Addicted (13 page)

“I don’t give a damn about Rebecca,” Broughton muttered, running his hands through his hair. “It’s Anais I care about. Raeburn vowed never to hurt her and he went out and did such a thing not half an hour after giving me his word.”

“Then you should have put a bullet through him when you had the chance instead of firing it into the air and wasting a per
fectly good shot,” Wallingford said with an air of superior boredom. “Then we would not be quarreling over where the girl belongs and whose bed she should be lying in.”

“You think you can ride back here and pick up where you left off, Raeburn?” Broughton thundered as he confronted him at the window. “You think that nothing has changed since you left? Well, I assure you, a great many things have changed. I shall not allow you to ruin someone as good as Anais.”

“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies,” Wallingford mumbled.

“How dare you! Anais
is
a virtuous woman.”

“Really?”

“I assure you,
sir,
Anais is quite above the sort of woman you deign to entertain.”

“Oh, I entertain any sort of woman, as you very well know,” Wallingford said with a leer. “One quim is the same as any other. The Haymarket whore, the expensive courtesan, the merry widow and the unhappy wife—not a virtuous one in the lot. They’re all only good for one thing, and it isn’t a damn bit virtuous, I assure you.”

“Enough,” Lindsay growled as he rubbed his neck. “Wallingford, as much as I appreciate you picking up the gauntlet, I am fully able to defend myself against any accusations our dear friend might wish to cast. Broughton, you may address your concerns to me—man to man. Wallingford need not be our intermediary.”

The dressing-room door opened and Robert poked his head in. “Enough of the bellowing. It is time to put the past behind you, at least for tonight.”

“How is she?” Lindsay asked, no longer caring about the quarrel between himself and Broughton.

“Cold. And her heart is beating very slowly. We must get her warmed.”

“Anything. Whatever you need.”

“Of course,” Broughton said, glaring at Lindsay. “Anything you ask.”

“I shall need someone to get into bed with her. It is the fastest way to restore warmth. A bath will take too long, not to mention it will expose her to the cold air, which will, in turn, make her colder. Warming pans are inefficient, not to mention they cool precipitously. I’m using the pans now, but they are not proving even remotely effective. What she needs is the warmth that flesh and blood provide. Her heart cannot afford the stress—it’s too weak.”

All three stared at Robert as if he’d lost his mind.

“Good God, is that what they’ve taught you in Edinburgh?” Wallingford chuckled. “I fear I should have listened to my father, after all, when he told me to quit chasing skirts and see to putting my head to my studies. I could have then gone to medical school and hopped into bed with scores of naked women, and all in the name of medical science.”

“It is the science of physics, to be precise. It is the most expedient manner in which to heat a body. What I am asking for is not sexual,” Middleton snapped. “I am merely asking for a body to supply the girl with heat while I attempt to see to her father. Nothing more sinister than that.”

“I will do it,” Broughton muttered. Already he had discarded his jacket and was in the process of tearing off his cravat.

“No,
I
will.” Lindsay felt the tension in the room tighten. He had no right to crawl into bed with Anais—not after what he had put her through. But damn it, he would not have Broughton crawling into bed—
his
bed, with Anais.

“I would prefer it if the three of you raced back to the village and retrieved her mother and sister from church. Anais is calling for her and Ann will no doubt be anxious to aid me in her sister’s care.”

“Let Wallingford and Raeburn go,” Broughton mumbled while he removed his cuff links. “I will see to Anais while they are bringing her sister to her. If she is in danger it is not prudent to put off what might save her. I will not have any treatment delayed only to have something happen to her, do you understand me, Robert?”

A silent warning passed between them and Lindsay felt his senses sharpen. There was a shared confidence there, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it any more than Broughton’s easy agreement to get into bed with her.

“Come, brother. I’m not going to allow any one of you to do such a thing. The only person to see the job through shall be Lady Ann. You will not argue further, Garrett,” Robert warned his older brother when Broughton frowned deeply. “You will ride into the village with Wallingford. Lord Raeburn shall be kept far away from my patient, I assure you.”

