Rescued From Ruin. Georgie Lee

seemed marriage had benefited her.

      He grabbed the poker from the stand and banged it against the coals, trying to ignite the heat smouldering in their centres. A splash of sparks jumped in the grate, followed by a few large flames.

      He didn’t doubt she’d benefited from the marriage. She’d practically rushed at the colonial after Aunt Ella made the introduction, fleeing from Randall and England as fast as the ship could carry her.

      She’d escaped her troubles, and left Randall behind to be tortured by his.

      He returned the poker to the stand, his anger dying down like the flames.

      After everything that had passed between them, when he’d been foolish enough tonight to show weakness, she hadn’t belittled him. Instead she’d displayed an understanding he hadn’t experienced since coming to London. Considering the way they’d parted, it was much more than he deserved.

      The squeak of hinges broke the quiet and the bedroom door opened.

      ‘Hello, Reverend.’ Randall dropped to one knee and held out his arms.

      The black hunting dog ran to him, his long tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. Randall rubbed Reverend’s back and the dog’s head stretched up to reveal the wide band of white fur under his neck. ‘And where have you been?’

      ‘Probably in the kitchen hunting for scraps again,’ Mr Joshua answered for the dog while he brushed out Randall’s coat.

      ‘I’ll hear about it from cook tomorrow.’ Randall scratched behind the dog’s ears, the familiar action soothing away the old regrets and torments.

      ‘A message arrived while you were gone.’ Mr Joshua held out a rose-scented note, a cheeky smile on his young face. ‘It seems Lady Weatherly is eager to renew last Season’s acquaintance.’

      Randall’s calm disappeared. He stood and took the note, skimming the contents, the sentiments as trite as the perfume clinging to the envelope.

      ‘Good dalliance, that one. Obliging old husband with more interest in the actresses of Drury Lane than his wife,’ Mr Joshua observed with his usual candour. No one else in London was as honest with Randall as the valet. Randall had encouraged it from the beginning when he’d taken the labourer’s son into his service and saved his family from ruin. ‘Lord Weatherly isn’t likely to object to your lordship’s continued acquaintance with his wife.’

      ‘Yes, but I’ve had enough of Lady Weatherly.’ Randall tossed the paper in the grate. ‘If she calls again, tell her I’m engaged.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      Randall leaned against the mantel, watching the letter curl and blacken. He dropped one hand to his side and Reverend slid his head beneath it. Randall rubbed the dog behind his ears, despising Lady Weatherly and all those of her ilk. They never flattered him without an eye to what they could gain. Yet he tolerated them, enjoyed what they eagerly gave because they demanded nothing more of him than the esteem of being his lover.

      The image of Cecelia danced before him, her lively voice ringing in his ears. She’d entered Lady Weatherly’s salon, a butterfly amid too many moths, standing alone in her beauty while the rest flapped around the candles. She didn’t need light, it was in her eyes, her smile, the melody of her voice, just as it was ten years ago. Her responses to his amorous suggestions were playful and daring, but tinged with an innocence women like Madame de Badeau and Lady Weatherly had abandoned long ago. He grieved to think what London might do to her. What had it done to him? Nothing he hadn’t wholeheartedly embraced from his first day in town. Nothing his father hadn’t feared he’d do.

      You’re as bad as your uncle, his father’s deep voice bellowed through the quiet, and the faint scar on his back from where his father’s belt used to strike him began to itch.

      Randall closed his eyes, seeing again his father waiting for him in the vicarage sitting room, the darkness of the window behind him broken by small drops of rain flickering with the firelight.

      You think your Uncle Edmund has all the answers, but he hasn’t, his father sneered from his chair. All his wine and women, they’re only to fill the emptiness of his life. You can’t see it now, but some day you will, when your own life is as hollow as his.

      At least he accepts me, Randall spat, his uncle’s port giving him courage, anger giving him words. Reverend stood next to him, the puppy’s tense body pressed against his leg.

      I’m hard on you for your own good. He slammed his fist against the chair, then gripped the arm as a raspy cough racked his body. He stood, his skin ashen, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a few ragged breaths as he steadied himself.

      Randall braced himself for the usual onslaught of insults, but when his father opened his eyes they were soft with a concern Randall had only experienced a handful of times, yet every day craved. I want you to be more of a man than Edmund. I want to know your mother’s death to bring you into this world was worth it.

      His father’s eyes drifted to the portrait of Randall’s mother hanging across the room, the concern replaced by the constant sadness Randall loathed, the one which always pulled his father away. Randall tightened his hands at his side, wanting to rip the portrait from the wall and fling it in the fire. Why? No matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.

      And what do you do? Drink with your uncle without a thought for me. His father’s face hardened with disgust. You’re selfish, that’s what you are, only ever thinking of yourself and your future riches instead of being here and tending to the vicarage like a proper son.

      Randall dropped his hand on Reverend’s head, anger seething inside him. He’d obeyed his father for years, taken every insult heaped on him and more, thinking one day the old man would look at him with the same affection he saved for the portrait, but he hadn’t, and tonight Randall realised he never would. I’m not staying here any longer. Uncle Edmund has invited me to live at the manor. I’m going there and I’m not coming back.

      You think because you’ll be a Marquess some day, you’re too good for a simple vicarage. Well, you’re not. His father snatched the poker from the fireplace and Randall took a step back. You think I don’t know how you and my brother laugh at me, how you mocked me when you named that wretched dog he gave you.

      He levelled the poker at Reverend and a low growl rolled through the gangly puppy.

      Well, no more, his father spat. You killed the one person I loved most in this world, then turned my brother and sister against me. You have no idea how it feels to lose so much, but you will when I take away something you love. He focused on Reverend and raised the poker over his head.

      No! Randall rushed at his father, catching the poker just as his father brought it down, the hard metal slamming into his palm and sending a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He tried to wrench the iron from his father’s hand, but the old man held on tight, fighting with a strength fuelled by hate. Reverend’s sharp barks pierced the room as Randall shoved his father against the wall, his other arm across his chest, pinning him like a wild animal until his father’s fingers finally opened and the poker clattered to the floor.

      I hate you. You killed her, he hissed before the deep lines of his face softened, his jaw sagged open and his body slumped forward on to Randall’s chest.

      Randall struggled to hold his father’s limp weight as he lowered him to the floor, then knelt next to him, panic replacing his anger as he patted his face, trying to rouse him. Father? Father?

      A faint gurgle filled his father’s throat before his eyes focused on Randall’s. Reverend whimpered behind him, as if he, too, sensed what was coming.

      Father, forgive me, Randall pleaded.

      You aren’t worthy— he slurred before his head dropped forward and he slumped to the side.

      The room went quiet, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and Reverend’s panting.

      Randall rose, stumbling backwards