With a harrumphing sound, Charlie somehow got him moving and outside into the fresh air.
“How much did you win?” Edward demanded, and earned himself a grin from the wiry little man struggling to hold him up.
“Enough to make comin’ and dragging you outta the gutter again worth me while, you daft bugger,” he said, shaking his head.
Eddie grinned, but then the fresh air seemed suddenly very fresh indeed and he didn’t feel so good.
“Bleedin’ good job I bought the carriage, I reckon,” Charlie muttered as the marquess steadied himself against the wall and retched. “An’ I don’t know what Lady Violette is gonna say when she sees the state of ye. Reckon she’ll be lively when she spots that shiner, though.”
Edward spared a moment to glare at his valet before turning his attention once again to the floor.
***
“Edward Greyston!” Violette exclaimed, when she finally ran him to ground late the next afternoon. “How could you?”
“Go away, Violette,” he said with a grimace. The pounding in his head seemed to pulse with the throbbing in his eye and numerous other scrapes and bruises, and he was not feeling any of the mellow contentment that had found him last night.
“Can you imagine the scandal if it comes to light that the Marquess of Winterbourne was fighting like a ... a common thug in a low tavern? Can you?”
In her agitation, his sister’s voice had risen to a volume that seemed to cut through his poor abused brain like a scalpel and he clutched at his head.
“Go. Away. Violette.”
“I will not!” she retorted, pacing up and down the room in fury. Edward sat at his desk and leaned his head on his hands, wondering vaguely why he’d never noticed before how noisy women’s skirts were. The swishing sound was making him feel positively nauseated. Though come to think of it, he’d felt like that before she’d come in. “We have people arriving in less than a fortnight and ... and look at you!” she said in disgust.
Edward gritted his teeth. It was true that the black eye was an impressive one, and added to the scrapes on his jaw and the fact that his knuckles looked like someone had hit them with a hammer ... Well, it was a good job she couldn’t see the rest of him.
“Be gone by then,” he muttered, knowing that he’d still have to face Lady Russell and Violette’s blasted husband before that. He couldn’t avoid them for the whole period before the guests arrived. Could he? The vague hope was dashed as Violette strode up to his desk and slapped her hand down on it in a purely vindictive manner.
He closed his eyes against the pain in his head.
“Well, if you think you’re going out again tonight to drink yourself into a stupor and get yourself killed, you are very much mistaken. I expect to see you at dinner, black eye and all.”
There was a rigid silence.
“How dare you!” The words exploded from somewhere deep and dark and ugly inside of him and he couldn’t seem to stop them. Violette gasped and took a few steps back. “How dare you speak to me in such a way? I am the bloody marquess, this is my home, and you are here at my invitation.” He stood, drawing himself up to his full height as he stepped out from behind the desk. There was real fear in his sister’s eyes, now, and he felt a surge of pleasure at the sight. He advanced on her as she began to move away from the force of his rage. “You have no say as to how or where I choose to live my life; it is not your affair. I’ve given you your bloody party, so the least you can do is leave me be. Now, damn well get out!”
For a moment she stood still, staring at him in defiance, though her eyes looked too bright and he wondered if she would cry.
“If you dislike me being here and worrying about you so much, I wonder that you agreed to this at all,” she said, the words trembling a little and he could see now the disappointment in her eyes.
“So do I!” he flung back at her, wanting to see the words strike at her, wanting to see the hurt in her eyes.
He wasn’t disappointed.
She turned and fled, slamming the door behind her.
He stared at the place where she’d been standing as the rage drained out of him as quickly as it had arrived.
Oh God.
Self-loathing welled up, replacing the rage and invading his soul, seeking out and filling every corner of his heart. Poor Violette. How could he have spoken to her so?
Incomprehension swamped him as he stumbled back to his desk. Violette was the only family that gave a damn for him that he had left, and he’d probably just spoken the words that would make her hate him.
He truly didn’t understand what came over him when his temper rose. It was almost like he was standing back and letting some vile demon take him over. The worst of it was that while it was happening, he enjoyed it, enjoyed the violence of his anger, the way people shrunk from him in fear. It felt powerful. It felt like control. But in truth, it was the complete opposite.
Edward put his head in his hands. This had been a terrible mistake. He wasn’t fit for society, and soon enough, that would become abundantly clear. He would have to keep a tight rein on himself until this ordeal was over. No drinking. No fighting.
More than that, he would have to keep his interactions with the guests to a bare minimum. Better they think him bad tempered and sullen than that he was totally unhinged and he’d lost his damn mind like many Greystons before him, but he was terribly afraid that it might be true. There was a thread of insanity in the family that couldn’t be denied, his cousin Gabriel being one he could well believe suffered the affliction. He could only pray that this wasn’t the beginning of his own slide into madness, that somehow, he could cure himself and remember just who he’d once been.
Chapter 4
“Wherein the guests arrive and Longwold is a hive of activity.”
December 6th 1817
St Nicholas Day
Violette looked at the prettily wrapped parcel and felt her heart thud. As she looked up, she saw her brother staring at her with that uneasy, watchful look he had of late. It was as though he believed himself a monster, not fit for society, and was waiting for them to throw him out when they discovered it.
That dreadful day in his library, she could have believed that was true. She had been afraid that the stories of the taint in their blood weren’t just malicious gossip and slander as she’d always believed. There had been febrile look in his eyes and such ... rage. It had truly frightened her.
But now on St Nicholas Day, the traditional day for gift-giving, he had handed her a present and she knew this was the only way he could make amends.
There had been many callers so far today. From the poorest in the neighbourhood offering anything from a song, to corn dollies, or baskets of apples. Yule candles, too, had been offered, along with some rather more decadent sweet meats to those tradesmen who relied most heavily on Lord Winterbourne’s patronage. But now they had gathered to give their own gifts, and Edward had waited until last to give his into her hands.