She had not anticipated so many questions though she could not blame him. “Anna.”
“The lady who is… already here?” Laurence tilted his head.
“Yes. Her. She is closer to our other friends,” was the only explanation Matilda gave. “Will you tell him for me?”
She braced for the valet’s next question, expecting something like,Can you not tell him yourself? He is unlikely to mind being awoken for such… strange news.Instead, Laurence dipped his head in his usual fashion and asked, “Would you like me to bring you anything for the journey? The cook is still awake.”
“That is kind, thank you, but no,” Matilda replied, relieved. “I really must be going.”
Laurence kept his head dipped. “Of course, Your Grace. May you have a safe journey. The household will look forward to your return.”
Before her stubborn nerves could get the better of her, Matilda offered her thanks and half-ran back to the waiting carriage. There, she sat panting on the squabs as if she had just completed a marathon, gripping the fabric of her skirts as the driver urged the horses onward, pulling away from the manor.
She did not look back. She did not dare.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Albion woke late in the brandy-soaked haze of his study, his mouth dry, his eyes filled with the invisible sand that had sucked all moisture from his throat and tongue, his head so tender that even the slightest movement made it pound afresh.
Two-thirds of a decanterwas the answer to last night’s question of how much liquor it would take to make him forget the hurt on Matilda’s face and the venom in her voice as she had called him “coward.”
Then again, he was not certain that blacking out counted as forgetting, for the memory was still there when he had opened his eyes; it just pained him more, alongside his physical suffering.
“Can a man die from this?” he muttered.
He would have asked Matilda, but he doubted she would want to speak to him today. He would give her space away from him until tomorrow, so they could both collect their thoughts. Anna would keep her distracted. His aching head would keephimcompany.
Rubbing his temples, he glanced at the low table that stood in front of the settee where he had collapsed last night. A tea tray was set out, the spout of the teapot miraculously breathing wisps of steam into the foul air. Beside it, a plate with toast and butter.
He reached out to touch the toast—still warm.
“What in the sorcery?” he whispered, forcing himself to sit up.
His stomach lurched, and hunched over, he stilled with his head in his hands until the sensation subsided. The last time he had felt this awful, he had won a battle the day before. The feeling was altogether more miserable knowing he had lost a battle and possibly the war too.
“Tea… Tea will fix me,” he told himself, pouring with shaky hands.
He vowed to give his prize stallion to the valet when he next saw him for taking care of him in such a discreet, thoughtful fashion. Maybe, this was the very reasonwhygentlemen had valets: to anticipate their needs and to subtly sympathize with their monumental suffering after a night of heavy drinking.
Clasping the cup in both hands, though it looked tiny between his huge palms, he inhaled the soothing steam. If heavenly ambrosia had a scent, this was it: freshly brewed tea.
He sipped and cursed, burning his tongue.
The second sip, however, was pure bliss.
He relaxed back into the settee, listening to the noise of the household: maids sweeping and polishing, the gardener clipping flowers outside, the butler barking orders to the footmen, and the housekeeper’s chatelaine clinking as she walked through the halls, making sure everything was in order.
Personally, he would never understand why any house needed so many servants, but he supposed the manor would have been a very empty, unwelcoming place without the bustle of a full complement going about their daily business.
He finished his cup of tea and poured another, his throat grateful for the moisture. And when he was done, he devoured the butter and toast before washing it down with a third cup of tea.
By some magic, he began to feel better as he set the cup down and dusted crumbs from his thighs. His head still thudded as if there was a tiny man with a mallet inside his skull, whacking the bone walls with wild abandon, but the jolts were not so fierce anymore. His stiff back felt looser, his stomach calmer, and as he made to stand, everything felt lighter.
I can’t be the coward she said I was,he considered, rubbing his eyes to try and clear the blur of his brandy sickness.No, better to face this head-on. It will be worse if I let it fester. At the very least, I should tell her how I really feel.
He made his way to the study door, stumbling into the table, swaying into the narrow counter where the treacherous brandy was kept, bashing his knee against the side of his desk, surprised by how unsteady he was on his feet. Perhaps, he was still somewhat drunk which was no great shock considering how much he had imbibed.
He blinked rapidly against the glaze that smeared his eyes, fumbling for the door handle. He could see the shape of it, knew where it was, but his hand would not cooperate. After his knuckles had grazed it at least five times, his fingers curled around the handle and turned.
