine coursing through his veins.
“I’ve found that some of my best wins were made during nights of merriment.
” He tossed back the remainder of his glass, relishing the burn.
“In Constantinople, I once won a small fortune while so thoroughly foxed I could barely see the cards.”
The duke leaned forward, intrigued. “Constantinople, you say? I’ve heard it’s quite an exotic locale. I’ve never been there, myself.”
John’s smile turned wolfish. Then he glanced at Ashworth, wagering a silent contest with the very man that might take Maddie from him forever.
Before he could stop himself, the boastful words poured from his lips.
“Exotic hardly begins to describe it.” He laid down another card with a flick of the wrist. “The women there . . . let’s just say that they are unlike anything your inexperienced minds can fathom. ”
He watched as Ashworth’s expression tightened imperceptibly. Good. Let him be uncomfortable.
“Indeed?” Viscount Callan teased. “And are you going to tell us more, or are you going to leave us in suspense, Ravensworth?”
“And what would your wife think of your interest?” the duke said, shoving the man’s shoulder. Their wives were close friends, as were the gentlemen.
Callan took his turn and then smirked at the duke. “My wife would find the topic just as appealing . . . for educational purposes.”
John’s heart seized in his chest. That is what marriage should be like. And what he wanted with Maddie.
He shook off the thought, as it would never be. Not for him. John swirled his glass and had enough good sense to set the glass on the table and push it away. But he didn’t possess enough restraint to think before he spoke.
“There are harems there with women trained in pleasures you gentlemen could scarcely imagine.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I spent three nights with a pair of sisters who could—”
“I believe that’s quite enough, Ravensworth,” Ashworth interrupted, his voice cool but firm. “There are ladies present in the adjoining room.”
John laughed, the sound harsh even to his own ears. “Always the proper gentleman, aren’t you, Ashworth? Must be what Maddie enjoys most about your friendship.” He hoped the man understood his meaning with his emphasis on the last word.
Ashworth’s eyes hardened to chips of amber, the first true crack in his perfect composure. “I believe the drink has caught up with you,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a warning that the other men at the table seemed to miss entirely.
“On the contrary,” John replied, taunting him, “Perhaps I’ve only just begun.” He leaned back in his chair, loosening his cravat with one finger.
And then he saw her. Maddie.
She stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed on him. Rage had overtaken those beautiful, kind eyes. They burned with something that made his stomach drop.
And he knew. She’d heard him. Heard him recounting his tale, which had actually been something he’d read about in a book and not something he’d actually experienced.
Maddie’s hands fisted at her sides, and then she retreated from view.
John rose immediately. “Excuse me.”
He crossed the room in long strides and then increased his speed as soon as he was out of sight, seeing her form just ahead of him.
“Maddie!” John called after her, the haze of drink making his steps uneven.
She didn’t turn, didn’t pause, but continued her determined march down the corridor. Her spine was rigid, her shoulders set in a line that spoke of barely contained fury.
“Maddie, wait!” He caught up to her, reaching for her elbow.
She spun around, jerking away from his touch as though it burned. “Do not presume to touch me,” she hissed, her voice low but vibrating with intensity.
John glanced around the corridor, noting several curious glances from guests milling nearby. Without thinking, he grasped her wrist and pulled her toward the library door just steps away.
“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
He closed and locked the door behind them, needing to make things right.
The shadows created from the moonlight played across Maddie’s face, accentuating her deep scowl.
“Release me at once,” she demanded, yanking her wrist from his grasp. Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her evening gown, her breathing uneven with anger.