Meant to Bea

CHAPTER THIRTY

The hide of the reins sliced into his palms, most likely drawing blood. Yet, Race hardly noticed as he leaned forward on the horse, burying his heel in its side and forcing it to hasten its pace. His heart beat pounded in sync with the horse's hooves on the dirt road, anger racing through his veins and causing his blood to boil over as he rode to London that evening —It was where Lord Wilson lived, he had been told by the older woman who occupied the modest building that once belonged to the vile lord. According to her, he had sold the house in Camden a week ago, and had moved to his estate in London. Not only was Lord Wilson too broke to maintain the house, but news of his arrest were making the rounds in Camden, she had pointed out, and while she seemed eager to divulge some more juicy details of Lord Wilson's dwindled wealth, Race was only interested in his address in London.

It was far too late to be riding to London, but Race was far too angry to reason correctly. It was a wonder he didn't fall off his horse and break his neck before he had the opportunity to pull to a halt before the gates of Lord Wilson's estate.

Pushing the rusty gate open, he hurriedly made his way up the front porch of the old building. Making a fist, he pounded furiously on the wooden door, his eyes turning briefly to scan the environment for signs of Lord Wilson; nothing. There was nothing but an overgrown lawn, and a building nearly taken over by the weeds that climbed the sides of the house.

Frustrated by the thought of being in the wrong house, Race made to turn around, when the door creaked open.

Turning sharply to the door, his eyes came to rest on the aged face of a woman appeared. Heavy sacks pulled her eyelids down underneath, tired gray eyes staring back at him.

"Mr. Race Belington, here to see Lord Wilson." Race swallowed, trying and failing to hide his anger lest he be denied entry.

She frowned. "Must be out."

"Do you know where?!" His tone was sharp.

Her frown deepened. "He doesn't tell me th—"

Stepping forward, he glared down at the older woman. "Well, I demand to know where he is!" He barked.

She cowered, reaching for the door. Knowing she was about to slam it in his face, Race stuck his foot between.

"Do you want to defy my orders and risk getting hurt? Do not think I shall not pour out my wrath on anyone who stands against my gaining access to Lord Wilson!" He growled, unmoved by the fear in her eyes. He didn't care that she was undeserving of his cruelty, all he cared about was appeasing this anger that raced through his veins and threatened to drive him over the cliff of sanity.

"Ms. Joan's place," Her lips trembled, her finger pointing behind him. "It's the tavern a few blocks from here."

Turning sharply from her, Race began heading for his horse.

"Wait!" She called after his retreating back. "You mustn't tell him I told you where he was."

Not stopping to acknowledge her, Race hurried out of the gates and hopped on his horse, eager to lay his hands on Lord Wilson. He wasn't sure what he would do to him for what he did to Bianca, but he was certain he would leave a scar —a painful scar, one that would deprive him of the capacity to further hurt women.

The lowlife! He gritted his teeth, furious. The animal, clothed with a title and considered more noble than anyone else, simply because he was fortunate enough to have been born into a high class family. Society would always consider him better than Race, not based on the character of either of them, but based on their births. Before the society, Lord Wilson was a first class citizen, and Race was nothing but the mistake of a Marquess, never to be spoken of. He was the tragic result of a moment of lustful weakness, and whether or not his father was the Marquess of Camden, he could easily be denied for the Marquess was not required to own up to a weakness. He was instead allowed to cover it up, deny it, walk away from it, and never make mention of it in his will.

Even now, Lord Wilson —under the cover of darkness— was in a place meant for the disreputable people of England. No doubt, he would return home before the day would break, and easily slip into the role of a lord.

Trembling violently by the time he pulled his horse to a halt before the tavern, he staggered into the dimly lit building. It was a few seconds before his eyes adjusted to the light, and another second before he spotted Lord Wilson on the card table.

Without stopping to think for a second, he crossed the room, yanking Lord Wilson off of his chair by his lapels. Curling his fingers to form a fist, his knuckles connected with his jaw.

"Bastard!" Race gritted his teeth, landing another punch on his nose.

Falling to the wooden floors with a loud thud, Wilson scampered back, blood trickling from his nose.

Swearing, he cupped his hand over his broken nose, angry eyes fixed on Race.

Race tightened his fists. "I will ruin you," The words filtered from his lips as he fought to regain control of his temper; he couldn't kill Lord Wilson, for then, the law would turn on him. He had already done enough bodily damage to last a night, what was left was damaging what was left of his image. "All of England will hear of the scum that you truly are for what you did to Bianca! And when I'm finished with you Lord Wilson, not even these lowlifes," He swept his hand over the room. "shall want to be associated with you. You shall be shamed and kicked out of society."

It would hurt Bianca's reputation as well —Race knew that much. He understood the insanity of the society they were forced to live in— but he would never, in a bid to protect his wife, protect her attacker. He would see Lord Wilson jailed and disgraced for what he did, and when the time was right, he would take his wife far away from here.

Mustering what was left of his self control, he turned from Lord Wilson and began heading for the doors.

"Then what?!" Lord Wilson's words stopped him dead in his tracks. "How shall a bastard, and his whore of a wife, convince all of England, that a respectable member of the society would stoop so low as to wanting anything to do with either of them?!"

Turning around slowly, "You shall see."

"No, you shall see, Race Belington!" Lord Wilson staggered to his feet. "I have witnesses all around me, here to testify that you attacked—"

"For what you did!" He roared, stomping his foot on the ground. "How dare you stand there and feign ignorance?!" The thought sent a violent wave of anger down his spine.

"Not only have you assaulted me, you have defamed my reputation! But do not think too much about it, Mr. Belington, surely the courts shall be wise enough to believe the words of a nobleman, over the words of the fruit of a Marquess' philanderin—"

The word had barely finished forming in Lord Wilson's mouth, and had barely reached Race's ears, when he began heading for Lord Wilson. He was in the center of the room, when something struck his shoulder, a loud sound exploding in his ears.

Glancing down, his eyes barely rested on the red substance, when something else struck him, covering his vision with darkness.

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