Page 20 of Tempting a Lonely Lord (The Rakes of Mayhem #6)

Early the next morning

Dover Beach, beneath a pier

Stephen had hoped last night would have ended differently. Attending Darkmoor’s ball had been a dreaded obligation, yet, against all odds, he had enjoyed himself. And it was entirely because of the former Elizabeth Harrogate—the woman he had once wanted to marry.

Seeing her at the ball had caught him off guard.

He had nearly forgotten that her home was in Kent.

But the evening had unfolded like a dream from the moment they crossed paths.

They danced, they talked, they laughed. And when the supper dance ended, fate had seated them across the table from each other, allowing the night to stretch just a little longer.

Something had happened after the ball—something important—but the details had slipped through his mind like water through his fingers.

He should remember. He needed to remember.

Yet here he was, waking beneath a short pier, the shattered remains of a gin bottle clutched in his hand, his head pounding with more than just drink.

Seeing her again had made him believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that his life could be different.

That there might still be something worth salvaging.

But now, the cold grip of reality pressed in—damp sand caked his face, his evening clothes hung in tattered ruin, and the tide lapped dangerously close.

A dead crab clung absurdly to his trouser leg, a grotesque companion to his disgrace.

The baron. His niece. The future he was supposed to protect.

Guilt twisted in his gut, more suffocating than the weight of his sodden coat. He had drunk to forget—but what, exactly, had he done? And why couldn’t he remember?

When Stephen first caught sight of the red-haired beauty across the ballroom, his pulse had faltered, his mind instinctively reaching for a hope he had long since learned to silence. It was never her. Not since she had married and left London.

And that night, he’d had no intention of approaching her.

He had watched from a careful distance, unwilling to invite old wounds to the surface. But then she had approached him.

At the refreshment table, she had been so lovely, so effortlessly charming , and in an instant, all his memories of her had come rushing back.

He had been utterly unprepared. His heart had flipped in his chest, and before he could stop himself, his mind had conjured every long-buried dream he once held for them.

The soirees, the stolen kisses in moonlit gardens, the carriage rides and promenades in Hyde Park—every moment had led to the day he had asked to court her.

But her father had had other plans.

The abrupt announcement of her engagement to Earl Rivers had shattered everything. The rejection had taken its toll—not that it had been her fault. The fault had lain squarely with him and the way he handled disappointment.

Drinking. Gaming. Losing himself in vices that never truly numbed the ache.

And now, after all these years, she had sought him out. She had danced with him and dined with him. And he—fool that he was—had spent the rest of the evening watching her, imagining what might have been.

But what had happened after that?

Because now, he was here—beneath a pier, soaked to the bone, a broken bottle of gin in his grasp. And he couldn’t remember.

“And look where you are now, Lord Bridgewater.”

The words slurred off his tongue, thick with bitterness. He dragged a hand over his face, grains of sand clinging to his skin as he squinted against the morning light. The tide lapped at the shore, indifferent to his ruin.

He had achieved something he had never wanted, something he had never deserved—his brother’s earldom.

And yet here he was, sprawled upon a beach like a common drunkard, the weight of it all pressing down on him as heavily as the headache pounding behind his eyes.

He scarcely recalled how he had ended up here.

The night before was a blur of brandy and regret.

Elizabeth.

He had been reaching for a drink when he saw her again. And for once, he had hesitated. Not until after she had gone did he allow himself to drown his sorrows. He had asked if he might call upon her, and she had demurred, ever polite.

But he had pressed her.

“Come now, Lizzy. I only wish to spend some time with you.”

She had hesitated, her voice laced with something too soft, too sorrowful. “Stephen, I do not believe that would be wise.”

His brow furrowed. “But why?”

A faint, trembling smile curved her lips. “We are friends, Stephen, and always will be.”

“I want more than friendship, Lizzy.”

“I know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “And that is my fault. Seeing you again sent me back years, and I fear I allowed myself to be carried away.” She lowered her gaze. “Forgive me.”

“Elizabeth, I—” He had stumbled over the words, his stomach twisting. “I never asked… is there someone else?”

