Sweet Torture (Fated for Love) (14 page)

“How sophisticated of you
, Lydia, not even wed, and already you have mastered the art of an affair. Will I be compensated for my services?” He saw her tense beneath the covers.

“That’s not what this is
, and you know it.”

“Do I? Who has more experience than
I do in these delicate situations? This is exactly how it goes, you know. An invitation is issued and accepted, bed sport ensues, and then there is an awkward farewell. I usually give jewels, but given that I am the wronged party…”

“Devon
, please,” Lydia curled tighter into her haven refusing to even look at him. Her fists clenched in the covers, afraid that if she relented just a little, gave in to what her heart was screaming for, she would not be able to let go. This was the way it had to be. She wouldn’t insult him by pretending she didn’t care. She couldn’t, not after all they had shared, but he didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand, how much it was hurting her to do this.

“Lydia
, I know you think I am like your father, but I am not,” he ground the words out through clenched teeth. “I love you and would never do anything to hurt you. I would never stray from our marriage bed or do anything to embarrass you. Why can’t you see that? I know you love me; you can’t hide it, even from yourself. Why must you torture us like this? I am here begging, Lydia, stop being afraid to admit you love me. You say it’s impossible, but we can marry, we can love each other openly and have everything we want. All you have to do is have the courage to reach for it.”

“Our love is madness,” she whispered.

“Pardon?” Devon nearly bellowed. “Our love is not madness—it is beautiful and real. Your notion that it isn’t good enough to please your mother, or strong enough to form a lasting marriage, is what is madness and I won’t hear it, Lydia. I can’t stand by and watch you dance with another man, marry another man, and bear his children, when you belong to me.”

“Devon
, please,” Lydia sat up and turned to him. Anguished tears spilled down her cheeks. “Someone will hear you.”

“It does not matter. Nothing matters if we are not together.” His voice choked. He was overcome with emotion, pain, anger. His mind struggled to make sense of all he was feeling
, but his mind couldn’t fathom the idea of life without Lydia. “I cannot be ice like you. I cannot pretend to feel nothing when I see you. If you deny me one more time, I will never ask again. I will never set eyes upon you for the rest of my days, or even acknowledge you.”

“No
,” Lydia begged.

“Marry me
, Lydia, or know that I will hate you for the rest of my days.” The words were spoken with such agony it hurt to speak them. They ripped from him, pulsing, and reverberating throughout the room. They were the sound of his heart breaking, tearing from his chest, and shattering in her hands.

She sobbed openly. Her body wracked with shudde
ring convulsions of raw emotion. “Don’t do this. Don’t ruin everything we had with such words. I love you, Devon… but I can’t—.”

He turned his back on her and strode to the door. He gripped the knob with white knuckled rage before unlocking it, and pulling the door open savagely.

Lady Covvington stood there, hand to her throat, tears in her eyes. She stared at Devon in shock, at his open shirt, waistcoat and jacket in his hand, eyes narrowed at her.

“It seems congratulations are in order
, my lady. Your daughter has chosen to be Lady Caverly rather than waste her existence loving a man like me.” He shouldered past her, meeting the eyes of startled servants as he passed. He made his way down the main stairs and exited through the front door. He didn’t care that his bold exit would effectively ruin Lydia; by morning, word would spread throughout London.

She deserved it.

*~~~

My dear family,

It is with regret that I must leave England. I will send word when my wretched wandering soul finds an anchor, until then… I am sorry.

Devon sanded the letter with numb fingers, the only part of himself he couldn’t feel. The rest of him, from crown to sole, felt like an open wound. Jagged, dry, and embedded with salt and dirt. It was all metaphorical, of course, but it suited his dark thoughts to give imagery to his pain. His body was a cage of pain, betrayal, and many emotions he had not yet experienced in his previously blessed life. Now he knew. He knew the bitter taste of betrayal, the hot tang of real hate. The kind of hate that burns in your mind, and you wish you could release it with words, but mere words are not sufficient enough to rid yourself of the poison, so your only recourse is to hold it inside yourself, and try not to moan from the agony of it.

He didn’t always succeed.

He hid from the light in his apartment. He sent his valet away each time he tried to enter and sat in silence. Even the silence was painful. It mocked him with its patience, waiting for him to call to mind the reason for his suffering and when he did… He was fit company for no one. All his civility fled, reducing him to the bare essence of his humanity and the weight of his shattered heart. He didn’t know he was capable of feeling like this, feeling everything at once one moment and then nothing but darkness the next. It was too much for one person to bear, and too much to burden on his family. He could no longer be the man they once knew, so damaged was his soul.

So he fled, like a coward, like a monster one could not bear to look upon, and left London for whatever distraction he could find to overcome his pain. He took very little with him but money and a change of clothes. He didn’t care where he ended up as long as it was different, and that no one knew him. He would do his damnedest to forget his pain, forget his broken heart and the cause of it, and forget what it felt like to love.

He contemplated writing her a letter. Of wishing her well in her cold convenient marriage, and warning her, that when she lies beneath her wrinkled thrusting husband, that she dare not think of him. But he didn’t. He was afraid if he even went as far as writing her name, then he would implode in upon himself and from the wreckage of his broken body, a true monster would emerge.

