Elizabeth Powell by The Reluctant Rogue

Author:The Reluctant Rogue
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Odd. He did not feel like a married man. That must be because he had no idea what the devil a married man was supposed to feel like. If it meant feeling drunk, unbearably empty, and sorry for oneself, then he supposed he’d gotten it right.

Nearly a month had passed since that ill-fated morning when he had exchanged vows with Jane Rutledge. His wife. Strange to think of her in such an intimate way. During the ceremony he had stood next to her, so near as to feel the warmth from her slender body, but never actually touched her until the end, when he had placed his ring on her finger and given her a chaste, gentle kiss. No sooner had his lips brushed hers than she pulled away, her face shuttered and pale. The memory of that contact, however brief, lingered with him.

The anger and resentment lingered as well. He had spent his wedding night alone and drunk as an emperor. Why not? He had gotten himself married and had nothing to show for it but injured pride and an empty bed.

His plan had been proceeding perfectly until she came along. He shouldn’t even have been attracted to her; she was outspoken, forthright, and plain. Yet he was. And he had thrown all his carefully-laid schemes out the window for one kiss.

Now she had him on a leash. She had been as good as her word and paid his debts, but it rankled that he should be obligated to his wife for his living. Her property was his by law; legally he had complete ownership and control of Wellbourne Grange and could dispose of it as he pleased. But he could not bring himself to do it.

What the devil was the matter with him?

Determined to forget about his wife and his travesty of a marriage, Sebastian had returned to his former way of life, with Nigel’s enthusiastic endorsement. He had patronized the lowest gaming hells, imbibed bottle after bottle of claret without fear of reproach, ogled opera dancers, and raced his chestnut mare through Hyde Park against all comers. Let the gossip get back to his wife in Leicestershire. That would show her he had no intention of mending his roguish ways.

But Fate, ever a fickle mistress, had other plans. Instead of losing at the gaming tables, he won, even when he wagered recklessly or on a whim. Just last night he had won over two thousand pounds from Sir Reginald Kettering. He found none of the opera dancers attractive; their overripe figures and painted faces revolted him. And two weeks ago his mare had pulled up lame, depriving him of another favorite pastime.

So here he sat, bored, half-foxed, and thoroughly out of temper. He hefted the bottle of wine, peered at the level of liquid within it, then set it aside. God’s blood, he did not even have the desire to get himself properly foxed. Furious with himself, he vaulted out of his chair and headed for White’s; at this hour of the day, he could usually find Nigel at the faro table.

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