Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Twenty

Roman let out a loud growl as he hurled the empty bottle of port wine into the burning hearth. He jumped back at the explosion of flames, and tripping on his own feet, he crashed to his breeches on the wooden floor. Hissing a foul word, he made to rise, but his efforts proved useless against his blurry vision and the spinning room. Knowing there was no use trying to stand, he laid back, stretched both legs before him, and pressed a hand to his throbbing head.

The pain in his head was nothing like the one in his chest, the one that appeared the moment his wife fell ill all those years ago and grew worse when she died. He'd done everything to rid himself of the pain, but nothing worked—not the many parties and balls London offered, not the mindless voyages out of town to distract himself, not the fruitless pursuits of pleasure. The only thing that ever came close to giving him some relief was liquor. Not tonight, though. It didn't matter that he'd spent the last hour gorging himself on his entire wine collection. Relief eluded him. Yet, he was desperate for it, anything to make him forget the pain for a few minutes. He thought he should try to fall asleep. He settled on his side when his blurry gaze landed on Layla's portrait. It was the same portrait that had graced the wall of the parlor in London, and for the one hour he'd sat on the sofa inebriating himself, he'd clung to it as if clinging to life.

No—he let out a bitter laugh as he reached for the portrait once more and ran a shaky finger down the outline of his wife's face. He clung to it, not clinging to life, but clinging to death; begging for the chance to join Layla. But fate was cruel in its determination to keep him here, trapped in a painful existence.

He must have fallen asleep, for he was woken up by a warm embrace. He winced at the pain that sliced through his skull as tore his eyelids apart to find someone leaning down over him. His blurry vision distorted their face, but he thought they smelled familiar. He was too drunk to remember who they were, but somewhere in his fuzzy mind, he thought he liked their smell. He also liked their presence. Something about their nearness made him feel warm. Maybe that's why he had the impression of being embraced when he woke up. He knew now that they hadn't embraced him, they'd simply come close.

They took something from him then. He knew because he felt the weight slip from between his fingers. As they turned from him, he made to reach out to them, to beg them to stay by his side. But his weak limbs held him prisoner as darkness cloaked his mind.

When he woke up again, the sunlight streaming through the tattered curtains nearly blinded him. Bile rose to his throat as he made to rise, and falling to his knees, he emptied his stomach on the floor. After he emptied his stomach on the floor, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and managed to stand up. It was then he saw it; Layla's portrait.

The lone painting occupied a prominent position on the wall of the drawing room, above the fireplace. While Roman vaguely remembered unboxing it and cradling it to his chest all evening, he had no memory of hanging it on the wall. He'd been too drunk to climb that high up, and if he'd tried, he was certain he'd have fallen and broken a bone or two.

Roman did not need to question who was behind the hanging of the portrait, for Frances' absence at breakfast that morning spoke louder than any words she might have uttered in confirmation of his question. And when he did not run into her all through that day, he was certain she was avoiding him.

"Will Mrs Brown be joining me for supper this evening?" he asked Sara as she placed a bowl of soup before him.

She shook her head. "Mrs Brown craves your indulgence in excluding herself from the table tonight..." She averted her gaze. "And at every other meal henceforth."

"I see."

Clutching her hands before her, she shifted from one foot to the other. "She wishes to have her meals in the confines of her own chambers."