Leaving was best. If God favored him, he would never see hide nor hair of Lydia Covvington again, and never again hear her name except in his own tortuous thoughts. He would sail far from London, far from polite society, and bury himself in debauchery. He only prayed that one day, he would be able to lift his head again, and return to his family with some semblance of his normal self, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

Three months later…

Time whispered by in the change of shadows across the canopy. His bed, though comfortable and surrounded by a luxuriously decorated room, was like a cell. A prison of his own making and a constant place of torment. He felt trapped in his thoughts and emotions. As the opium faded from his blood and the tremors and sickness ceased, he was left with a heavy feeling of heartache. These were the things he had been trying to escape. The loss, the pain, the anger, the want, the need. All of them were like a disease only quieted by the opium, but never gone. He was not proud of himself, he was ashamed and a coward. He swallowed his self-hatred, refusing to even allow himself to think of her. But thoughts of her lingered like a halo of light around his dark vision, at times blinding, but sometimes soothing. He deserved all of it, even the good thoughts. He had given his heart to her, and she had turned away from it, disgusted. To him, that was his one saving grace. He had loved and lost, and lived to tell the tale, only he didn’t want to, he wanted to forget. He wanted to revel in the pain and anger, so that he could not remember the good. He wanted to forget the soft feel of her skin, the smell of her hair as he buried his face in it, and most of all he wanted to forget her smile. There were so many things he wanted to forget, if only he could remove them from his mind. God knew he tried, but that bloody fool Colton, damn him, had to come and rescue him. As if he needed rescuing...

Now here he lies in Colton’s home, a gentle breeze wafting through the lacy curtains and the smell of steeped tea coming from his bedside. He closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t alone. Pretended she was there glaring at him and admonishing him for daring to be naked under his sheets in the light of day. But no longer was she the puritanical ice queen. Devon had thawed that heart and body thoroughly
, by his own hand, and would live to rue that first kiss for the rest of his life.

If only he could stop craving her.

The door opened and Devon cracked an eyelid to see who was disturbing his mausoleum. Olivia, radiant with the bloom of love, entered with a tray of food. It must be time for luncheon. If he squinted through the gloom, he could make out the clock on the mantle.

“Are you awake?”

“No,” Devon’s voice was thick from lack of use, and he had to clear his throat.

“Good. I thought you could try some solid food today. How does cold chicken
and cheese sound?”

“Like hell
,” He said dryly.

“Splendid,
I’ve brought you pudding, too.” Olivia winked. “But I won’t give it to you until you’ve finished with your lunch.

“You sound like mother
,” Devon mumbled.

“Then I must be doing something right.”

“You’re too happy, Livie. Get out.”

Olivia just smiled
as she set the tray on the bedside table beside the untouched tea. She fussed with the things around him, fluffing his pillows and straightening blankets, her aura of happiness impenetrable against his scowl.

“Why must you be in here picking at
me? I will eat when I wish without your insufferable presence,” Devon said.

She shooed
at him as if his words were an irritating nat. “I’m taking care of you whether you like it or not. You wouldn’t except my help before, and now look what you’ve gone and done.”

“I don’t need help
, I need to be alone. I did not ask to be rescued nor did I request to be taken here. I’d rather be in my apartment in London where I can—” “Molder in misery and self-exile. Are you harassing my lovely wife?” Colton entered the room and kissed Olivia on the forehead.

“The sight of you two sicken me.”

“You’re just jealous. Whether you wanted to be rescued or not is irrelevant. You were in no position to save yourself; therefore, I had to step in. Your apartment has been leased to someone else, and your man is on his way here. I suggest you sit tight, and wait for your sanity to return without blistering our ears with your unpleasant attitude.”

“Bloody hell
, I will,” Devon grumbled mutinously.

He was being an ass, he knew
, but it could not be helped. His body was sick with the need for opium, and his head was sick with his miserable thoughts. And he was jealous. Watching his friend and his sister so obviously in love burned him like a hot poker in the eye. It was the last thing he wanted to see, and they were merciless about it—always touching and smiling. Bloody fools.

He turned his head to the windows and looked away from them, disgusted, envious. Why did it still hurt so much? He hated them
, and yet he loved them. They did save him from himself, and kept him here away from prying eyes and insufferable questions. He had a lot to answer for, especially to his parents, but first he needed to regain control of his head and body. He would have to face the music eventually, but not yet.

The crunch of carriage wheels could be heard on the crushed shell drive
, and Olivia and Colton looked over at the windows in puzzlement.

“Who could that be?” Olivia frowned as she turned to Colton.

He shrugged, “Your parents?”

“Father said he had business in London
, and that he would return next week.”

Devon groaned aloud, “The speculation is riveting, why don’t you go down and see who it is
, for God’s sake?”

Colton frowned at him as Olivia tossed a glare at her brother and left the room.

“Remind me to blacken your eye when this is all over,” Colton growled.

“You could have left me in Amsterdam.”

“You don’t yet realize what hell you put your family through, so I will forgive you for that, but know this—there will come a time when I will pull you from that bed, and force you to stand on your feet again. We’ve all suffered over a woman, Devon. Stop letting it eat you up inside.”

“I’m in hell
,” Devon said gravely.

“You’ve made your own hell
. It’s time to claw your way out of it.”

Devon remained silent. He bunched the sheets in white knuckled fists because
, for the first time, he felt the burn of tears threatening, and he did not want to give into them. What kind of man cried over lost love? He felt weak with the effort and after a few moments, he heard the scrape of Colton’s boots as he left the room. Thank God. Devon squeezed his eyes shut and willed the tears away. He had not cried since he was a small boy, and he would not give in now. He could feel the brim of his lashes become wet and still he squeezed. He rolled over violently and punched the pillow with his fist—venting his rage and his lack of self-control. He hated this; he hated the weakness he felt and the things he said.