25 March 1820
Rome, Italy
Jacob was lounging on a chair and Mrs. Valentina Lombardi, the most sought after courtesan in Rome was sprawled on his lap, her lush body pressed to his as she tried to coax a reaction out of him. He knew all the other men watching him envied him. But for the life of him, he couldn't muster any enthusiasm for the act.
Instead of finding her perfume enticing, he found it cloying. The smoke from the cigars made him feel suffocated.
What was ironic was that Jacob had made this his life. He'd thrived in the darkness of this club, on all the temptations it offered. This lifestyle had numbed his feelings, his hurt. In fact, he often wondered if there was any compassion left in his blackened heart.
There wasn't.
"Not today," he murmured. The courtesan pulled back, pouting her disappointment. She knew it was pointless to try and move him now.
"I'm sorry, I'm sure one of those men would be more than happy to take my place," he said, kissing the back of her hand and signaled to the group of lads ogling her from the tables.
"They're hardly even out of short pants," she huffed but smiled hesitantly. "I suppose they'll have to do then," she said and got up from his lap. Jacob grinned at her usage of 'they' as she sashayed towards the eager lads.
But the smile on his face didn't last long. He got up and left the club, deciding to walk to his apartments.
He was so bloody angry. And confused.
His uncle-Viscount Townshend had written to him asking for his presence in England-he was dying. Under normal circumstances, Jacob wouldn't have hesitated to go, he'd always loved his uncle.
Had.
At least until he'd banished him seven years ago. He'd been twenty-three then, barely a man.
Jacob lost his parents when he was a child. His uncle, having no children himself had raised him despite his aunt's disapproval. And then, it was all taken away from him. The comfort of his home, the love of his uncle, his friends–hell his entire life.
Why? Because his aunt had finally gotten into her husband's head.
Jacob had come to Italy almost penniless and friendless. He'd spent his first few months drowning his sorrow in whiskey, not understanding what he'd done wrong. But then he'd slowly built a life here and now he ran a successful shipbuilding company with his associate. His uncle had sent him money and numerous letters every year and Jacob had returned the envelopes unopened. He didn't need anybody's charity.
He'd finally put his life in England behind him. He'd done everything that he had to do to succeed, not even stopping at blackmail. Now he had power, a fortune, and independence, never mind that it had come at the expense of his soul.
His friends here often joked saying Jacob had sold his soul to the Devil when he'd come here. He quite agreed with them. He had no morals and no shame. He took what he wanted without any remorse and that was exactly why he was rolling in money and sin today.
Which was why the summons from his uncle bothered him. He had written to Jacob's solicitor this time, knowing he wouldn't even open the old man's letter.
This could only mean one thing. He was to inherit his uncle's viscountcy. No matter how much his uncle had hurt him, the thought of him dying did strange things to him-it made him feel. And Jacob had little time or patience for feelings in his life. Also, he didn't know if he wanted this viscountcy.
But it meant going back home.
He was disgusted by the direction of his thoughts, by his fickleness. This is my home now, he said to himself stubbornly. All his uncle had to do was to dangle the hope of going back to England in front of his eyes and Jacob forgot about all that he'd built here.
He'd made up his mind by the time he reached his apartments.
He would go to England and meet his uncle, hear him out. And if he was going to inherit the bloody viscountcy, he would bloody well make the best out of it. Jacob might have learned to live without a conscience, but the sense of duty in him still prevailed. Anyhow, the damned viscountcy would probably die with him because he had no intention of marrying. Ever. And he could always manage the lands from here by hiring a good steward.
Tons of nobs did it.
"Marcel!"
"Yes, signore?" emerged his Italian valet. His deferential tone didn't fool Jacob for a second. His valet was as cheeky a bastard as they came.
"Pack my trunks."
"If I may be so bold, where are we going, signore?"
"England."
"About time," Marcel muttered under his breath. Marcel had always shown his disapproval with Jacob's treatment of his uncle's letters. Strongly.
"What was that?" Jacob shot him a look.
"I know you heard me the first time," he replied, leaving Jacob to do his bidding.
"I might just have to throw you out for your impertinence one of these days," Jacob growled.
"You're too fond of my impertinence to do such a thing," he called from within Jacob's closet.
Jacob chuckled, he was right.
