Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Caspian stalked the various rooms of Boodle’s Club in search of George. While he often liked to drink alone so he could ruminate on his thoughts and stew in his own pitiful sorrow, tonight was a different story.
For several days now, Caspian had sat with his cousin’s words, unable to escape them as he slowly inched closer toward what he had long since suspected but still refused to admit: that his cousin spoke the truth.
Have I been wrong all this time?
It ought to have been a relief to realize.
For most, it would be seen as a new lease on life.
If he was not like his father, then it meant that Caspian had a chance to be happy.
He could be a proper father to Timothy, a real husband to Arabella, and the risk of dragging them down a path of torment and pain was one he no longer needed to fear.
However, as was the way of Caspian, he was stubborn and scared, and despite that truth niggling in the back of his mind, growing harder to deny, he refused to fully accept it. If, by chance, his cousin was wrong, the result would be an utter tragedy. For him, for Timothy, and for Arabella.
So it was that after several days of deep consideration, he went to the club, figuring that he would open up to his closest friend so that an answer might be found.
Of course, the very fact that Caspian wanted someone else to convince him of this path ought to have been further proof of what he wanted.
But it does not matter what I want. What matters is what might happen if I dare to chase that which I desire. That is what scares me, and that is why I must be careful.
Frustratingly, George was nowhere to be found.
For that reason, Caspian soon found himself sitting alone in Boodle’s Club, tucked away in the back corner, a mug of ale gripped firmly in his hand, his thoughts the only company that he had. Or so he thought…
The club was busy but not loud. His eyes reviewed the patrons, recognizing a few faces, but not enough for anyone to see him and dare to approach. Most knew better than to waste their time on such matters.
That was when he saw her.
It was her red hair that Caspian noticed first; it reminded him of Arabella, as so many things did of late. His eyes then found her face, focusing on her marble-white skin, the piercing green of her eyes, and the way her smile curved into one of wicked intent when she saw him watching her.
Before Caspian could look away, the red-headed woman was on her way toward him.
“Is there something on my face?” she asked as she reached his table.
“Excuse me?”
“My face,” she repeated. “For why else would you be watching me?”
Caspian exhaled sharply from his nose. “I assure you that I was not. You just…” Again, he noticed her hair and those green eyes. “You just remind me of someone.”
“Oh? Is that someone here then?”
“No, she is not.”
“Lucky me.” Without asking for permission, the red-headed woman sat down across from Caspian. “I might find myself jealous if she were.” As she spoke, she leaned forward, sure to press her arms under her chest so that they were pronounced and unmissable.
Caspian’s eyes darted downward. Her spencer jacket was worn with only one button, a little too tight, the effect of such done to draw attention to her chest. She saw Caspian’s eyes drop as he noticed, she flashed her own eyes in response, and she leaned further forward.
“I have seen you here before,” she began with a purr. “Although we have never spoken. Strange that.”
“Is it?’ Caspian said simply, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. Not that this helped. If anything, it was even more distracting. “I have a sense that your attention is one often sought after.”
“Is that your way of telling me that I am pretty?” She batted her eyelashes, and her cheeks turned pink.
“Just a statement of fact,” Caspian said as he had a sip of his ale.
She laughed as she locked onto him with her eyes. “Not much of a talker, are we?”
“Not especially.”
“Oh well, there are better things that we can be doing than talking…” Her eyes roamed him, suggestive and hungry.
When Caspian had taken on the title of duke, he had made a promise to himself.
While most expected him to seek a wife, start a family, and follow the usual path of most lords, he chose a different route.
He embraced a life of debauchery, rakish behavior, drinking, gambling, and courting, earning a reputation that was often judged, and rightly so.
He did not think of himself as a philanderer per se, but that did not mean that he abstained from casual affairs entirely. And as a duke, with a face such as his one, it was all too easy to find women who might wish to waste an hour or a night with him… often several.
So, as he looked across the table at the red-headed woman, he saw the future clearly because he had lived it so many times before.
It is so easy, so predictable, and exactly what I need.
“What is your name?” he asked the woman, taking another casual sip of mead.
“You may call me whatever you wish,” she said in a whisper.
He chuckled. “Come now, no need to be coy.”
“My name…” She leaned forward even further and licked her lips. “My name is Bella.”
It was like a bucket of cold water being thrown over him.
That name… Caspian stared at it. He leaned back, pulled from his stupor as if by an unseen force. When he finally regained control, he looked at Bella again, seeing her in a completely different light than before.
Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she was attainable. And yes, it would be so easy to have her for the night. But was that what Caspian wanted? Would that bring him any joy or happiness or fulfillment whatsoever?
No, it will not. And where that was once the point, now it feels empty…
He could not help but think about Arabella next. It was the little things that came to mind—her smile, her laugh, the way she glared at him when she was about to start an argument, and how much he enjoyed teasing her because of it.
Then he remembered the night of the ball, how he felt when he saw her dancing with Lord Carlisle. After that, it was their argument, followed by their kiss, paired with a feeling that had erupted between them unlike any that Caspian had experienced before.
It was more than passion. It was more than pure desire. It was… completion, whatever that might mean.
Bella was a passing fancy. Safe. With her, Caspian would enjoy the night, knowing that nobody would get hurt. But Arabella was the type of fulfillment that Caspian had for so long avoided, but now wanted like he had never wanted anything.
For the first time ever, he dared to dream that such a thing was possible, and that he might not only have it, but that he deserved it.
“Well?” Bella pressed as the silence stretched between them. “Might I have your name?”
Caspian looked at her with disgust; that being disgust for himself. Even talking to her felt wrong, as if it were a betrayal of his wife. An act like this was something his father might have done; was that not exactly what Caspian wanted to avoid?
I am not my father, and dammit, it is time I prove it.
“No, you may not.” Caspian pushed his mug of ale away and stood.
“You are going?” Bella looked aghast. “Where?”
“It was lovely to meet you, Bella,” he said. “But I am afraid I must return home. Have a pleasant evening.” With those words spoken, Caspian hurried from Boodle’s Club without looking back.
Caspian could still not say what he meant to do regarding his wife. Would he accept his feelings? Would he give his marriage a chance? Those were questions for later.
What he did know—and this stayed with him as he rode home that evening—was that he had deep feelings for his wife that he did not want but could no longer deny. Feelings of lust. Feelings of desire and passion. Feelings that haunted him like a specter, making it impossible to outrun or ignore them.
Like it or not, Arabella had ensnared Caspian in her web, and the harder he struggled, the tighter her trap pulled him so that there was no way out.