whores.
With a groan, he reached into his breast pocket and handed the lightskirt a small purse with her pay, in addition to the extra amount he offered to keep the story to herself.
Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he bid her good night and left.
Lane met his coach around the street corner, climbed in, and rapped on the roof with his fist to signal his coachman to take him home. He sat back against the squabs with a self-deprecating sigh.
“Bloody rotten hell!” He ran a hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in the vain hope that he could stop the headache forming behind his eyes. He was certain that no other man at the age of eight and twenty had never had sex. In fact, he was certain that many men lost their virginity before their twentieth birthday.
How was he ever to take a wife if he could not perform his husbandly duties? How could he ever recite his vows before God and his family if he knew he could never produce an heir?
Shame burned through him, weighing heavily on his heart. At this rate, he would never be the man a wife would need him to be. He would never be a father.
He groaned and shook himself from his miserable reverie. His thoughts were too damned depressing.
He forced himself to change the course of his musings. He’d had another lovely time with Annabel. Her triumphant grin at winning their chess game flashed through his mind. He made a mental note to think of something special to award her with as a prize.
His lips split in a toothy grin. She always brightened his mood, no matter how ill his humour. Having Anna for a best friend was the greatest thing in his life; she knew him better than anyone, though she did not know about his… problem . He, likewise, knew her better than anyone. He knew that she adored books, chocolate, teacakes, and cherry blossom trees. She was an adequate artist and a terrible pianist.
Lane’s grin turned into a smile as the coach rolled to a stop in front of his town house. He loved how she felt free enough to laugh at herself. He stepped down from the carriage. In fact, he loved her sense of humour; her alluring, crooked smile; their long talks; the way she always smelled like lemons and soap; and her expressive way of talking. He loved… her .
He halted mid-step, his foot poised in the air over the front steps of his town house. His heart began a rapid, staccato beat in his chest, and his eyes grew wide.
Good God. He loved her!
“My lord?” Geoffrey stood waiting with the door open.
“Not now, Geoffrey,” Lane mumbled absently.
“Very good, my lord.”
How long had he loved her?
“Oh, Lane.” A fourteen-year-old Annabel opened her arms to him.
He rushed to her and held her close, tears welling in his eyes.
“I am so sorry, Lane,” she whispered into his collar.
Her shoulders shook, and he knew she was doing her best to be brave for him. He would be the man of the house now. With three sobbing younger sisters and a mother to take care of, his work would be great indeed.
But he had Annabel. He hugged her tighter and let her soft warmth seep into him. He had Annabel.
Lane staggered slightly at the bottom step. Eleven years. How could he have been so blind? For eleven damned years ! What a fool he was!
He started up the stairs and marched past the butler. He needed a drink.
“I won’t be going out again tonight, Geoffrey; you are free to retire.” He paused. “Oh, but please have a bath sent up to my chambers.”
“Thank you, your lordship. Right away.”
Lane stormed into his study and went straight for the brandy in his Tantalus. With shaking hands, he poured himself four fingers of his best French brandy and took a large gulp, relishing the burn as it went down.
Love.
He left his empty glass on the Tantalus and retrieved a cigar from the box atop his desk. In a daze, he lit it on a sconce and returned to his seat before the fire.
Blazes .
What was he going to do? Annabel. Sweet, lovely Anna. He
With a groan, he reached into his breast pocket and handed the lightskirt a small purse with her pay, in addition to the extra amount he offered to keep the story to herself.
Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he bid her good night and left.
Lane met his coach around the street corner, climbed in, and rapped on the roof with his fist to signal his coachman to take him home. He sat back against the squabs with a self-deprecating sigh.
“Bloody rotten hell!” He ran a hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in the vain hope that he could stop the headache forming behind his eyes. He was certain that no other man at the age of eight and twenty had never had sex. In fact, he was certain that many men lost their virginity before their twentieth birthday.
How was he ever to take a wife if he could not perform his husbandly duties? How could he ever recite his vows before God and his family if he knew he could never produce an heir?
Shame burned through him, weighing heavily on his heart. At this rate, he would never be the man a wife would need him to be. He would never be a father.
He groaned and shook himself from his miserable reverie. His thoughts were too damned depressing.
He forced himself to change the course of his musings. He’d had another lovely time with Annabel. Her triumphant grin at winning their chess game flashed through his mind. He made a mental note to think of something special to award her with as a prize.
His lips split in a toothy grin. She always brightened his mood, no matter how ill his humour. Having Anna for a best friend was the greatest thing in his life; she knew him better than anyone, though she did not know about his… problem . He, likewise, knew her better than anyone. He knew that she adored books, chocolate, teacakes, and cherry blossom trees. She was an adequate artist and a terrible pianist.
Lane’s grin turned into a smile as the coach rolled to a stop in front of his town house. He loved how she felt free enough to laugh at herself. He stepped down from the carriage. In fact, he loved her sense of humour; her alluring, crooked smile; their long talks; the way she always smelled like lemons and soap; and her expressive way of talking. He loved… her .
He halted mid-step, his foot poised in the air over the front steps of his town house. His heart began a rapid, staccato beat in his chest, and his eyes grew wide.
Good God. He loved her!
“My lord?” Geoffrey stood waiting with the door open.
“Not now, Geoffrey,” Lane mumbled absently.
“Very good, my lord.”
How long had he loved her?
“Oh, Lane.” A fourteen-year-old Annabel opened her arms to him.
He rushed to her and held her close, tears welling in his eyes.
“I am so sorry, Lane,” she whispered into his collar.
Her shoulders shook, and he knew she was doing her best to be brave for him. He would be the man of the house now. With three sobbing younger sisters and a mother to take care of, his work would be great indeed.
But he had Annabel. He hugged her tighter and let her soft warmth seep into him. He had Annabel.
Lane staggered slightly at the bottom step. Eleven years. How could he have been so blind? For eleven damned years ! What a fool he was!
He started up the stairs and marched past the butler. He needed a drink.
“I won’t be going out again tonight, Geoffrey; you are free to retire.” He paused. “Oh, but please have a bath sent up to my chambers.”
“Thank you, your lordship. Right away.”
Lane stormed into his study and went straight for the brandy in his Tantalus. With shaking hands, he poured himself four fingers of his best French brandy and took a large gulp, relishing the burn as it went down.
Love.
He left his empty glass on the Tantalus and retrieved a cigar from the box atop his desk. In a daze, he lit it on a sconce and returned to his seat before the fire.
Blazes .
What was he going to do? Annabel. Sweet, lovely Anna. He
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