Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel Read Free Page A

haze drove away. Back to London where there were young ladies who would recognize the appeal of a man of wealth and position and accept his suit. None of them would probably have glimmering blue eyes. Or if they did, they wouldn’t have sparkling white smiles. Or even if they had those they probably wouldn’t have maddeningly kissable lips. Or perfect pert noses. Or laughter like sunshine and sin at once. Or hips curved so roundly and delectably that they begged a man to wrap his hands around them and drag her close. They probably would not throw their arms around their siblings and declare, “You are the most sublimely wonderful sister a girl could ever have!” and “I will love you, little brother, until the day I die and beyond!” or to Tacitus’s face, “But I am
Dare
” in a deep voice, then dissolve into laughter that sounded like a brook in springtime. And they probably would not make him fall head over ears in love with them with the determined tilt of their chins.
    But he did not go to London. He went home to Dare Castle. Amidst the memories of affection that surrounded him, he stared at the walls and was unreasonably cross with his staff.
    Soon his old school chum Peyton Stark, the Viscount Mallory, appeared on his doorstep with a sixteen-year-old bottle of whiskey and eyes full of deviltry.
    “What are you doing all shut up in this old pile, Tass?” he demanded and thrust a full tumbler into Tacitus’s hand.
    “It is not a pile,” he grumbled. “It is a castle.” A very nice one, at that.
    “Your mourning period is long since over.” Peyton sprawled his muscular frame into one of the library chairs and surveyed Tacitus from beneath brows black as Hades. His face had something of the look of Lucifer about it, angelically handsome in an arrogant, wicked fashion. “You are far too young to molder away in this house for the rest of your life.”
    “What would you have me do instead? Paint the town every shade of red as you do?”
    “Works wonders for chasing away the goblins.” His friend lifted a single, aristocratic brow. “Why the devil not?”
    Why the devil not?
    Tacitus had never been a gambler or cardplayer or womanizer or any other sort of rowdy. He had enjoyed the company of his parents and hadn’t seen any need to gallivant about town getting into scrapes. He had been very, very happy.
    Now he was not. Now the knot in his gut that had settled there upon their deaths had ascended to his chest and acquired a fiery patina. Now when the memory of Calista Chance’s face hovered before his closed eyes—which it pretty much always did—he did not feel the twist of confusion and pleasure as he had in her company, but the stabbing pain of loss he recognized all too well; he had felt it when each of his parents had died.
    He was grieving now. Again. This time over her.
    It was ridiculous. She was a spoiled girl of little discretion who disrespected her parents enough to wish to run away from them. And she hadn’t cared that he was falling in love with her. Nor had she fallen in love with him in return, which damned her twice over.
    It hurt. A hell of a lot. A
hell
of a hell of a lot.
    Because after weeks in her company he had thought she was more than that. He’d thought she was full of life and joy and affection. He’d thought she was clever and warm, and damnably alluring. And he’d thought perhaps that, despite their differences, she liked him.
    Obviously he had been wrong.
    He sipped the whiskey. It burned going down, momentarily masking the pain in his chest. The next sip burned less, but masked just as well. The third masked even better; it downright coated the pain.
    “What say you, old friend?” Peyton’s glass was nearly empty too. “Have a mind to paint the town with me before settling down to rickety old age here?”
    Rickety old age at twenty-five? Tacitus looked around the library, his favorite room in the house. It held no comfort for him now. His chest ached