***
1 April 1821
Raynham, Norfolk
England
As much as he hated admitting it to himself, Jacob was happy to be home. The sprawling green lands and the familiar stone manor reminded him of how much he'd missed this place.
When he entered Raynham manor, he was greeted by Freddie, their butler.
"It's wonderful to see you again, master Jacob. You look so different now," the man said, his usually stoic face teary. Well, 'different' was putting it mildly. Jacob's lean body had broadened and his skin had darkened. He'd even grown out a beard. It must all be too much for the butler's delicate English sensibilities, Jacob thought amused.
"It's good to see you too, Freddie. How is your son?" Jacob asked as Marcel handed over his trunks to a footman.
"Dan is well, he's a barrister now," Freddie's eyes shone with pride. Jacob smiled and nodded indulgently. The boy had been as bright as a lad.
"God's tooth, is that you master Jacob?" came a rather feminine screech from above the stairwell. Jacob looked up.
Miss Parsons.
That explained the screech. Miss Parsons was their housekeeper and had loved Jacob very much. The portly old woman practically barrelled down the stairs.
"You haven't aged at all," Jacob grinned, kissing her cheek when she reached him.
"And you are charming as ever, master Jacob," she blushed and swatted his arm. Freddie and some of the newer maids laughed at her but she silenced them with one stern glance.
When she turned to look at him again, her eyes were moist. "We've missed you, master Jacob," she murmured.
"Aye, that we have, the house wasn't the same after you left. And despite the viscount feeling so poorly, we were afraid you might not turn up," Freddie said.
A knot formed in Jacob's chest.
"Where's my uncle?" He asked, remembering his purpose.
"Up in his chamber, he's been expecting you. But he couldn't make it down the stairs."
Jacob nodded mechanically before he raced up. He opened the door without knocking.
"Hello there, uncle."
What Jacob saw when he went through the door stopped him in his tracks. His breath whooshed out of him. That ghost of a man, only skin and bones couldn't possibly be his uncle. Uncle had been a large man, he'd been robust. But this man looking at him with his eyes stark against his pale, lifeless face...
Mayfair, London"I am not wearing that gown, Aunt Mel. It's practically indecent!" Olivia groaned. "Of course not! Why do you say that?" her aunt demanded, dangling a maroon taffeta gown before Olivia's eyes. It was beautiful, no doubt. "For one, the bodice is so low that my breasts might pop out at any time."
"Archie, can we please sit out the next set?" Olivia didn't want to dance anymore. "Fine by me. If we dance one more set together, these people will most definitely call out the banns and print the news of our betrothal in The Times," he rolled his eyes. "But what's wrong? You love to dance," he eyed her. "I do, but my legs hurt," the lie slipped out easily enough. As the set was abou
7 years ago. 13 June 1813Derbyshire, EnglandOlivia grunted as another pebble slipped into her slipper. It appeared like she had gone momentarily daft when she'd chosen her dainty slippers instead of the sturdy boots for her jaunt by the countryside.
Jacob couldn't help but like this girl and he was having a fine time baiting her. He chuckled when she began to stammer again. "There is no need to be afraid, I am not going to harm you," he said, using his placating tone. She looked up at him then, raising her face to look at him for the first time since he had come upon her. "I am not afraid,
The evening after the Sutherland ball, 1821"How did you like Lady Olivia?" Peter asked. "She seems fine." "Fine? She's wonderful, Jacob. How can you even think about hurting her? Do you not think she's gone through a lot already?" An ugly frown wrinkled Pete's brow.
Good god, had she loved the man? Jacob had not really planned this out as thoroughly as he would've liked. He'd seen her in the park and he'd improvised, although not well enough...He certainly shouldn't want to know why her fiancé had runoff. He wasn't supposed to care. But he cared, dammit. He wanted to learn all her secrets and he wanted to kill the sod for hurting her so. You're going to hurt her too.
Olivia felt like she was a ship in a storm and Mr.Townshend was her anchor. She didn't regret initiating the kiss one bit. He held her close to him and she felt the hardness of his body against hers. Who would've thought that such a hard, unyielding body could be so warm?! But his lips were soft as they gently moved with hers. Olivia couldn't breathe, the sensation was too much to bear. She'd been kissed before, but not like this...