This Earl Is on Fire (17 page)

Now, Liam's attention fixed on his uncle, a sudden and keen sense of warning prickling over his skin, lifting every hair. It was one thing if Aunt Edith had slipped and mentioned his lecture on forgeries, but would she also start rumors that linked him to Adeline Pimm? No. Surely not.

After all, she'd been trying to ensure that an association with him had not sullied Adeline's reputation. She would not so casually propagate such a notion.

His uncle, on the other hand, had been away from town for too long and perhaps had read more into what might have been a passing mention. Therefore, to ensure that there was no misunderstanding, he laughed and shook his head. “There is no young woman I hold in high esteem. Perhaps my aunt merely wishes there were.”

Albert flashed another stained grin and donned his hat with a jaunty pat against the top. “I must be off, Nephew. It is good to see that you are doing so well.”

Then he rapped the head of his walking stick against the crate before taking his leave.

And when the door closed, Liam stared after the man who had seemed more of a stranger than kin. Though perhaps that was the effect brought by years of separation. Whatever it was, it left him unsettled.

T
he Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence

Our Earl of W— has been seen a great deal around town. Conflicting reports, however, mark his attendance at various scandalous gatherings, as well as those far more respectable. While many still have great hopes for W—, one must wonder if our
Original
contender has been tamed at last, or has he returned to his wolfish ways?

A
s she read over the
Standard
, Adeline was not the least bit jealous. Whatever entertainments Liam sought were none of her concern. He'd made that clear enough in the past few days by his absence.

Not that it mattered. It wasn't as if he was hers . . .

She folded the page sharply and swatted the table with it as she stood. Was he afraid that she would begin fawning over him or clinging to his side? He probably assumed that her desire
not
to marry was nothing but pretense. Or worse, that after what happened the other night, she
expected
to marry him. The notion was nearly as infuriating as when they'd first met, and he'd thought she was plotting to trap him.
Of all the ridiculous
. . .

Adeline grew still.

While Liam hadn't confessed it to her, she'd guessed that such a circumstance had happened before. Perhaps even more than once. Surely, he was always on his guard against women seeking to marry a handsome gentleman with a fortune and title. And those weren't even his best qualities. He was brilliant and kind as well. Even his wickedness was appealing.

She could easily understand his desirability. After all, if she weren't so determined
not
to marry, even she would find herself wanting to marry him too, and to love him openly, unreservedly, instead of concealing her feelings as she had been since—

Adeline gasped for breath as the thoughts tumbled out of her before she even had the chance to think them through.
Love him
? Had she actually been foolish enough to fall in love with him?
True
love and not one born of a peculiar Pimm myth?

The walls of her heart squeezed sharply beneath her breast in answer. It had been doing this ever since they'd parted, as if throwing a tantrum. Stupid heart.

“There is no point in feeling this way,” she told that petulant organ. She pressed a fist to her breast and glanced down at the paper that listed Liam's recent exploits. “He doesn't feel the same about you. So you're better off forgetting about him.”

A fresh twinge twisted her heart, this one seemingly mournful. The pain of it traveled to the corners of her eyes where the sting of tears began. Liam did not—and would
never
—love her.

Hadn't he told her as much, countless times by revealing his ultimate goals? He was a hedonist, not a romantic. Even so, admitting it to herself felt like the death of a new unrealized dream and filled her with a fragile, futile yearning.

Adeline swallowed down her unspent tears and brushed the wetness from her lower lashes with an impatient swipe. It was good that she was going home so soon. By week's end, she would be on her way to Boswickshire. Perhaps with a greater distance between them, she would no longer feel this way.

L
iam was restless. For days he'd done nothing more than live his life as he always had, filling it to the brim with revelry, lascivious parties, irresponsible gambling, and whatever else he damn well felt like doing.

In fact, last night he went to Lady Reynolds's dinner party, where an attractive young woman had lain in the center of the table. Her body had been nude, aside from vines winding up her lithe legs and arms and from the strategic placement of various fruits and delicacies. Amongst those, slices of grapes and strawberries covered her breasts. Dollops of cream and caviar adorned her abdomen. And for amusement's sake, slices of peaches formed a triangle over her mons.

