Page 10 of My Wicked Earl
It should have been one of his brothers, who needed to scour the ton for a wealthy heiress for Runshaw Park. Why must he sacrifice himself to keep that pile of shit whole? He took a deep breath feeling keenly the loss of his brothers, both of whom he’d held in great affection. The unfairness of both of them dying and leaving him to carry on alone was a lingering pain. Especially Thomas who forced a promise upon Colin from his deathbed.
A vision flashed before him, his brother pale and sweat-stained as he lay dying, begging Colin to do his duty to the family. The wasting sickness, the doctor called it. A horror of blood-soaked handkerchiefs and his brother coughing out his life into them.
Why hadn’t it been Colin? The least loved?
The irony of outliving his entire family was not lost on Colin. He’d never thought to inherit, never wished a moment for the title and was ill-prepared in assuming the earldom. The only satisfaction he gained, and it was very little, was that his parents were likely turning in their graves that Colin was now the earl.
Oh, the irony of it all. Like the makings of a fine Shakespearian tragedy.
His father barely acknowledged Colin and chose to only shower affection on Ian and Thomas. And the Mad Countess? The proof ofheraffection stared at him in the mirror every morning. A parting gift from his dear mother before she took her life.
Absently his fingers touched the scar that neatly bisected the left side of his face, starting at the corner of his eye and ending at the top of his lip. The jagged line shined stark white against his cheek. Thankfully, the Mad Countess had poor aim, or he would have lost an eye along with his looks.
Thinking of his mother only served to further agitate Colin, and he was quite irritated enough what with standing in the rain like a beggar waiting for someone to open the fucking door. His scar itched terribly in damp weather, as if a stream of ants were marching across his cheek.
Ian had been first. A stomach ailment to which the local doctor could find no cause. His elder brother suddenly fell to the floor in pain, clutching his left side. Lord Kilmaire drank brandy. The Mad Countess prayed. Colin arrived just in time to witness Ian writhing in agony, his hands clutching the bedcovers as he died.
The Mad Countess was next.
His mother’s mental state had always been questionable, but grief over Ian’s death destroyed what little remained of her mind. She wailed like a banshee as her eldest son died, frightening the staff as well as her remaining sons and husband. A week after Ian was laid in the ground, the family sat down to dinner. A footman, one of the few left at Runshaw Park, began to circulate the table pouring wine before bringing in the main course, a goose on a silver platter surrounded by potatoes and onions.
As the footman began to carve the goose, Lady Kilmaire suddenly stood on her chair. Lifting her skirts, she took a leap across the table, taking the knife from the startled footman’s hand. In her haste to grab the knife she upended the gravy boat, splattering the contents over Thomas and Colin, as she began to slash at her youngest son’s face.
‘Why couldn’t it have been you? The son I wished I’d never borne.’
Even now Colin could not bring himself to eat goose.
Shortly thereafter, the Mad Countess was found in her bath, wrists cut with her husband’s shaving razor, her naked body floating in a tub of water stained crimson from blood. Her lady’s maid, poor girl, ran screaming from Runshaw Park without collecting her wages.
The Earl of Kilmaire followed his dearly loved, insane wife to the grave, but not before spending what was left in the Kilmaire coffers on drink. His lordship would disappear for days, only to be discovered in an unused drawing room, or the attic, a bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. The last time the earl disappeared, every room in the house was searched, even the old priest’s hole. It was Thomas who found him dead, sitting upright in a leather chair in the downstairs drawing room, surrounded by several empty bottles of madeira.
Colin did not drink madeira either.
Thomas and Colin went on as best they could given the circumstances, until the previous year. Thomas fell ill and died, but not before wresting a promise from Colin to restore Runshaw Park and care for the tenants. A promise Colin didn’t wish to make but did for the sake of his brother, whom he’d loved.
Death shall surround you. Only you shall remain. No woman’s love shall keep you warm, my Wicked. Certainly not your mother’s. Nor the only one you are foolish enough to give your heart to. None shall love you. You are cursed to roam the earth alone until the end of your days.
The damned gypsy and her curse. Even now, so many years later, he could smell the smoke of the fire and feel the damp chill of the woods. The press of her lips against his cheek as she whispered the prophecy into his ear. What a lark it seemed at Eton to be cursed by a gypsy. To be named along with his friends, the Wickeds.
Not such a lark to be theCursed Earl, as the gossips now christened him.
Sometimes, at night, when Runshaw Park grew silent, and he worked over the trail of numbers in the account books that all told of his dwindling fortunes, it seemed he could hear the crone whispering to him. There were terrible nights when the gypsy’s words intertwined with the hateful ravings of the Mad Countess until he could no longer tell them apart. On those nights, Colin thought perhaps he was as mad as his mother.
‘None shall love you.’
“Damn it.” Must he bang at the door like a tradesman? As he raised his hand to knock again, the door suddenly swung open.
“May I help you?” A large, elderly butler stood in the doorway, guarding it like an aging mastiff. He lifted his nose in the air, his watery eyes alight with recognition as he took in Colin’s wet clothing and the length of the scar on Colin’s cheek. The butler was too well schooled to show any overt interest at the injury, but Colin still recognized the curiosity in his eyes.
Not that it was unusual. The ton was endlessly fascinated as well. Not so much for the scar itself, of course, but for the story surrounding the wound. After all, not many titled gentlemen were attacked by their mother over a roasted goose dressed with onions and potatoes.
“Lord Kilmaire to see the Dowager Marchioness.” A drop of rain dripped off Colin’s hat to land on his chin. His nose wrinkled with disgust as the smell of damp wool met his nostrils. Nothing worse than wet wool. He felt like a bedraggled dog.
The butler cocked his head and raised a hand to his ear. “I beg your pardon?”
Good God. The man was not only ancient, but deaf. And, familiar, though Colin couldn’t remember the butler’s name.
“Lord Kilmaire to see the Dowager Marchioness,” he spoke louder into the butler’s cupped hand.
