“And that is good enough for you? Living off an allowance like a schoolboy”—he flinched at that phrase, but she continued undaunted—“and wallowing in luxury and gads of time with no purpose?”
He bit his lip, craving a whisky for this conversation. It hit too close to William’s words from the prior day. “What would you have me do?”
“Look at your friend William. Or Charlotte. They both find productive uses for their time.”
Speak of the devil and his lovely widow. He had never given a thought to what she did with her days while William waded through his father’s mess. His friend likely would have told him, but he’d spent less time with him since leaving Oxford, even after William matriculated and returned to London. He could say that was because William was wooing Charlotte, but muchof it was because William reminded him of his failings, both at university and at life. “What does Charlotte do?”
“She teaches working class women to pool their funds and invest any savings they can scrape together, so they can retire someday.”
“Oh,” he said. To deflect, he turned her words back on her. “What do you do, then?”
“I, too, invest and thus have money I need to manage with my solicitor. More than that, when my time allows, I help younger courtesans find their way on this path.”
His head hurt too much to even try to untangle that or ask her for more details. He just needed a nip to clear the cobwebs from his brain and settle his nerves. His gaze slid to the empty decanter. His hands were starting to shake, and he clenched them in his lap. Whether it was from lack of food or the evidence of all spirits having been removed, he neither knew nor cared to dwell on. His thoughts were fuzzy, and a whisky would go a long way to clearing them, even if it wasn’t quite noon. His stomach somersaulted.
Isabella continued assessing him, distaste evident in the sneer she wore. “Perhaps you’ll think of something today. Or perhaps you’ll remain satisfied being a slag. I, however, need to continue being productive, including canceling my appointments for the rest of this week, thanks to you. I shall be in my private sitting room upstairs. The servants are available should you require sustenance, but they’ve been instructed not to allow you to leave or send notes. You’ll have to earn privileges with good behavior. Also, the house has been cleared of all wine and spirits, so don’t bother searching. I’ll check in on you later.” She stood and swept out of the room.
Luke looked around. He guessed based on what he’d seen of the house and the neighborhood that the building was smallenough to have this back parlor serve as the library. Further evidence of that guess was the wall of filled bookcases.
Wandering over, he ran a listless hand along a few spines before selecting a book at random. As he had no shoes on, he lay back on the settee with his stocking feet hanging off the edge and opened the book. His goal was to sleep as much of the day as possible, given how his head and stomach felt, and five pages later he achieved that.
Late in theafternoon, Luke woke groaning. His clothes were drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to him, and yet he shivered uncontrollably.
He sat up, then groaned as his stomach tried to revolt. Curling over his lap, he sat very still, taking shallow breaths.
After a while, he straightened an inch at a time and moved to stand up. Slowly. He crept over to the decanter. Desperate, he squinted into it, searching for even a few drops. It was bone dry. He wanted to scream, to cry, to throw himself on the floor in a tantrum. Well, perhaps not that last, or his stomach might rebel. His mind raced.
The kitchen might have sherry or wine they cooked with. Perhaps he could find it without the staff seeing him and reporting to Isabella. He clenched his teeth against the shudders rattling his body, unsure if he could wait until the household was abed.
The jacket he’d worn had a flask in it. If he could make it up to his room. Keeping his movements slow and smooth to pacify his stomach, he reached the stairs. Peering up, he firmed his lips and raised a foot. Then another, pausing every few steps until he’d gained the upper floor. A few steps into his room,and he looked for his jacket. Checking the wardrobe, he found it hanging and freshly pressed.
The maid had certainly taken the flask to her employer, but he nonetheless checked the pockets, panting at the imagined taste of even the dregs of whisky from it.
Blast. There was nothing.
She said she’d be in her private sitting room, which was somewhere on this floor. He dragged himself back into the hall and noted the three other doors. The front room’s portal was open, showing him another guest room, this one in pale greens and blues that might make him seasick. Turning, he knocked at the door next to his.
A maid answered his knock. “My lord?”
Taking a breath, he held the doorframe with one hand as the shivering became quaking. Peering in, his gaze circled the room, finding an empty pedestal leather top desk, two wingback chairs patterned in caramel-colored paisleys by the fireplace, and a table—a bottle of sherry!
Closing his eyes, he strategized as best he could beyond the pounding headache and nausea. “Isabella, your mistress, was looking for you. She is downstairs in the back parlor.”
“Oh. I thought she...” The girl trailed off, frowning, and looked toward a door in the side wall, which Luke guessed led to Isabella’s bedroom. “Right, then. If you’ll pardon me.”
He retreated, and she stepped past him, closed the door, and started down the steps. He ambled toward his bedroom, checking on her progress until she was out of sight. Spinning around, he groaned and leaned against the wall, fighting his belly’s wish to purge.
He snicked open the sitting room door. Still empty. Closing it behind him, he beelined for the sherry. He poured a glass with hands that shook hard enough to warrant not filling the cup to the top. Raising it to his mouth required his free hand onhis wrist to help steady it. He took a huge gulp. Breathing, he checked on how it was received. He still shook, and his belly still wasn’t happy, but there wasn’t an outright revolt. He raised the glass again, sucking in a mouthful—
“What do you think you are doing?” Isabella’s voice was a whip.
Choking, he lost most of his mouthful to his shirt and waistcoat. Brushing at it with one hand, he said, “I just needed a nip to stop shaking. Christ, woman, you’re a menace. Look what you made me do.”
She stalked across the room, having changed to a Tyrian purple gown for the evening meal.
Luke abandoned any worries about his clothes and raised the glass, chugging as much of the sherry as he could get down before she reached him and grabbed it away.
“Damnation. Apparently, ’tis too much to ask that I am able to enjoy my one vice of a sherry before bed with you in my house for more than a fortnight!”
