He didn’t sleep that night.
After Minerva Highwood stormed off into the rain, even a dissolute, soulless rake like Colin couldn’t simply continue where he’d left off. He roused the widow from his bed, put her in her clothes, and saw her back to the village. Once he’d satisfied himself that Minerva had made it home safe—by glimpsing her muddied boots outside the rear door of the rooming house—he returned to his quarters at the castle and uncorked a new bottle of wine.
But he didn’t sleep a wink.
He never did. Not at night, not alone.
God, he hated the country. All the sunshine and sea air in Sussex couldn’t make up for the dark, quiet nights. Lately, Colin thought he’d give his left nipple—bollocks were never up for negotiation—for a decent night’s sleep. Ever since Fiona Lange had left the village, at best he’d been able to cobble together a few hours in the early dawn. For most of the winter, he’d taken to drinking himself into a nightly stupor. But his body, already taxed from lack of rest, was beginning to fray from the volume of liquor required. If he wasn’t careful, he’d become a habitual drunk. He was too young for that, damn it.
So he’d finally given in and accepted the clear invitation Mrs. Ginny Watson’s smiles and cocked hips had been making for some time. He’d resisted the young widow for months now, not wanting to entangle himself with a village resident. But he’d be leaving in a matter of days. Why not make his last few nights bearable? Who could it possibly hurt?
Who, indeed.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Minerva Highwood. That single tear streaking down her face.
Poorly done, Payne. Poorly done.
He should have sent her away at once. He had no intention of marrying Diana Highwood, never had. But Minerva had been cold and wet, in need of some time before the fire. And he’d found it perversely amusing, teasing out her little chain of conclusions to its wild, illogical end.
Of all the mad schemes to propose . . . a fake elopement to win a geology prize? She’d never win any points on elegance. But Colin had to admit, that kind of girl didn’t knock on his door every night.
The worst of it was, that seductive claptrap he’d spooned her . . . it hadn’t all been lies. She wasn’t without her peculiar brand of allure. Her dark hair, when unbound and spilling in heavy waves to her waist, was seduction itself. And her mouth truly did fascinate him. For a sharp-tongued bluestocking, she had the most full, ripe, sultry lips he’d ever seen. Lips copied from some Renaissance master’s Aphrodite. Dark red at the edges, and a paler hue toward the center—like two slices of a ripe plum. Sometimes she caught her lower lip beneath her teeth and worried it, as though savoring some hidden sweetness.
Was it any wonder then, that for several minutes, he truly had forgotten Ginny Watson upstairs?
Minerva had paid the price for his thoughtlessness.
This was why he needed to be back in London. There, habitual debauchery kept him out of this sort of trouble. He and his friends roved from club to club like a pack of nocturnal beasts. And when he tired of the revelry, he had no problem finding worldly, willing women to share his bed. He gave them exquisite physical pleasure, they gave him some much-needed solace . . . everyone parted ways satisfied.
Tonight, he’d left two women profoundly dissatisfied. And he kept vigil with that old, familiar bitch, regret.
At least his days here were numbered. Bram was set to arrive at the castle tomorrow. Ostensibly, he was making the trip to inspect his militia after several months’ absence. However, Colin knew from his cousin’s express—he had other business in mind. After long months, Colin would have his reprieve.
Farewell, stone-cold quarters.
Farewell, torturous country nights.
In a matter of days, he would be gone.
“What do you mean, I’m staying here?” Colin stared at his cousin, feeling as though he’d just taken a punch to the gut. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain.” Bram gestured mildly. “This is the normal way with birthdays, see? Amazingly enough, they arrive on the same day, every year. And yours is still two months away. Until then, I’m trustee of your fortune. I control your every last ha’penny, and you’ll stay here.”
Colin shook his head. “This makes no sense. He’s surrendered. You just announced it to the whole village. The war is over.”
They stood in front of the Bull and Blossom, Spindle Cove’s one and only tavern. After overseeing the afternoon militia drill, Bram had invited all the volunteers to gather for a pint. There he’d announced the latest word from France, sure to blaze across every broadsheet in England tomorrow morning. Napoleon Bonaparte had renounced the throne, and now it was merely a matter of paperwork.