This sensual cannibalism was a common occurrence at Lady Reynolds's. Usually, they made a game of it, clasping hands behind their backs and removing slices with their teeth. During these dinners, by the time their serving platter was bare, the orgy would have begun. They would have made a game of that too, using only their mouths. And Liam excelled in giving pleasure with his mouth, in addition to his hands, a well-placed thigh, and a usually generous appendage.

In these past few days, however, his appendage hadn't been displaying any sort of generosity. Behind the fall of his trousers, his flesh remained unmoved. Each time he'd made an attempt, his headache returned, splitting though his skull, turning his vision hazy, his mind dizzy, forcing him to abandon his entertainments for home.

The pain had become so terrible that he'd engaged his physician. After much prodding and poking, Fortier had prescribed a powder for his headaches. But even that did not work for long.

Liam was having trouble eating, concentrating on anything. He'd become a prisoner in his own bleeding skull, and it had all begun the moment he'd decided to avoid Sudgrave Terrace until the end of the Season, when the Pimms would be gone.

It was nothing more than a coincidence, he was sure. While his bruises had disappeared, obviously his brain had more healing to do. Though the thought had crossed his mind that it was his current location. That perhaps the servants were using a different liniment for the wood. Therefore, he moved from Wolford House to Brook Street, hoping to remove himself from the cause.

Unfortunately, that hadn't worked. His skull ached. And when his butler informed him that Thayne had arrived just now, Liam was tempted to send him away. Yet hoping a distraction could help, he allowed the intrusion.

A minute later, Thayne strode into the map room where Liam was studying the honey crock he intended to give Boswick as a parting gift.

“I had the devil of a time tracking you down. I don't even know if your servants know where you are staying.”

“I must have forgotten to beg my housekeeper for permission to leave the house,” Liam mocked, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a moment to rest his eyes. Then, oddly enough, he caught a trace of familiar scent, and his headache dissipated somewhat. Curious, his eyes snapped open. “What do you have there?”

Thayne held a handkerchief, the corner displaying a W in green thread. “I went by Sudgrave Terrace to find you. Wound up running into Boswick instead. He welcomed me to breakfast, but when I explained I couldn't stay, he sent me on my way with one of his cook's muffins drizzled in Boswickshire honey. Then before I left, Miss Pimm obliged me to return this. Forgive me, it seems as though I've left a drop of honey behind.”

Liam snatched the handkerchief out of Thayne's grasp. “You tasted the honey.”

It was meant to be a question, but a sudden rise of anger made the words clipped. Harsh.

Thayne didn't seem to notice. “Everything Boswick claimed is true. I tell you it is the finest honey I have ever eaten. He offered to send me a jar when he returns, and I couldn't find a single reason to refuse him.”

Liam could think of a reason. How about the fact that Thayne had no right to taste that honey! But that was absurd, the ranting of an insane man, a jealous man. And Liam had no reason to be jealous—or want to murder Thayne—over a taste of honey.

For that matter, Liam wasn't even sure this was his handkerchief, as his weren't monogrammed. But then he remembered that one morning and their race in the rain, and leaving one with Adeline.

She must have embroidered it. Brushing his thumb over the W, he imagined her carefully sewing each stitch, holding the linen in her soft hands . . .
plotting
for this very moment,
knowing
that Liam would be forced to think of her when he saw this handkerchief.

He curled his fingers around it, his hand forming a fist. Either he was going mad, or this was a ploy of hers, wanting him to think of her.

He was half tempted to ask Aunt Edith to remove her family's name from the guest list. Did it even matter that her family saved his life when he didn't even recognize himself any longer? When he felt as if he didn't belong in his own world, no longer enjoying his usual pursuits?

“Are you unwell, Wolford?” Thayne asked. “You seem . . . troubled.”

“Bleeding headache,” Liam snapped, then relaxed his glower. It wasn't Thayne's fault that he'd become a lunatic, after all.

