Page 77 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Please send my things after me,” Maria said, supporting Kersey as they made their way out the door.

“There was no dissuading her,” Jane remarked to Nash as they headed toward the drawing room. “She wouldn’t even change into proper attire. What the servants at Kersey’s London town house will think of her, I shudder to think.”

“She is infatuated with Kersey?”

“Something more serious than that, I suspect.” Jane shook her head. “I won’t talk out of turn, but I believe Maria will shortly become the next Countess of Kersey.”

“Then I pity her.” Nash clenched his fist, wishing he could pummel the cad again. “I sent for Charlotte’s maid. If you would look in on her as well, I would be grateful.”

“Of course. I’ll go now.” She stepped away from the doorway. “Will you wait for word of her?”

“I’ll be in the library.” He wanted to avoid questions from the rest of the company and God knew he could use a drink. He’d scarcely poured a good three fingers’ worth of whiskey when Jane appeared.

“She’s asleep. I believe she had a quantity of drink earlier.” Jane looked pointedly at the glass in his hand. “I didn’t try to waken her.”

He clenched his hand around the tumbler and downed the lot. Damn. He longed to know if he’d rescued her before Kersey had . . . He refused to finish the thought. Weariness hit like a wave crashing over him, drowning him with the aftereffects of the fight. Now all he wanted was his own bed and a dreamless night. “Then I’m for home. If you would please send me word in the morning, as soon as she is stirring.” He sighed, unwilling to say more. “To let me know how she fares.”

“I will, Nash. Thank you.” Jane raised herself on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you, Jane.” He bowed, then turned on his heel and hurried to the entry hall to find Fisk and ask for his carriage. Worry over Charlotte would not abate until he had spoken to her himself, and even that interview might not put his heart at ease.

Chapter 27

Tick, tick, tick.

The sharp noise sounded in Charlotte’s ear with annoying regularity. What the devil was booming like a drum? The ticking continued. Was it the clock over on the mantelpiece? Why on earth did it sound so loud? She twisted on her side to get away from it.

“Owww.” Blinding pain as her head exploded with searing streaks of white. Her own moans hurt her ears. She choked them back to a whimper and lay perfectly still. Her stomach protested as well, rolling alarmingly. A burp erupted, filling her mouth with the pungent taste of brandy.

Oh Lord, let me die.

She cracked an eyelid open a slit. The curtains had been pulled around the bed on the far side and the foot, cloaking her in semidarkness. On her side they remained open, as they had last night when . . .

Alan.

Charlotte started up in the bed, twisting toward the door.

“Ahhhhh!” Her scream added scarcely at all to the excruciating pain that shot through her head, wiping away everything else. She grasped her head, pressing it firmly between her hands to prevent it from exploding. Several slow breaths and the stabbing torment receded into a dull ache. Her stomach roiled. Casting up her accounts seemed eminent.

Gingerly, she slid inch by inch over to the edge of the mattress. The handle of the chamber pot poked out from beneath the bed. Too far away. Any downward movement would surely be disastrous. She eased herself onto her back, praying she would settle. How on earth did men drink so much and then act as if nothing was wrong the next day? It wasn’t fair.

How much had she drunk? Through the throbbing in her head, a clear image formed of pouring a glass downstairs. One brandy wouldn’t have done this, surely? She’d been upset over Maria’s predicament, which explained the need to steady her nerves. She must have had several.

An image of Alan’s face surfaced. The pounding in her head increased. His body on top of her. Then suffocating darkness. What had the blackguard done to her? Slowly, she shifted on the sheets, trying out her muscles. Looking for soreness where there should be none. Unfortunately, everything hurt.

The door opened and closed with a quiet click. Charlotte dragged her eyelids open, dreading to see anyone.

Jane, a worried frown on her face, tiptoed to the bedside. “Are you awake, dearest?”

Her voice, even low-pitched, created an agony in Charlotte’s head.

Her cousin made a tsking sound and eased onto the bed.

The dip jostled Charlotte’s stomach unmercifully.

“It’s almost two o’clock, my dear. The company is assembled for the tour of the estate. I assume I am to give your regrets?” Jane’s mouth puckered, but she said no more.

A fiend in cousin’s clothing. Charlotte stared at her. If ill will were tangible, Jane would be flattened on the spot. The glare would have to do; it was the only action she could summon and hope to escape the long-expected casting up of accounts.