Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter 31

Thorne couldn't bloody find him.

The longer Thorne had looked in circles the angrier he had become. Randall had been evading him for days. Which was odd when Thorne thought about it, since the Randall could always be counted on to gloat—especially where Thorne himself was concerned. A man as despicable as Randall wouldn't be able to help himself. Quite singlehandedly, the man had ruined Thorne for Georgie and vice versa—succeeded in snapping their connection with such force it had emptied his soul leaving a husk in its place.

The only Thorne held onto was his anger. He was determined to take everything from Randall himself this time. If Randall didn't want Thorne's bastardy announced? Well, he was about to lay it all out to the ton. The masquerade was coming up tomorrow evening, and if there was a more fitting place to reveal his truth, Thorne couldn't think of it. Reputations be damned.

For it was Randall himself who would be ostracized. Thorne had already talked to his sisters, having found out the level to which their father was willing to fall for revenge. Bernie and Suzanne were more than willing to watch their father fight off the wolves of London. In fact, they were rather determined to throw Thorne to them too.

Thorne couldn't blame them.

But his situation with Georgie would be saved until after he had dealt with Randall. It would have to be.

Running a hand through his hair, Thorne clipped down the street, sidestepping the cracks in the cobblestones. His cloak fluttered and snapped in the wind behind him making him feel like a villain. The mantle felt well worn and he breathed it in, letting his anger infuse him. A barrage of "if onlys" fluttered around his head.

If only he hadn't been screwed over beyond belief the entirety of his life. If only his mother wasn't in her sickbed because of him. If only Randall had a piece of soul left and hadn't had a hand in destroying everything he touched...

But Thorne knew Randall's soul was indefinitely squandered.

It led Thorne straight back to Randall's townhome in Mayfair. As Thorne stood outside, head tilted back, he remembered only a week prior when he had been called here like a child to face Randall. With his sister inside, he had reckoned himself a Byronic hero. His wager with Georgie had begun, and Thorne had felt as if nothing could trip him.

What a joke that was now.

Instead of Byron, he was a Heathcliff looking for his soul out on the foggy moors. Almost as eveil as the devil himself who walked within the townhome's walls, possibly at this very minute.

Bile boiled in his stomach, and Thorne swallowed it down. He had no time for weakness, no time to mourn what could have been. He would find Randall and he would finish this once and for all.

Opening the door, he found the butler just inside. He wasn't surprised to see him. "My lord. Your father is not yet in residence."

Thorne snorted. "I daresay he wouldn't be." He pulled out the ribbon attached to the pocket watch in his jacket. "It's only been nigh on a quarter hour since I last checked. I decided I will wait for him. He can't avoid me forever."

Ascending the staircase, Thorne ignored the butler's bluster and headed towards the study. If he couldn't get an audience with Randall, Thorne could surely bamboozle the man's finest brandy. Perhaps getting lost in oblivion would serve him well and pass the time.

But Thorne stopped outside the door, the brass knob in his hand. His vision narrowed alarmingly and his chest tightened. Everything looked as if it came in a prism—colors and shapes blurring around the edges. Thorne's lungs burned with the struggle and he bent his head, letting the cool wood soothe his heated skin. He knew the feeling well. The tendrils of panic attached to his lungs and tugged. Maybe this time he should enjoy the last remaining snatches of reality and succumb. He could put the entirety of his family—and the love of his goddamned life—out of their misery.