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His eyes fluttered closed. “My father,” he said on a deep inhale. “I killed him.”
Chastity staggered back and sunk onto the chair as his breathing deepened and snoring filled the room. Good God, was she in the bedroom of a murderer? And why was she not leaving immediately?
∞∞∞
When had he swallowed a mouthful of sand? Valentine smacked his lips together and ran his tongue over dry teeth, grimacing at the gritty feel of them. He rolled onto his side, eyes still shut, and winced when his head gave a thud in response.
He inched open an eye, blew out a breath so scented with stale alcohol that even he could smell it, and noted the closed curtains and dim light of the room. The night had not yet turned to morn thankfully. Plenty of hours left to sleep off his over-indulgence.
But first he needed water.
He scratched his bare chest. Better than last year. At least he had managed to peel off some of his clothing, though he noted his pantaloons were still in place.
Tossing a leg over the side of the bed, he took a breath and sat up. He groaned and put a hand to his skull when it gave an agonizing thud of protest at all the movement.
“Oh!”
He swiveled his head around so quickly his stomach rolled, nausea burning up his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared at the shadowy outline of Chastity, his focus not only hindered by the darkness of the room but by the alcohol still swimming around his body.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, voice gruff.
“You wanted me to stay.” She put a hand to the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders.
“Nonsense,” he grumbled, rising slowly to the washstand and the jug of water that he could just make out now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.
“You practically begged me to.”
“Well you may go now.” He fumbled to grab the jug and put the cool porcelain to his mouth, tipping it back and back. Blast. He cast the jug aside. “No water,” he muttered.
“I can go and fetch you some.” She rose from the chair and straightened her skirts, then came around the bed to take the jug.
Valentine sank onto the welcoming softness of the mattress, his fists pressed into the sheets, and closed his eyes. “If you do not mind,” he said reluctantly, eyes still closed. The last thing he wanted was her serving him but the thought of hauling his aching head to the kitchen made his stomach churn.
“But first you must tell me about last night.”
He snapped his eyes open. She clasped the jug to her chest. “What happened last night?” He widened his eyes. “Dear God, we did not—”
“You were so drunk you could scarcely stand.”
“Ah.”
“I have scarcely seen you touch a drop of alcohol so why did you imbibe so much last night?”
“In case you had not noticed, I am rather suffering. Perhaps we may have this conversation another time.” Or preferably, never.
“You want water, you must give me answers.”
He let his scowl deepen. “Why should you care?”
“Well, I—” She gestured to him. “I had to carry you to bed and help with your shirt. Surely I deserve an explanation?”
“Mrs. Cooke should have told you to stay away from me.” He pressed fingers to the side of his head in a bid to ease the dull throb there.
“I wondered where everyone was.” She set the jug down and he eyed it mournfully. He was never going to get a drink of water. “You said something about your father.”
Bloody well damn it all to hell.
He waved a hand. “The ramblings of a drunkard.”
