Page 3 of When the Duke Met His Match

Theophilus stumbled down the street, his surroundings a blurry haze as he struggled to make his way home. His head felt like a lead weight, refusing to lift despite his efforts. His boots scraped along the pavement, his once steady gait reduced to a clumsy shuffle.

He couldn't feel his legs; his mind was a mishmash of jumbled thoughts. He wondered for a moment if he had any thoughts in there at all.

The warm presence of booze filtered through his system and blurred his vision. He hiccupped, stopping himself before he could empty the contents of his stomach with a fist pressed against his lips. He paused and let the feeling ebb before he continued.

Music from the gentlemen’s club reverberated in his mind like a ghost of the night he divulged. The band had played in the background while drinks and women were passed around with their wanton smiles, and giddy laughter surrounded him.

While Theophilus had relished in the debauchery, he wasn’t too fond of the journey home. Feeling the toss and turn of his stomach with every step he took, he couldn’t be certain if he’d make it there before his legs gave out and forced him to sleep on the street for the night.

Against all odds, the very house he desired to reach appeared before him, much to Theophilus’ relief. An amused sound left his lips as he climbed the steps, urging his feet to keep going.

Stumbling against the door, he reached for the knob and gave it a turn, but it didn’t open. Furrowing his brows in frustration, he tried again to no avail.

“Blasted door,” he muttered to himself. The night’s pleasure fizzled away as he grew more agitated while trying the doorknob.

With a solid push, the lock released with a click, and Theophilus dove inside along with the door, falling onto the rug that lined the foyer.

Blinking back his surprise, Theophilus stifled a laugh and tried to sit up. When he focused harder, he found his mother in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was twisted with disappointment.

“Have you no shame?” she demanded of him, offering a hand of support as he sat there like a disoriented child.

Theophilus mumbled to himself, still dazed and trying to piece together how he had ended up sprawled on the floor. He accepted his mother's gesture, her words barely registering in his mind as he struggled to regain his bearings. Everything felt hazy, like a dream that he couldn't quite shake.

She pulled him up with that unimpressed look stitched into her features, yet she still aided her son toward the kitchen. He swayed, but she made sure to keep him upright to save them both from another spill.

Even if she was often hard on him, his mother couldn’t find it within herself to shut him out completely or leave him to his messes. Regardless of the state he was in, she always gave him a hand. It wasn’t his intention to take advantage of a mother’s love for her son, yet he took the help all the same.

The room spun as Theophilus was moved to the kitchen and placed on one of the wooden chairs off to the side while his mother ordered the cook to brew a fresh coffee. He sat there and tried his hardest to process what exactly was happening. He had the feeling he should be wary of his mother’s reaction to his sloppy condition, yet with the drinks in his belly, Theophilus was numb to consequences.

After an uncertain amount of time went by, his mother handed him a teacup full of dark brown liquid that steamed vigorously. That familiar scent invaded his senses and brought him back down to earth.

“Here you are,” his mother murmured, her eyebrows knit together. She sat in the chair across from him and watched with a critical eye. “Now, drink it. It should sort you out.”

Theophilus brought the cup closer and peered into the coffee, just barely able to see his reflection in it. It wobbled and shook with the slight tremble of his hand, as disheveled and unruly as he felt at that moment.

Before he got seasick from gazing at it, he brought it to his lips and took a careful sip. It was bitter and scorching, burning down his throat. Yet Theophilus was thankful for it.

“That should about do it,” he slurred, putting a leg out to stand once more. After placing his cup down, he stood, but his legs had another idea entirely.

Losing his footing, Theophilus stumbled and watched as the floor drew closer, but his mother’s hands secured his arms before it could happen.

“For goodness sake,” his mother grumbled to herself. She was the only thing standing between her son and the cold stone floor.

Theophilus swayed, his stomach uneasy. He couldn’t decide if it was simply from the drinks or the impending scolding from his mother. He didn’t have the energy or mind to contemplate it much further.

Forced back into the chair once more, he received a pointed finger in his face.

“Sit and stay,” she began, leaning back in her chair more comfortably. “We need to talk.”

Theophilus dropped his chin to rest on his palm, leaning against the table. He blinked back at his mother slowly, his limbs seemingly made of butter. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped like a whip, quick enough to make Theophilus recoil in his chair. She took a sip from her coffee and eyed her son.

It felt like a long moment had passed while she studied him. Her lips formed a flat line—something she often did whenever her son thwarted her.

“Have you no shame?” she asked again, gaze cold and indifferent. “What would Harold say if he saw you in such a state?”

Dread trickled down Theophilus’ neck at the mention of his brother. A bitter laugh crept past his lips. He spoke against the side of his cup. “He can’t anymore. He’s dead, remember?”