care who took the title after he died? He would be dead for God’s sake. Who cared about what happened after they died?
Simon had his hands full worrying about what happened while he was alive. In fact, he would rather not worry about it. Or anything else, for that matter.
That was a childish attitude and utterly unreasonable, but he didn’t care; arguing with Wyndham always brought the worst out in him and it always had. The man was colder than an iceberg in December. The angrier and irater Simon became, the calmer and more distant Wyndham became.
It was a challenge to see if Simon could draw a rise out of him. Not that he’d ever managed such a feat. No, all he managed to do was fly into a pelter and make a bigger ass of himself.
His brother’s image rose up before him and Simon frowned; Wyndham had looked quite ill earlier. In fact, Simon thought he’d looked rather the worse for wear for a while now.
Can you blame him? You are probably driving him into an early grave with your idiocy.
Simon clenched his jaws against the unwanted—but likely true—chastisement.
“Blast and damn and bloody hell,” he muttered, putting his brother from his mind with a forceful shove.
He shrugged out of his coat, grimacing at the pain the small motion caused in his neck and shoulders. Would it always be that way? Would his skin burn and ache for the rest of his days? Another thing alcohol was good for—the pain. Not that there weren’t better things for pain, things he’d enjoyed far too much during the war.
Simon jerked his thoughts away from that dangerous subject.
He tossed his coat over a chair and unbuttoned his waistcoat, forcing himself to use his left hand. It was not nearly as damaged as the rest of his left side since his hand had been in front of his body when the cannon exploded. But it still burned like hell whenever he used it for fussy tasks like unhooking buttons.
The doctor had cautioned him against mollycoddling his left side, telling him the more active he was, the quicker the pain would go away. Not that it would ever go away completely. Some activities, he’d told Simon, would exacerbate the injuries. Activities like riding, the only thing that made life worthwhile.
He grimaced at the self-pitying thought and slipped into his favorite robe, a battered green and gold silk banyan that had been with him throughout the War and which he associated with better times. It had been a garment he’d worn after surviving each uncertain day; something he’d only donned once he was clean of blood and grime and death. It was a symbol of cheating death yet again and a reminder of those nights when he’d been hot and hard and lucky enough to find a willing, eager woman to celebrate with.
Simon shook his head at the foolish thoughts. Memories of days that had been both better and worse; memories so old and faded they might as well have belonged to some other man. This was his life now: a sort of half-life that Wyndham insisted on foisting on him.
You could have a different life—a better life.
Oh yes, that he could. Just as soon as he danced to Wyndham’s bloody tune and married a woman of his brother’s choosing.
Only if he capitulated to Wyndham’s demands could he have the life he’d always wanted. Well, part of it, at least—the part that didn’t include Bella.
Ahhhh, Bella, his snide mental companion taunted. But she is long gone. You can’t even remember her face and yet you cling to her memory—and your anger—like a child.
So what if he couldn’t always recall Bella’s face? He couldn’t recall lots of things, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t happened.
His head had been batted about more violently than a cricket ball over the past decade and a half, but he could recall Bella—and what his brother had done to her—clearly enough.
He would never buckle to his brother’s demands and take a wife. Indeed, he would never marry.
You need a woman, not a wife.
“Shut the hell up,” Simon snapped, and then realized he was bickering with his own mind as if he were some sort of lunatic.
He threw back the remains of his glass, bared his teeth at the pleasant burn, and poured himself another. He paused, the glass half-way to his mouth.
Perhaps the annoying voice in his head was right: he needed a woman. Lord. When was the last time he’d had