27
Benedick was a man who could hold his liquor. At times in his life he’d been a three-bottle man and still been able to hold an intelligent conversation and make his way home without stumbling. The ability to drink and not show it was almost more important to being a gentleman than paying one’s gambling debts, and when he was seventeen years old his father, a re-formed rake and ne’er-do-well, had taught him those salient social graces, much to his mother’s annoyance. Then again, Charlotte Rohan had always been alarmingly strong-minded. She’d had to be, to deal with his charming father’s ways, and Adrian Rohan had ended up being that most original of creatures, a devoted husband, much to his secret embarrassment.
Like father like son. It didn’t matter that the world considered the Rohans to be profligates and degenerates—the moment they found their soul mates they became, if not the epitome of righteous behavior, at least excellent husbands. Even his distant cousin Alistair, one of the founding members of the Heavenly Host, had retired to Ireland with his English bride and lived out an exemplary life breeding horses and children and worshipping his wife.
His own grandfather, Francis Rohan, had been the stuff of legend, which had been difficult to imagine when he thought of the charming and devoted old man he’d adored. He’d been unable to keep his eyes or his hands off his plump grandmother, much to his father’s embarrassment, but in truth, his father was just the same.
Benedick had had every intention of following in the family tradition. He’d sown his wild oats, even attended a few of the waning gatherings of the Heavenly Host before falling in love with Annis Duncan. They should have lived happily ever after, with that same comfortable devotion that had been a shining example.
But apparently his generation was cursed. His darling Annis had died, and he could no longer remember what she looked like. His second attempt had been disastrous, confirming the suspicion that the luck of the wicked Rohans had run out. His brother Charles had married a prig, his brother Brandon was courting ruin and an early death, and his sister Miranda had married her kidnapper, a master of thieves, for God’s sake! And had the effrontery to be happy about it.
Benedick leaned back in his chair, eyeing the brandy bottle with a jaundiced eye. He’d been drinking steadily, pacing himself, in order to blot out these very thoughts that were plaguing him. Better to think about his family than that other, horrific memory that was eating at his stomach and heart and soul. Assuming he even had a heart and soul—he took leave to doubt it. He reached for the brandy bottle, missing, and then clasped it. He spilled more than he managed to get in the glass, and he decided it might be wise to forgo the glass altogether for the next round. Less trouble for the servants.
Why he should care about the servants was beyond his comprehension, but that was his mother’s influence again. Why couldn’t he have had some distant mother who never saw her children and left their upbringing to capable nannies? Then he wouldn’t be plagued with such ridiculous concerns like fair treatment for the servants, responsibility for his siblings, general decency.
And he wouldn’t be doing his best to blot out the memory of his evil, vicious tongue. He was capable of being a nasty son of a bitch, and he knew it. He’d proved that early this morning, letting his evil inner demon free to slash and hack like a medieval warrior, leaving his victim broken and bleeding on the ground.
Except that he wasn’t a medieval warrior, and his weapons had been words, not maces and broad-swords. Words that were lies, slashing at the woman he’d just made love to, destroying her until there was nothing left.
He could still see her face, calm, unmoving, the utter bleakness in her dark blue eyes. He’d managed to smash Charity Carstairs’s infernal amour propre, gotten through to the heart of her, the soul of her, and crushed her.
He’d drained the glass, he realized, and he could still see her. He reached for the bottle and took a deep drink, letting the fiery taste of it slide down his throat. He should see if he could get some good Scots whiskey. That would work even better than French brandy. Too bad the British weren’t as adept at creating something to knock a man on his arse.
He could ask his brother the direction of the opium den he habituated if he got desperate enough. Anything to forget what he’d done. But Brandon had disappeared, and wouldn’t return, at least, not until the infernal fraternity lost its hold over him. The opium would still lay claim to his soul, but Benedick would help him deal with that when the time came.
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.