“Then perhaps my news will aid in your recovery,” Thayne continued. “All is not lost despite your recent . . . misdeeds. You are still a favorite. Your name tops the list of the column in the
Standard,
instead of buried like a whisper at the bottom. Once you make an appearance at your aunt's party, I may still win the wager.”

Liam glared at his friend, incredulous. “Do you honestly believe I care about winning your wager or even who is named the
Original
?”

“No. I never once thought you cared. Do you think it has escaped my notice that you don't seem to care about anyone? Or even bothered to notice the hell I've been in these past months?” Thayne glared back, his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth.

“Of course I noticed,” Liam fired back. Then deciding that the root of all his madness might very well be Thayne's fault, he purposely goaded him into an argument. “Especially the way that Juliet has you so twisted inside out that you would turn your back on a friend, aiming to plot against him by naming him in a wager.”

If it weren't for the damnable wager, then Thayne might never have pushed so hard to see Liam become respectable. Then the
ton
would never have considered him a candidate for the
Original
. And Liam would never have given a moment's thought to how his reputation might look to a certain debutante.

“Friend?” Thayne sneered. “All you care about is your collection. Tell me,
why
do you buy all of these artifacts?”

“Perhaps I simply abhor an empty house.” Liam also used the collection to connect with his father's memory, but he'd be damned if he would share that personal detail with Thayne.

“And yet you keep purchasing more houses to fill.” Thayne laughed but with more censure than amusement. “Have you ever thought, perhaps, that you might rather fill your houses with a family instead?”

Reflexively, Liam's fist tightened on the handkerchief. He looked down at it, a ready denial on his lips.

Then Thayne spoke again. “I already told you part of the reason why I named you for this wager. But the truth is, I only did it because I wanted you to show yourself. The real you that no one has seen for years.”

Liam jerked up his chin. “What do you mean? This
is
who I am!”

“Not always.” Thayne held his gaze. “Of course, you've always had a bit of the devil's mischief, but you were also noble and kind. And when you made a vow, you held fast to it. No matter what. That's what worries me—your vow not to marry until you are sixty. It isn't a favorable decision. You should think about your life and what you truly want.”

Liam's back teeth locked. “I live exactly the way I choose.”

“Behind a barrier that you've erected with your collection?” Thayne gestured to the pair of Oriental vases flanking the doorway.

Liam scoffed. While he may have been adding to his collection a great deal of late, that didn't mean he was building a
barrier
. Barriers were built by men who were afraid of being set upon or attacked.

“I was there when this obsession of yours began. Do you remember?” Thayne's dark brows rose. “We were seventeen and touring the Continent in order to put distance between you and that conniving debutante who'd tried to trap you into marriage.”

Liam stared at Thayne, his memory flooding back to that trip and the Turkish dagger that he'd purchased. And up until recently, that dagger had hung in a glass case above his mantel.

“And you know something else? I think part of you wanted to marry her.”

“No. You are quite mistaken,” Liam said quickly. Perhaps there had been a time when the idea had appealed to him, but that ended when he discovered the truth. She had only pretended to be his friend, to like him, to love him. Her parents had done the same, often calling on him, bestowing pretty invitations to dinner, to the park, and even to stay with them during the holidays. At the time, Liam had been too naïve, too lonely, and too eager to be part of a family to know what their true designs were.

“Of course, I am,” Thayne mocked. He walked toward the door, his own glower firmly in place. “Instead of a family, however, you started putting together a vast collection. Bravo! Now, you never need to get close to any new persons in your life—a young woman and her amiable parents come to mind—because you have all of this. Your
true
family. Hundreds, if not thousands of artifacts and statues . . . My, my, what a legacy you will leave.”

Thayne knew nothing. The objects in this room weren't his family. If Liam wanted to have a real family then he would damn well have one, and no one would be able to stop him.

“You're absolutely wrong! Do you know that, Thayne?” Liam shouted as his friend exited the room.

Thayne had the audacity to laugh. “Then prove it!”