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The air inside was thick with smoke and regret. The curtains remained drawn, so it could be day or night outside. James didn’t really care. His only concern was that he was running out of brandy.

He could barely remember how long it had been since he practically shut himself away in his bachelor’s lodgings. Of course, he left his house. There was no way he could stay under the same roof as his father, no matter how it broke his grandmother’s heart.

He sat in his study, his shirt unbuttoned, his cravat discarded, staring blankly at the fire. The embers glowed, mocking him. They had burned out too quickly. So had he.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should be doing something. Anything. But he had no will to do anything. Hewas caught in an endless loop of anger and regret. And most of allher. A constant repeat of everything that washer. From the moment she took the first jab at him to that final“I see”that dripped ice on his cold soul.

The glass in his hand was empty again. Had he finished it? When? He wasn’t sure.

A knock sounded at the door. James ignored it. The knock sounded again. Louder. More insistent.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. Whoever it was, they could damn well go away.

The door burst open. James blinked.

Richard strode inside, looking around with a mix of concern and disgust. “Christ,” he muttered, kicking a discarded waistcoat out of the way. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’ll try harder next time,” James slurred.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Drinking myself into a stupor.”

“I gathered.” Richard gave him a pointed look. “And after that?”

James raised his empty glass. “Refilling my cup.”

Richard snatched the glass from his hand and tossed it across the room. It shattered against the wall.

James glared at him. “Was that necessary?”

“I’ll break the next one, too.” Richard’s voice was sharp. “Get a hold of yourself, James.”

James exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Leave me alone, Richard.”

“So you can slowly kill yourself?”

James looked up and blinked.

“Or I can have Stephen come over and kill you himself,” Richard threatened. “What did you do?”

James got up and went to the liquor cabinet. He needed something stronger to get through this conversation.

“What do I always do?” He chuckled cruelly.

“I am not joking. Selina told me that Diana wasill. That girl has never been ill all the years I have known her, and now she is shut away in her room.”

James’s body locked up, and he gripped his glass tighter. Diana was…

He shouldn’t care.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he offered coldly.

“Sorry to hear that? I had to physically restrain Stephen from coming here and decapitate you. And to be honest, I was coming here with more or less the same intention. I believed that I would find you with some fling, having the time of your life while Diana… And I find you like this.”

James sat back on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his head dipped. He should have never come back to London.

“James.” Richard approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. “What is going on? What happened?”