Lindsay glared at Robert. Who was he to try to prevent him from seeing Anais?

“If he hurts her further I will show him what hell is truly like,” Broughton muttered as he swung open the chamber door and walked into the hallway.

“He has already seen hell,” Wallingford said in answer. “He has been living in it for the past ten months. I don’t believe there is anything more you can show him.”

“You’re wrong.” Broughton shot a menacing glare at him from over his shoulder. “There is more than even he can imagine.”

“You will excuse me, Lord Raeburn,” Robert Middleton murmured. “But I must return to my patient.”

“Middleton,” Lindsay asked, forcing aside his scrambled thoughts. “You mentioned her heart. What has happened?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“We are friends. You can tell me.”

“Things have changed since you’ve been gone, Raeburn. That is all I am prepared to say to you. You are not her husband, nor even her intended. I owe you nothing in the way of explanations.”

Lindsay reached for Robert’s arm, preventing the doctor’s departure. “I will accept all fault for what has happened. But I will not allow anyone to think it was because I intended to deliberately hurt Anais or Broughton. I ask because I care, Middleton. Am I not even allowed that? Am I so undeserving that I should be kept in the dark about Anais and her illness? I love her,” Lindsay couldn’t help but say. “Seeing her like this, knowing she’s ill cuts me like a knife.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have left.”

Lindsay struggled for a comeback just as Middleton brushed Lindsay’s hand off his shirtsleeve.

“She has a weak heart. Such stress as she has suffered this night might very well set her recovery back.”

“What do you mean a weak heart?”

“Her condition is delicate,” Robert said, but he steadfastly avoided his gaze. “And that is all I’m prepared to say on the matter.”

The door to the bedroom closed once again, leaving Lindsay alone in his sitting room. Bloody hell, what the devil was happening here? Something was afoot, and he was not going to rest until he discovered what secrets the doctor shared with Anais.

Anais,
he thought as he gazed at the connecting door that kept him out,
how am I ever going to get you back?

7

Smoke, warm and scented, misted along Lindsay’s mouth and cheeks, transporting him to a place where nothing mattered—where he felt nothing but numbness.

Inhaling the curling vapors, he awaited the pleasure that would soon allow him to leave this world and the relentless desire he had for Anais behind.

It was in this world where he was at peace and, he feared, in a state of irredeemable despair. For he needed to be without sensation. He could not withstand the torture of feeling, of needing and never having.

To feel was hell. To be numb, heaven. It had been this way for him since he had left England on his fruitless search for Anais. Everything always came back to this, to opium and Anais.

Closing his eyes, Lindsay waited for the physical lust to a bate—it always did when his mistress took over. While awaiting the pleasure of the opium, Lindsay focused on the slowing of his blood and the sleep that would free him from the pitfalls of his mind.

The feeling did not come. He was still awake. Still feeling. Still aching.

Drawing the smoke into his lungs, he took the heavenly demon deep into himself and exhaled with slow precision, watching the smoke twine up like clawing fingers, only to disappear in the light of the flickering candle. He had not been able to resist the lure of his mistress or the hours of pleasure and escape she gave him. He had sought her out tonight, needing her skill, hating her for the power she held over him. While in Constantinople he had succumbed to her charms, allowing her to enchain him with a beauty that was at once so evocative, yet soul stealing.

He was dependent now. While in the throes of the red smoke, he could admit the horrible truth. He was as dependent upon opium as he was food and air.

While lucid, he could not bring himself to admit that terrible truth, that weakness in his character. He denied his dependence, even as his mind fired and throbbed with the need for more, even while his body cried out in pain he denied he needed it. He always told himself he could stop, whenever he wished, even as he was rolling the black gum between his fingers and placing the paste on the scales. Even as the anticipation coursed through him as the flame from the spirit lamp flickered to life, heating the opium until those glorious gray vapors began to rise from the pipe. Even then, with the eagerness ruling him, he told himself he didn’t need the drug.

