Page 59 of Love with a Notorious Rake

Damn. Hell. Fuck. After pacing the floor for over an hour, Aidan stormed out of his room. God, he needed…something. He hesitated outside the tavern room. To hell with a drink. It wouldn’t be enough. Fuming, he walked toward the front entrance and stepped outside. A brisk walk would do it. His arms pumped, his breath coming out in short puffs. All of it was closing in on him. That heavy weight of anxiety. The stress of juggling multiple situations and emotions.

He stopped at the corner of the Keats Lane alley, leaned against the wall, and exhaled, closing his eyes.

“Guv. Care to chase the dragon?”

The gruff, raspy voice was immediately followed by the odors of cheap gin and stale tobacco. Aidan’s eyes popped open and a weasel of a man, no taller than five inches over five feet, stood next to him. He wore a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes. The foul man opened his hand, and sitting in the palm of his fingerless glove was a clothed ball.

Opium.

His heart was beating so fast it could have easily leapt from his chest. That blasted buzzing noise he’d experienced at the Crimson Club, when he was last offered opium, had returned in full force. Even when he tried to be good—to do good—it all turned to rubble. What were the odds? Fate was indeed mockingly cruel.

Here was the answer to all his problems. The cure to the restlessness of his soul. The temptation was too great to ignore, and without further thought, he nodded. His throat was too dry and his brain too foggy to form a sentence.

The man held up two fingers. Two pence. Slightly cheaper than an apothecary shop. The price of a pint of beer. He’d be better off having a pint of bitter in Mr. Atwood’s tavern room than going down this road. Disregarding the alarm bells clanging in his head, he thrust the coin into the man’s hand and took the opium.

Fifteen minutes later, Aidan sat in his room, staring at the cloth ball on the table. He might as well have been staring into the abyss. As he wrestled with his demons, sweat covered his forehead. The buzzing in his head reached a crescendo. He reached for the opium, but froze when voices drifted in from through the open window.

“You’re stealin’ now for the thrill of it. It’s one thing to do it when hungry—”

“Leave off!” the second man yelled. “I know what I’m about, and I can stop anytime. But why should I? Thieving gets me what I want. What I need.”

“’Twill be your downfall. ’Twill ruin your life….”

The voices faded into the night. “I can stop anytime,” the man had said.

Aidan pulled his hand away. A reprieve. For tonight. He should throw the opium away. But he would not. Perhaps he would save it for when he truly needed the blessed oblivion—or when he needed a stark reminder that, despite his supposed recovery, this struggle would stay with him for the rest of his days. With a shaky exhale, he took the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp brow. Exercise. Standing, he tore off his clothes, hooked his feet under the footboard, and began his regimen.

Tonight, he would fight it.

Tomorrow? The next night?

Another battle to be won.

Chapter 17

With Wollstonecraft Hall constantly alive with activity, it was difficult for Julian to find a private moment to rest and reflect. The prospect of becoming a grandfather had brought his maudlin thoughts to the forefront of his mind. Which, of course, meant the curse had reared its ugly head once again. Despite the men’s talk of embracing love, Julian watched the calendar with a stark fear borne from the debilitating loss of his wife more than twenty-five years past. Would Sabrina safely deliver? Would the child be sound and healthy? He kept his troublesome thoughts to himself, for he hadn’t the slightest idea what he believed any longer with regard to the curse.

Since he and Alberta had first made love at the end of May, they’d had numerous trysts when they managed to find time alone together at her residence, usually when Jonas was at the hall.

There was no denying it: He was in love. With all the exhilarating and worrisome thoughts and emotions that came with it. Julian had been thinking of marriage. They could live at the small manor house.

Last night at dinner, his father had announced he and Mary Tuttle would be getting married in September. It would be a small affair at the hall, with only family in attendance.

Julian could wait on his plans. Besides, he hadn’t even broached the subject with Alberta. Hell, he hadn’t even said the words “I love you.”

And neither had she.

The Wollstonecraft men were perhaps too cautious when it came to love. After suffering loss and living in grief, there were many who would not expose their hearts again. Julian never thought of himself as craven, but when it came to matters of the heart, it seemed he was.

As he strode across the well-worn path between Wollstonecraft Hall and the Eatons’ small manor house, he decided to wait until the birth of his grandchild to mention marriage. But love? It was well past time to reveal his true feelings to Alberta.

She met him at the door, looking absolutely stunning in a summer gown of pale yellow linen and cotton with a floral bodice. He couldn’t wait to peel it off her. As Julian pulled her into his arms to kiss her, she turned her head.

“No kissing,” she whispered. “We must talk. It’s important.”

Alberta sounded grave, her brows knotted in worry. Once in the parlor, he sat next to her on the settee. “What is wrong? Is it Jonas?”

She shook her head. “No, he is thriving. Jonas has completely embraced his training as a groom, and is doing well by all accounts.”