Page 2 of Her Scandalous Rake (The Worthington Legacy #8)

“M ilord?” The toothless bugger next to him grinned. “Do ye need me to stand with ye for yer big day t’morrow?”

Tristan waved a hand through the air. “As much as the idea sounds appealin’, I must decline.” He lifted his drink to his mouth and finished every last drop before slamming it on the table. “My friends,” he called out, “I shall take my leave now. The next time I come ta this fine ’stablishment, I’ll be a happily married man.” Well, he wasn’t too sure about the happily part, but he most certainly would be married.

As Tristan stumbled out of the tavern, the men inside erupted into cheers, shouting his name and raising their cups in a drunken salute. He waved them off with a halfhearted grin, his steps unsteady as he made his way toward where his coach should have been waiting. The evening’s revelry still pulsed in his veins, but the weight of tomorrow lingered heavily on his shoulders.

Lady Jane Fairbourne—his fiancée—was beautiful, of course, and wealthy beyond question, thanks to the fortune left by her late husband. Yet this was a marriage Tristan didn’t truly want. For years, she had been paraded before him, a glittering prospect in the eyes of his family and society. But now, after so many tedious introductions and forced encounters, he was weary of her presence, tired of the expectations everyone had placed upon them. He had grown numb to the idea of finding a woman who could stir his heart. The hope for love had faded long ago, replaced by the cold practicality of duty.

What he wanted now was simple: to marry and start a family. And if Lady Jane was the one to help him achieve that, then so be it. Most couples of the ton didn’t marry for love anyway, so why should he be any different? He no longer had the energy to chase after elusive dreams of passion or connection.

His vision blurred as he stopped and leaned heavily against the stone wall of the tavern, blinking to clear his foggy mind. The street before him swayed slightly, and frustration mounted in his chest. Where in the bloody hell was his coach?

He glanced around, searching the darkened road for any sign of it, but all he saw were shadows and the vague outline of a few distant figures. He cursed under his breath, pressing his hand to his throbbing temple. It seemed the night wasn’t quite done punishing him yet.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to think of where his driver had parked. “Ah, there it is!”

Taking slow, deliberate steps, Tristan advanced toward the waiting coach, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. The cool night wrapped around him like a cloak, its chill biting at the edges of his composure. His breath came out in sharp puffs, ghosting in the air before vanishing into the darkness. Frustration simmered beneath his calm facade, bubbling like a pot left too long on the stove. He clenched his jaw, not at the thought of the night’s obligations, but at the woman who awaited him inside that carriage: Lady Fairbourne.

No one could deny she looked every inch the ideal wife—polished to perfection, with grace that drew eyes and whispers wherever she went. She knew how to command attention, how to wield charm like a finely sharpened blade. Men trembled under her gaze, caught between reverence and desire. But as dazzling as she was, Tristan couldn’t shake the hollow truth that gnawed at him. Beneath the elegant exterior and effortless allure, she was not the woman he had ever imagined standing beside him, sharing the small joys of life or whispering promises in the quiet hours of dawn.

A memory bloomed, vivid and unwelcome, slipping into his mind like the scent of jasmine on the breeze—unavoidable, intoxicating. Diana. The woman who had once been his future. The vision was so clear it stole his breath: her auburn hair cascading in perfect ringlets, catching the light as if spun from molten copper. Her heart-shaped face, once the center of his universe, smiled at him in a memory so rich that it almost felt real. For a moment, the chill of the night faded, replaced by the warmth she used to bring him.

He stopped in his tracks, momentarily paralyzed by the ghost of her laughter ringing in his ears. The way she’d lit up when she saw him, as if he were the only man who had ever mattered, made his chest tighten with longing and regret. He shook his head, trying to banish the thought like dust from his coat. But Diana lingered, her presence as stubborn as the ache that had taken root deep within him. Her memory was a tether, tying him to a time when he had believed in love—when he had believed in her.

