Page 21 of Reckless Desire

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Bryson jolted awake. His mind muddled before he recognized the murky shadows of his bedchamber. What time was it? He started to roll onto his back, but halted when pain lanced through his neck. Bloody hell, he must have slept on his stomach all night.

“Forgive me, Lady Newhall, but his lordship is still abed.”

Was that his valet? Bryson’s mind snapped to attention. His mother was here in his home?

“This will not be the first time I have woken my son from sleep,” she replied. “John, stand aside.”

“You do not understand, my lady. It isn’t the waking him that is the difficulty, but that he is sleeping in the…”

“Nude?” she finished for him.

“Aye, my lady.”

She laughed. “I powdered and diapered that bottom, John. This will not be anything I have not seen before.”

The doorknob turned. Bryson groaned. The door opened. Skirts rustled and, a moment later, curtains swished and sunlight streamed into the room.

“I advise you to rise and cover yourself—else I will be forced to whip your bare bottom,” she said.

Bryson gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back. She stood beside the bed, eyes locked on his face.

“What time is it?” His head pounded.

“Seven-thirty,” she replied.

“Good God, seven-thirty on a Sunday morning?” His head thundered with the effort of speech. “Christ, Mother, what are you doing here?” And how much had he drunk last night to leave him feeling as if he’d been basted in whisky?

“I will be the one asking the questions,” she said. “What possessed you to engage in a sword fight with the Marquess of Wilshire at a party?”

“What?”

Memory of last night penetrated the murk in his brain. Miss Ramsay dancing with Viscount Hensley, Stirling’s alcove filled with suitors. Anger whipped through him anew. None of the stories his ancestors had told of falling in love had prepared him for the violence he’d experienced upon finding her in Wilshire’s arms.

His mother’s stare burned into him.

“I was drunk.”

She scoffed. “Of that, I have no doubt. I see by the haggard look in your eyes that you will pay for that indiscretion today.”

He wished mightily that a headache was the worst of his problems.

“That does not answer my question,” she said.

He frowned. “What question?”

“Why were you sword fighting? Pray,” she added before he could reply, “do not say that you were drunk. You simply cannot get drunk enough to engage in a sword fight. Besides, I heard your skills were superb, as usual.”

He would argue with her, but his head hurt too much. He threw the blanket back and swung his feet off the side of the bed.

“So, you do not sleep in the nude,” she remarked.

“Not last night,” he said.

“Who is she, Bryce?”

He kept his gaze on the carpet. “Who is who?”