“I will let the Messrs. Augustine know,” Andrews replied. “Is there anything else you would like, Your Grace?”
“A new set of stationery, monogrammed with my new initials, and plain journals,” she said after a moment.
I have the feeling that I will need to write down my thoughts, or I may go insane!
“Of course, Your Grace,” Andrews bowed. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Yes,” she began, “but then, I was distracted, rightfully so, by His Grace planning to destroy books—” she wrinkled her nose, “—such a heathen. I will be in the library whilst you arrange the books in my new parlor.”
Heading off to her rooms, Cecilia took the copy ofCeciliaand her pencil, then, in the cavernous library, found a seat near a window and curled into a ball with the book on her knees.
Spinning the book open, she tried to delve into the witty repertoire—but the lucid imagery of Cassian, half-naked, looking very much like sin personified, sprang up to the forefront of her mind.
Covering her eyes, she took in a series of steadying breaths. “It does not matter what my first impression of him was. He is a troglodyte and a hedonist. He is not a good person…”
If only she could make herself truly believe it.
The dull throb of pain in his temples and the back of his head from imbibing strong alcohol was familiar yet unwelcome.
It was even more unwelcome because that little hoyden had flooded his room with sunlight, stabbing his eyes with the sun’s heated lances, damn nearly liquefying his brain.
The need to use the necessary had him shucking the sheets, dragging on his robe, and padding to the washroom. Finished, he washed his hands, then splashed his face with another pail of cold water.
Bracing his hand on the edge of the ceramic bowl, he hunched over. “When did I get so weak that a mouthful of rum has taken my legs out from under me?”
In the past, he had drunk himself into oblivion more times than he could count, yet he’d always woken up with only a simple stomachache.
Cassian was not proud to add that some of those escapades had been paired with a wicked bacchanalian.
Returning to his room, he slipped on drawers and loose trousers, just as a knock came at his door.
“Enter!” he called out.
Andrews pushed the door in, but a large, shaggy canine mass with a massive square-jawed head and long limbs darted between his legs and raced to Cassian.
His mood brightened instantly at the sight of one of his faithful hounds. “Hullo, Cerberus.”
“I assumed you would need this, Your Grace,” Andrews handed him a glass that Cassian already knew held his butler’s infamous family cure for drunkenness.
Taking the cup, Cassian drank the sludge in three large gulps and grimaced at the aftertaste. “What in God's name do you putin that thing?” He swallowed thickly. “It seems to taste worse every time you make it.”
“Yet it works,” his butler smiled faintly with pride.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he rubbed his dog's face, “Do you want some exercise, boy?”
“Should I start your bath, Your Grace?” Andrews asked.
“Not now,” Cassian replied, as he felt the pounding in his head start to lessen. He had to reluctantly agree that, as horrible as Andrew’s cure for overindulgence was, it worked and quickly, too. “I do not see the sense of washing before I sweat through my clothes.
“Please prepare some coffee for me,” he said instead.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Andrews replied.
“Before you go, have you formed an opinion of my new wife?” Cassian asked. “And yes, you can speak freely.”
“I believe she is smart, quick-witted, spirited, and solidly an academic,” Andrews answered openly.
Snorting, Cassian replied, “That is a very delicate way of saying a bluestocking and a hoyden. But thank you for your honesty.”