Stars had danced in her green eyes, eyes that once seemed capable of holding the secrets of the universe. When she smiled at him, he could feel the world tilt on its axis, as if everything had been set right in those fleeting moments. No other woman had ever looked at him like that, with a gaze so full of admiration it had made him feel invincible. In her presence, he had been more than a man. He had been someone worthy of love, of dreams, of a future brighter than he dared to imagine.

A groan slipped from his lips, raw and low, as if dragged from the depths of his soul. He forced himself to move, but with every step, her image clung to him, as persistent as the frost coating the air. He had been a fool then, caught in the whirlwind of hope and fantasy. Diana had swept him off his feet, and he had fallen willingly, letting himself believe that love could conquer the inevitable storms life would bring. For a brief, shining moment, he had let himself dream of forever.

But reality had been ruthless. The fall from that dream had left him bruised and broken, his illusions shattered like glass beneath a boot. He had learned the hard way that love wasn’t a shield against betrayal. Women were not faithful, and love was little more than a beautifully crafted lie. The scars from that lesson remained, etched into him like carvings on stone. Even now, the details of what had gone wrong were blurred, obscured by the fog of his damaged memory. His accident had robbed him of certain truths—but the pain had never faded.

And now, as he walked toward a future built on duty rather than passion, the ghost of his past followed, whispering reminders of what he had once hoped for and lost. The shadows of love and betrayal intertwined, tightening their hold on him as the night grew colder.

Yet, even without the clarity of memory, Tristan’s subconscious clung to one bitter, undeniable truth: Diana had hurt him—deeply. Like a knife wound left to fester, the pain of her betrayal still pulsed through him, raw and unhealed. Whatever she had done, whatever words had been spoken or actions taken, had carved into him with ruthless precision, leaving scars that memory loss couldn’t erase. Though the details were lost in the fog of his fractured mind, the ache lingered, a persistent reminder that the trust he had once placed in love had been shattered. And with it, any belief that it could ever be restored.

When he had first met Diana, she had been a storm—beautiful and wild, capable of overwhelming him with her intensity. He had been captivated, like a moth drawn too close to the flame. He had sworn the sun itself rose and set with her, blind to anything beyond the brilliance she radiated. Their stolen kisses, breathless and forbidden, had spiraled into something far more dangerous, something neither of them had been prepared for. In those stolen moments, hidden from the eyes of the world, he had felt untethered and free, like a man allowed, for the first time, to dream without limits.

But dreams have a way of curdling into nightmares. No matter how hard he tried to bury those memories beneath the weight of duty and cynicism, they clung to him like a ghost’s whisper, haunting him in the stillness of night. He could still feel the warmth of her touch, hear the faint laugh she had when she teased him, and recall the way her lips had pressed against his with a mixture of fire and tenderness. Those echoes were relentless, slipping into his thoughts when he least expected them, dragging him back to a time when love had felt like salvation, not a curse.

And then fate, with its cruel sense of humor, had pulled him back into her orbit. Lord Hollingsworth—her husband—had been found dead, and in the blink of an eye, Tristan had gone from a man trying to outrun his past to one trapped in its unrelenting grasp. The accusations had struck him like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs.

He could still hear the hushed murmurs in the corridors, the venomous whispers of scandal as his name was tied to the crime. He hadn’t killed Hollingsworth—he knew that much—but proving it to the rest of the world was a different battle entirely.

Bitterness coiled like a snake in his chest as he shook his head, trying to force down the surge of emotions clawing their way to the surface. His jaw tightened, the muscles working as he fought against the urge to lash out at the injustice of it all. What had started as a whirlwind love affair had turned into a noose tightening around his neck. Whether by accident or design, Diana had dragged him back into the storm of her life, and now he wasn’t sure if anyone would believe the truth. He wasn’t sure if he even believed it anymore.

His grip on reality, much like his memories, was slipping. And the more he tried to escape, the tighter the past seemed to hold on, suffocating him.

