There’d been no respect given on his part, no affection, no time taken to bring her to arousal. Hell, he’d not even seen to her release, that’s how much of a black-hearted cad he was. As much as he’d like to blame his lack of emotional control, he couldn’t. This horrid episode rested firmly upon his shoulders. He was at fault, and he deserved her wrath.
I must apologize for my behavior.
While hastily stuffing his flaccid shaft into his breeches, he did up the buttons of his frontfalls as he moved to the door, sloppily dodging the broken crystal on the floor. Grasping the latch, he wrenched open the panel and then strode into the corridor beyond. Halfway down the hall, the sound of her soul-deep sobs reached his ears. Hot guilt collided with white-hot anger to twist with the mocking anxiety in his chest, tightening, squeezing, pressing until he could scarcely breathe. Approaching his fury-filled wife now would end in folly, and she’d probably throw something at his head.
With good reason.
Still, his heartbeat thudded fast. He wanted to see her, was prepared to grovel at her feet if necessary if only she’d reassure him that she hadn’t made a mistake in marrying. Softly padding along the corridor, Drew paused at her door. From the other side, the sobs cut through his chest with all the accuracy of a sharp knife. He laid a hand on the wood panel, and to his mortification, moisture welled in his eyes.
I did that. I made her cry, undoubtedly hurt her, and broke her trust.
For the first time in his adult existence, he realized that what he said, what he did had consequences beyond the usual hurt he caused. What the ramifications of this action would be, he couldn’t say, but terror froze his heart at the thought of her leaving Derbyshire after being wedded for less than a day.
How the deuce can I fix this without losing face?
Perhaps he couldn’t, and that was the problem. Sooner or later, he’d need to set his ego, his pride aside and dirty his hands while taking a good, hard look at himself. For the moment, there was no recourse. Blinking until the tears cleared from his eyes, he turned and, gasping for breath, stumbled back down the hall to his room. Once inside, he slammed the door, his body shaking as guilt and regret joined the seething mix in his person.
“I deserve her ire and her loathing,” he told his room at large. “I’m truly a prick.” The admission did nothing to alleviate the churning tide within him, and he let it rage.
The candleholder followed the fate of the water decanter. Soon the acrid scent of candle smoke filled the room, but his rage wasn’t spent.
Drew tore the curtains from around the bed, pulled the counterpane off and threw it about, took his pillows and ripped them open. Goose down feathers showered the bed and the floor, floated into the air. With a cry of rage and desolation, he shoved the mattress to the floor, and when he couldn’t draw enough breath to remain upright any longer, he collapsed onto it and covered his face with his hands.
Too late he’d realized that he’d had the hope of Sarah in his life as well as the calm that she could bring, but now that dream dangled farther and farther away, left him floundering in the nightmare he constantly battled. The chance to woo or even win her if he were of a mind had been in his hand, but he’d tossed it away like so much rubbish. Beyond that, how could he push aside the demons that haunted him in order to become the man he needed to be?
There had to be more to life than the endless struggle, the always allowing anger to guide him, to drive him into hiding.
“Why can I not find balance and control over these feelings?” The silence of the room mocked him in the absence of an answer.
Damn this title that has cursed my life.
The chime that proclaimed the midnight hour from the longcase clock drifted to his ears, but Drew didn’t stir; he couldn’t. No, it wasn’t the fault of the title that had torn up his life. He had done that himself, for he was broken and didn’t know how to heal. Anxiety held him frozen while fear punched him repeatedly in the gut.
“I’m going to lose her before I’ve won her.” But didn’t he want that over everything?
Again, the dratted moisture welled in his eyes. At least if he were to cry, no one would see him. God, what would his father say? No doubt he’d lecture and say how disappointed that he was. I never could please the man. Black spots flirted with his vision… not that he could discern that darkness from the inky blackness currently filling the room. He labored to breathe, his lungs aching, his chest weighted, his throat tight and choked with unshed tears as well as emotions he dare not utter aloud. Please, Sarah, forgive me.
Then his pride slammed to the forefront. Why should he feel bad? He’d bedded her as he’d said, as the betrothal contract demanded. What did it matter how he’d accomplished the task?
The sound of his wheezing, struggling breaths rasped loudly in the quiet. She deserved better and he knew it. No woman should have been treated to the display he gave tonight.
Pounding started in his head. He pressed his brow to the mattress and cursed himself into oblivion. Silently, he cried, stopped short at sobbing for everything he’d lost in his life due to his crushing emotions.
When he raised his head, his gaze landed on a hint of feminine, lace-edged fabric that peeked out from under the bedding’s destruction. Drew snagged it in his fingers and pulled it toward him. Sarah’s nightgown, the one he’d torn in his haste to bury himself in her heat. As he brought the fabric to his nose, her lingering clover and violet scent assailed him. Once more, his chest squeezed so hard, he nearly lost consciousness.
Sagging back into the mattress with the delicate finery clutched in his hand, he struggled to draw breath. He had to beat this; he had to remain alive, for there were some things in life that had the potential to be… more.
If he could, he would find a way to make things right between him and Sarah.
Or die trying.