He cursed, with long, inventive, impossibly obscene phrases. He had the unbearable suspicion that he wouldn’t be able to save Brandon. That no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop the spiral of self-destruction that was driving him, any more than he was able to save his sister from her disastrous marriage.
He took another swallow, letting the blissful veil of confusion float down over him. There was something else he was trying not to think of, something that kept pushing through to torment him. It had something to do with Charity Carstairs. Melisande. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Creamy skin. Magnificent breasts. Sweet little sounds when he took her, delicious shudders when she climaxed, shock in her eyes each time she reached her peak. He’d shown her, hadn’t he, he thought dismally. Taught her just what she was missing. And then made sure she’d never seek it out again, if cruelty was the price she had to pay.
Why had he done it? He was adept at ridding himself of females he’d lost interest in, all without offending them. But maybe that was the problem. He hadn’t lost interest in her. He’d become so wretchedly obsessed and entangled with her, after one night of sweaty, wicked delight, that he’d panicked.
He was supposed to hold his liquor, treat women with civility and never show fear. He’d cocked that up to a fare-thee-well. His mother would be horrified. His father would thrash him. No he wouldn’t. Too big to thrash. B’sides, his father always hated to punish him. His mother’s disappointment would be reward enough.
Melisande’s face swam in front of him, the softness of her mouth, so vulnerable, so sweet, so innocent. The Saint of King Street, and here he was, debauching her. He shouldn’t feel guilty, but he was. It didn’t matter. He still wanted that mouth. He wanted so much more—there’d barely been time to do more than touch the possibilities of the flesh. He wanted to do things to her that had never interested him before. He wanted to cover every inch of her creamy skin with his mouth. He wanted to see if he could make her scream in pleasure. He wanted…he wanted…
The brandy bottle slipped from his hand, hitting the Aubusson carpet and rolling toward the fire. He reached out for it, and his balance faltered. The chair went over, and his head smashed against something hard. Might knock some sense into him, he thought dazedly.
But maybe he could sleep just a little bit, since he was already lying down. The floor was as good a place as any. He hadn’t taken Melisande on the floor, had he? He’d wanted to.
Bloody hell. She was still haunting him. He reached out for the brandy bottle, but it had rolled out of his reach, and there was something wet and warm on his head. He reached up a hand to touch it, then brought it down to look at it.
Blood. He didn’t like blood. In fact, among his other, un-gentleman-like transgressions, he couldn’t stand the sight of it.
And he finally, happily, passed out on the library floor.
28
Miranda Rohan de Malheur, Countess of Rochdale, let out a shriek of dismay, raced into the room and sank down next to the unconscious figure of her oldest brother. There was blood everywhere, and she threw her arms around him, terrified that he was dead.
He rewarded her with a loud snore, and she caught the reek of brandy. She sat back on her heels with annoyance, turning to look up at her husband. “He’s dead drunk, and I think he hit his head. He’s bleeding like a pig, the carpet is ruined, and I thought we were here to save Brandon, not Benedick.”
Lucien de Malheur, the lady’s husband, lately referred to as the Scorpion for his less than honorable habits, limped into the room, staring down at his brother-in-law. “How the mighty have fallen,” he murmured softly. “My heart, you’re getting blood all over that lovely frock. Leave him to me. The Rohans are blessed with very hard heads, and I don’t doubt he’s suffered worse. He’s going to be more troubled by his hangover than a little scalp wound.”
Miranda looked back at her brother, the stalwart she’d always depended on, fear and annoyance fighting for dominance. “Are you quite certain?”
“Absolutely. Go find that elderly manservant and see if he can round up a few strong footmen to remove your brother to his bed. I