bed. But he did not expect her to believe that. Nor would he plead his case. Not here, not whilst she was in her cups and there was a debauched house party unfolding all around them.
Not whilst her lover was beneath the same roof. The very reminder of Sidmouth—a man he had been foolish enough to consider a friend—in Nell’s bed, made him want to retch.
But despite his better intentions, there was something about her taunt that made him provoke her in return. “Have you been chaste as a nun in my absence, hmm, Nell?”
She smiled. And Lord help any man when Nell smiled. She was lovely enough on her own, but when her full lips curved in sultry invitation, it was akin to a punch to the gut. His body, starved after three years without her, three years of celibacy with nothing to cure what ailed him save his hand, caught fire.
His cock twitched to life.
“I have fucked half of London by now, my love,” she sneered. “Have you not heard the rumors?”
Such ugliness, such viciousness.
How had he dared to hope three years would temper the raging floods of her anger? If anything, this river had swelled more than thrice its original size, overwhelming the banks. Decimating everything in its path.
“Of course I heard the rumors.” And he had.
Her house parties had become legendary. He tortured himself by reading every word of gossip. By poring over letters sent from concerned friends, over scandal sheets with their thinly veiled references to Lady N. and her wild parties. Lady N. dancing on the table. Lady N. and her paramours and endless flirtations. Lady N.’s drawers on display. Lady N. not wearing drawers…
“Do not pretend you give a damn,” she snapped, and this time, when she tugged on her arm, he released her. “You have told me enough lies.”
She stumbled then, no doubt the work of those blasted silk boots and whatever the devil she had poured down her throat tonight. She very nearly toppled over, falling on her rump, and no doubt would have, had he not rushed forward, clamping his hands back on her waist to balance her.
“Steady,” he warned her, frowning. “Just how much have you had to drink this evening, Nell?”
The night was yet early. The butler had informed him dinner had been served a mere hour ago, and yet she seemed hopelessly sotted. Her guests were no better, ambling about Needham Hall in various states of dishabille and inebriation. He had wandered into an orgy in the picture gallery in his efforts to locate her. The image of Lord Townshend’s hairy prick would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Nell tipped her head back, caressing his chest in a parody of the way she had once touched him. “Pray, do not pretend you care, Needham. It only makes a mockery of us both. I shan’t fall. You can let me go now.”
But he could not let her go. Because having her this near, in the mockery of an embrace, made remembrance hit him. “I cannot. I will never let you go, Nell.”
He needed her to understand that.
When her letter had come, understanding had flooded him. All this time apart, all these days of forced absentia, of penance, and he had believed she would one day forgive him. That she would one day accept him back into her life. But her intentions, spelled out in the bold, familiar scrawl of her hand—those dot-less letters i, as if she could not be bothered to finish them—had told him how very wrong he had been.
Their years apart had not been about Nell making him pay for his sins.
No, they had been about Nell beginning a new life entirely.
One without him in it.
“You must,” she snarled. Her hands were on his suddenly, her nails digging into his fingers with vicious persistence. “Release me. Release me from your hold and from this insupportable marriage. I want to be free of you at last.”
“No.” He held firm.
It was the only thing he could do. Jack was frozen. Immobile. He felt as if releasing her would send her from him forever. It was a stupid thought. She could not divorce him without his aid in the matter, and he had returned, disproving any claims she could make in relation to abandonment. For his part, even if she had indeed bedded half of London, he would not sue her for divorce on account of adultery.
“Let me go, Needham.” She scratched him now, clawing at