A grimace. “No, there is no one.” A long pause, then a breath drawn deep, as though she were bracing herself.

“ But I am a widow, Stephen—long past my debut, yet my reputation still holds weight. I owe it to Edward’s memory to keep his name unsullied.

” Her voice had wavered then, and she had brushed away a tear before meeting his gaze with quiet resolve.

“And though I will not deny an attraction to you… you have allowed yourself to become a wastrel.”

The words had cut through him, sharper than any blade.

“Why did you let yourself fall so far?” she asked.

And then she had turned away, her gown whispering against the grass as she disappeared into the night.

His last memory had been of leaving the party and making his way home.

And yet here he was, waking on the shore like a man shipwrecked by his own vices.

He exhaled harshly, letting his head drop back against the sand.

“Well done, Bridgewater,” he muttered to himself. “Bloody well done.”

Looking up, Stephen saw the first hints of dawn breaking over the horizon.

The sky was painted in muted shades of gray and gold, signaling the arrival of morning.

Normally, he slept until noon, but today he had awakened in the open, sprawled on the cold sand.

Soon, the streets would stir with life, and he needed to return to Bridgewater Manor before he was forced to explain the sorry state of his dress.

With a groan, he pushed himself upright, fumbling in his pocket.

Relief swept through him as his fingers closed around his purse.

At least he had the means for a hack. He muttered a half-hearted prayer of thanks before squinting against the light, his bleary eyes stinging from a night of drink, sand, and damp air.

As his vision cleared, he took in the familiar sight of large townhouses and more modest homes beyond the stone wall that separated the beach from the town. He had wandered these streets enough times to recognize the neighborhoods. How had he managed to land himself here?

Stephen exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his disheveled hair. He needed to leave before someone of consequence spotted him—before his disgrace became common knowledge.

He braced himself against the wooden post beneath the pier, gathering what little strength he had left.

With a deep breath, he forced himself upright.

His first steps were unsteady, his legs protesting after a night spent in the cold, but he had done this before.

Muscle memory carried him forward, his stride gradually finding its rhythm.

He followed a narrow path, the scent of salt and damp wood clinging to the morning air. Before long, he emerged at the edge of a familiar neighborhood—one he recognized instantly.

The town of Dover lay between the cliffs and the sea, with many of its prominent roads running parallel to the beach.

At this early hour, the sun had wasted no time asserting its dominance in the sky, promising a bright day.

Stephen struggled to find a cab. He needed to get home before too many people saw him.

After opening the gate to the beach, he closed it behind him and stepped onto the sidewalk, its packed gravel crunching beneath his feet.

Staring at the homes ahead of him, he recalled a glimmer of memory from last night.

When Elizabeth left the ball, he had hired a hackney to follow her.

When she’d departed her carriage, he asked his driver to continue and drop him off near the Winking Mariner, where he’d indulged himself by drowning his woes in drink.

At least, he thought, touching his purse, he hadn’t gambled.

Lost in his thoughts, he found himself standing in front of the white stone fence to an elegant stone three-story townhouse.

The home was surrounded by a garden thick with flowering bushes.

As he stared at the front door, it opened, and he stood face to face with Elizabeth, who was holding a leash attached to a small, fluffy, copper-colored dog.

“Stephen, what are you doing out here?” she demanded as a liveried footman stepped out behind her.

“May we speak, Lizzy?” Stephen managed.

“My lady, do you require assistance?” the footman asked.

“Thank you, Mason,” she said. “Lord Bridgewater is an old friend.” A pause, then, with quiet resolve, she added, “I should like to speak with him. I will be quite all right.”

The footman nodded and stepped back, but remained outside, while she nudged her dog forward to where Stephen stood on the sidewalk. “I confess I, too, have questions, especially after seeing you in this shape. Oh, my goodness! Your hand. You’re bleeding. Let me see to your cut.”

“I’m b-bleeding?” he stammered, looking down at his hand with surprise. “I suppose I cut my hand at some point last night.” He should have been embarrassed, but it was too late for that. He’d done all of this to himself.