Well… time to pay the piper. Tomorrow he would marry Lady Fairbourne, and even if it killed him, he would put Diana’s memory behind him.

Tristan staggered toward the coach, his vision swimming as the world around him tilted slightly off balance. He grasped the door handle with a grip that was both desperate and clumsy, yanking it open and hauling himself inside with more force than grace. His shoulder collided with the interior wall, and he let out a breathless grunt as he half fell onto the cushioned seat. The cold night air clung to his skin, but inside the coach, warmth enveloped him, wrapping him like a heavy blanket. Too heavy. Stifling.

He leaned back against the seat, exhaling sharply, his legs still trembling beneath him. Perhaps he should have waited for his driver to offer a steadying hand, but patience had abandoned him hours ago, somewhere between his last drink and the moment he stumbled into the shadows of the evening. His muscles burned with the effort of standing, and now that he was seated, his body sagged in relief, as though surrendering to exhaustion.

A sound tickled at the edges of his awareness—a faint, rhythmic scratching, like metal scraping against metal. It came from the far side of the coach door, just out of sight. Tristan frowned, squinting into the dim glow of the carriage lantern, but the alcohol dulling his senses kept curiosity at bay. He shrugged it off with a lazy breath, sinking further into the seat. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. His driver could handle it. Right now, all he cared about was making it home without passing out in the middle of the street.

The coach jerked forward with a sudden jolt, and Tristan’s body lurched with it, nearly pitching him onto the floor. He cursed, muttering something incoherent, and braced himself against the seat with one hand while planting his feet firmly on the floor. The wheels rattled against the cobblestones, the familiar rhythm of travel slowly returning. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, the gentle swaying of the coach working against him like a lullaby he couldn’t resist.

The scratching sound faded into the hum of the night, forgotten as the warmth of the coach lulled him into a foggy sense of comfort. His mind drifted, not quite asleep but far from awake, teetering on the edge of oblivion. He tried to resist it, knowing that sleep in this state would only make tomorrow’s wedding preparations all the more unbearable. But the weight of his eyelids was merciless, pulling him down despite his weak attempts to stay alert.

His thoughts wandered toward home, toward the soft mattress waiting for him—the only salvation he could think of to shake off tonight’s indulgence. He could already imagine the plush pillow beneath his head, the heavy quilt cocooning him, shutting out the rest of the world.

But just as he was about to succumb to the darkness, the coach hit a bump in the road that sent him lurching upright, the jarring sensation shattering the fragile peace he’d found. He blinked rapidly, disoriented, his heart thudding against his ribs as he tried to regain his bearings. The ride had turned rougher, the wheels jostling and rattling as though the cobblestones had suddenly given way to uneven terrain.

Tristan sat up straighter, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His brow furrowed as he peered out the small window, but the landscape beyond was cloaked in shadow, offering no clues. He rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind. The coach should have been on the familiar, well-maintained streets leading back to his estate. So why did it feel as though they were traversing a dirt path riddled with potholes?

Had the driver taken a different route? Perhaps to avoid a roadblock? He frowned, the unease in his chest spreading like a slow-burning fire. Something wasn’t right. The ride was far too bumpy, far too erratic. He tapped his fingers restlessly against his thigh as he strained to hear any noises from outside—the sound of the horses’ hooves, the creak of the wheels—but all he heard was the rhythmic clatter of the coach’s interior shaking with each jolt.

He leaned toward the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the surface. Outside, the shadows shifted, but he couldn’t make out any landmarks. The realization struck him like a splash of cold water—he had no idea where they were.

Growing uneasy, Tristan reached for the curtain and yanked it back, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned closer to the window. The cool glass fogged under his breath as he blinked against the brightness of the full moon hanging high in the sky, casting its silver glow over the countryside. The earlier storm had passed, leaving behind a pristine night, but the serene beauty of the landscape did little to soothe the panic rising within him.

This wasn’t the road home. And he had no clue where he was.