Chapter Eleven
July 9, 1817
The longcase clock on the floor below struck midnight, and the everlasting chimes resonated throughout the house, reaching into the depths of Finn’s rooms. Those tones were much like a death knell, constantly tolling, telling him his time on this mortal coil was finished, and that perhaps he’d already overstayed his welcome.
He’d arrived home an hour ago, but the acute mortification, anger, and self-loathing that had held him captive at that society event churned through his chest. His head ached from the barrage of voices telling him he wasn’t good enough, was an embarrassment to his friends and family, would always be a burden, that no woman would want him in his current condition.
Damned depression.Too tired and heartsick to fight it, he let it have its way with him. Devil take the consequences.
When he’d imagined this evening, it had ended much differently than the reality. He’d pictured Jane draped across his chest, languid and limp and sated from carnal play, replete from his skill. Instead, though he’d brought her to release with his mouth, when it had come time to claim her body, his bloody prick had turned traitorous. Or perhaps he hadn’t believed his limitations were as real as the doctors had warned, assumed he could overcome them if he’d thought positively, tried hard enough, wanted that climax more than anything.
He snorted. Getting hard and staying that way was exactly the problem.
Now, it was glaringly obvious he couldn’t have intercourse with anyone; to say nothing of being able to penetrate a woman. The magnitude of that hit him in the chest with all the force of a blow. The pain of it made him double over in his Bath chair. He’d failed at the one thing in which a man was supposed to excel. Not to mention he’d disappointed the woman he’d wished to impress with his prowess. A flutter around his heart stole his breath and he rubbed his fingers over the spot. To see that frustration in her beautiful eyes, suffer through her futile efforts to stimulate his shaft, feel hope die when he knew anything further she wanted to do would have the same results…
God, it had been too much.
As the darkness of depression had crept over him in that parlor, he’d made sure to drive a wedge between him and Jane. He’d ended the relationship before the dismal reality of who he truly was could set in with her; before they could grow closer… before she had just cause to regret her choice or resent him… or mourn for him. Now, the last thing he needed to do was rid the world of his presence so he wouldn’t hurt anyone else with his inability to remain whole.
Like a man should be in all aspects of life.
From the bed, Wellington glanced at him with unblinking blue eyes. She meowed as if to inquire why he was acting like such a nodcock.
Finn shook his head. “Don’t try to talk me out of this, girl. My mind is made up.”
The cat meowed again. She sprang from the ball she’d coiled herself in and stood at the edge of the bed, whiskers quivering as she stared.
“No, I’m not being unreasonable. Nor am I giving up like a coward.”
Yet wasn’t that exactly what he was? He’d failed to save his best friend from Waterloo, because like a coward he’d left the battlefield before he could yell for Edward to retreat. And he’d been too much a coward to tell Edward’s woman of his death and his wish to marry her. That had ended in disaster and grief that had never been dealt with. Perhaps, after everything, he was a coward toward Jane for not talking about what haunted him, about what he couldn’t do.
“It can’t be helped.” That time had passed. No amount of conversation would fix what ailed him.
Wellington meowed.
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Why would you think it’s my mind playing tricks?”
Of course, she didn’t really think anything. It was nothing but his consciousness reminding him that he was, indeed, acting like the arse Jane had likened him to. He tapped a forefinger against the notebook in his lap. Ah, God, Jane. The ache in his chest renewed. She’d been so beautiful and magnificent when she’d found release, so happy from his compliments on her dress, so lighthearted as she’d twirled to show it to the best advantage. For a short time, only the two of them had existed in a bubble… until his body had ruined everything. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered. Though they’d known each other for the span of a week, she’d managed to crawl beneath his skin, swept the cobwebs from his heart in preparation for setting up housekeeping. “I refuse to trap her into a prison sentence.”
Wellington meowed.
He looked at the cat who perched on the edge of the bed. “She really was like sunshine, but I’m too twisted and damaged for a woman of her caliber.” Would she mourn for him? He clenched his teeth against the ache in his chest. Another reason for him to make his exit from the world. They were only friends, perhaps would have been lovers had this evening not failed, but he hoped she wouldn’t spend too long in tears. He wasn’t worth them. “She has to know Ballantrae is so much better for her than I ever could be.” Was she even now finding solace in the duke’s arms? He grunted. She certainly would once word of his death circulated.
The feline batted a paw in his direction as if to disabuse him of the notion.
“I’m sorry you never had the chance to meet her. I think you would have liked the lady.” In a fit of pique, he ripped a partial page from the notebook. “Perhaps I’ll will you to her.” Would that be cruel on his part? She’d always remember him when she looked at the cat, but oh how that would annoy the duke. He snorted. “Yes, perhaps I will.”
Mother, the family will be better off without me. I can no longer bear the disappointment or the burden you must feel. Please see that Wellington goes to Lady Jane Marsden, the Earl of Worchester’s daughter. Please don’t mourn long. I’m not worth it.
“No backing out now, old girl,” he told the cat. After setting the notebook containing his unfinished book on the bedside table, he laid the note on top along with the pencil. At least the pain in his chest would cease once this was over and done with. Heavy sadness pressed in on him. He’d been accepting enough of his injury before he’d come back to London, but once he’d met Jane, everything changed. He’d wanted to be better, more—enough. Because of her. For her.
But I failed.
Wellington uttered a very loud, very long meow. Her tail twitched, usually a harbinger of rash action.
“Do hush.” However, beneath the pain of loss, the heat of anger and embarrassment, cold fear had taken up residence in his chest. He hadn’t felt that since Waterloo. It closed icy fingers around his heart and squeezed. What if he didn’t wish to go? What if things weren’t as bad as he assumed in this moment? “No, my mind is made up.” Or so depression wished for him to believe. Why should he not? Wasn’t it always right? He swallowed around the wad of panic in his throat.
Finn shoved aside all thoughts. This is the only way. He wheeled himself closer to the nightstand. The brown bottle of laudanum rested on the side farthest away from his location and closer to his pillows for easy reach if nightmares plagued him. The stopper lay beside it in the small box the set had come in. No amount of reaching could help him to grasp that bottle now. “Bugger it.”