“Here. Eat a few bites of bread. Small bites at first. See if that helps.” Isabella passed him a small loaf of fresh bread with a hunk already missing.
Tearing off a small piece, he attempted a bite. His stomach stayed still, so he nibbled on another. A fresh pot of tea was brought in and poured for them both. He added milk and sugar and sipped. Feeling a mite stronger, he picked up his spoon.
Apparently, she’d been watching him as he took stock. She said in a softer voice, “No one here will care if you dip the bread in the soup to start. You need sustenance to get you past the effects of drinking so much for so long.”
Flashing her a grateful look, he did as she suggested. Ah, that was delicious, and without the threat of liquid sloshing in his belly, he was able to enjoy the scent and taste.
Still, after two pieces of bread and half the soup—all the tea, of course—he was less certain of his stomach.
“I must be ill. I haven’t felt this puny in months.”
She laughed at him.
He watched her, his eyes narrowed.
She wasn’t just laughing. She was practically pointing and giggling. Every time she looked at him, her mirth ratcheted in volume.
“’Tis impolite to laugh at a guest,” he grumbled. “Particularly a sick one.”
She only laughed harder.
Finally, she calmed. “Do you think a splash of whisky might help, then?”
He brightened. “It absolutely would.”
“And that”—her tone was smug—“is why I said you were dependent. Your body is struggling with the removal of that from your diet. You’ll feel like this for the better part of a week, to my guess.”
His frown at her first sentence changed to a grimace at that prediction. “Wait. Upstairs, you said a few days.”
She shrugged. “It will depend on your body and your resolve.”
What resolve? He’d never been less certain of anything, and he rarely had to decide anything, even what to eat or wear. And shouldn’t he wean himself off slowly, having small amounts of whisky to maintain his equilibrium? No, he was supposed to trust her. Using the bread for the soup had helped disguise his trembling hands, but he could not eat any more. He needed a distraction.
“Perhaps you could suggest a way to take my mind off this? A game—no betting? Or a task you’d like me to take on?”
She leaned forward to stare at him, holding the table’s edge in both hands. “Luke, Icoulddo either of those things. And continue to do so. However, that will not solve your problem. You need to take control of your own life. Otherwise, you’ll end up even deeper in debt and drunker than ever within a week of leaving here. Did you think about a new purpose today?”
“My father never loosened the reins enough to allow me to do any of the things you mentioned earlier. Or much of anything, really. Anyhow, it all sounds a bit of a bore.” He waved a hand, pretending boredom and hoping she didn’t notice his fear. He had no idea what might interest him; he’d been too busy defending himself against his father’s expectations to ever spend much time considering his own interests.
“What would you rather do then?”
“Perhaps a game of whist?”
“I am not here to entertain you. What would you do at home?”
“Besides the obvious?”
She sighed. “We are talking about replacing old habits with new ones. Now, I have things to do. I will see you in the morning.”
She stood and left. It was probably for the best. He did not think he could concentrate on cards or even remain upright much longer. Perhaps the next day would be better.
Chapter Seven
Belle woke toa muted crash. Leaping out of bed, she threw on her wrapper and slid her feet into slippers. On her way out of her bedroom, she swiped the iron poker from the hearth.
The sound had seemed to come from directly below her. She ran downstairs, thankful for the runner keeping her footfalls quiet, then slowed as she approached the kitchen door. Going on tiptoe to avoid the heels of her slippers announcing her presence, she crept closer to the foot-wide opening where the door stood ajar.
“Blast,” Luke’s voice muttered in between quiet clanks.