It had always only been a lark to him. Used in hours of idleness with his friends. He was a dabbler, he told himself as he lay back on his cushions and luxuriated in the wait for that first inhalation of smoke.

It was denial, right up until that very moment when the opium would slow his blood and make his eyes heavy. In that moment, when his mind fractured from his body, he no longer denied the call of the opium. The pleasure it gave was like nothing he had ever known. To feel…nothing was a peace unto itself. That peace he could not deny.

Even now, inhaling the smoke from his favorite pipe, he told himself he could stop, if for nothing else but another chance to make everything right with Anais.

What a bloody farce, for he was inhaling another cloud of the smoke as he told himself that, knowing it for a lie.

He hated doing this, knowing Anais was lying in the next room. Hated the thought of her seeing him like this. Shame had never been a part of smoking opium for him before. He had always thought it decadent, mystical, erotic to be in a den with naked bodies and dreamy smokers. It had never been sordid. Dirty. Yet he felt soiled and guilty tonight smoking with Anais so close to him.

But you need me,
the vapors seemed to whisper in a voice that drew him in.
You need me far more than you need her.

It sickened Lindsay to admit it, but it was the truth. He needed to feel the opium in his veins. Yes, he needed the opium, but he wanted Anais. Wanted her more than opium.

You cannot have both.

He shut out the voice with another slow draw on the bamboo pipe. He didn’t want to dwell on those thoughts. He didn’t want to feel tonight. Didn’t want to think.

The door in the next room closed, jarring his body into alertness. The opium, for the time being, was forgotten, his pipe
resting on the silver tray that held the items of his ritual. His gaze found the door and he imagined Anais asleep in his bed.

Fleetingly he wondered if Robert Middleton had finally left Anais’s bedside. Robert had been a constant guardian to her throughout the evening. Because of that, Lindsay had found himself pacing his dressing room like a caged beast. More than once he had pressed his ear to the door, listening for sounds, half expecting to hear Broughton’s deep voice rumbling above Robert’s. But Garrett had not returned with Wallingford and the Darnby women. Lindsay wasn’t sure what he felt more, surprise or relief.

His own mother had accompanied Lady Darnby and Ann home, and she had immediately sought him out. He had not relished the uproar that had ensued when his mother discovered he had returned from his absence. He hadn’t wanted the fussing that came with her affection. But his mother had insisted that she settle the Darnbys and their servants into the house and that he join her in the salon once their guests had settled for the night.

After so long an absence, he had indulged his mother. He loved her, but he could not keep from glancing up at the staircase, half expecting to see Anais gliding down the steps in her shimmering gauze wrapper. His mother had known, of course, about his feelings for Anais. But what his mother didn’t realize was that nothing had turned out as he had planned. Nor did she know that he’d buggered it up by his own excesses. He had destroyed Anais’s faith in him. The last thing he wanted to do was pull the veil from his mother’s eyes as he had from Anais’s.

Perhaps he was just like his father. What if he had found
something other than alcohol to lean on when he was confused or wishing to escape the pressures of his world? He supposed that did make him just like his father, for those were the reasons his father had sought solace in the bottom of a brandy decanter—escape.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and listened to the soft ticking of the clock that sat upon his writing desk. It had been hours since the house had settled and Lord Darnby’s wounds had been dressed. Hours since he had lain in this room, ignoring his mother’s pleas that he take one of the other chambers. He had told her he was too tired and the silk cushions and the divan would provide him with the rest he needed. But the truth was, he wanted to be close to Anais.

Listening in the quiet, he tried to think of anything other than Anais lying in bed—
his bed.
He knew he was being a pathetic wretch internalizing all this angst and acting like a beardless boy after losing his first crush. He should have listened to Wallingford when he had given him advice.
Find yourself a woman, Raeburn. Willing, available flesh is the best cure for your affliction.

He had tried, despite the sickness that settled in his stomach whenever he touched his mouth to another. But those women never tasted right, never felt the way he wanted them to feel beneath his hands. He had left more than one Turkish beauty bewildered and unsatisfied during his time in Constantinople.