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Chapter Three
May 6, 1819
When Percival woke the next afternoon, his head pounded, and his stomach felt as if he were on a wildly pitching ship. He groaned, but that didn’t alleviate the symptoms he recognized far too well. For a moment, he lay on the floor in order to find his bearings. His mouth tasted like old, stained cotton while his cheek pressed against the Oriental carpet of his bedchamber.
What the devil happened to him?
With another groan, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. A blanket fell from his body. Seemingly every muscle in his body ached. The scrape of his prick over the carpet threads sent sluggish sensation along his skin. Why the hell were his privates out and on display?
Snatches of memories returned. Why had he imbibed so much with his friends? The night had grown maudlin. Which had led to drinking. I need to stop that. He stared at the pattern of the carpeting with blurry eyes. There’d been a clergyman for whatever reason. He’d talked with his mistress on a garbled topic, but why had she been here in this house? At no time did he ever bring her home, for he didn’t wish for his daughter to interact with her. As his head continued to pound, another memory assailed him. Damn. He’d taken Nia from behind. That made no sense. Her body was too lush and lovely not to enjoy it, but that explained the mess of his frontfalls.
Oh, God.
Cold foreboding hurtled down his spine as he struggled to his feet. The sour stench of vomit assailed his nostrils, and with a frown, he glanced down at himself. The evidence of his stomach upset clung to his clothing. He must have retched during the night, but not violently enough to wake him from his stupor.
A niggle of memory surfaced stronger than the others from the murk still clinging to his brain. Had he truly married last night? I thought that wasn’t scheduled until today? Or rather earlier this morning? Rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes, he glanced at the carriage-style clock on the mantle.
Shit. One o’clock. His nuptial ceremony had been for eleven. However, if he had wed last night, then there was nothing to worry about.
With a frown, he peered at the bed. It was empty and the coverlet with nary a wrinkle. Where had Lady Eleanor gone? Had they not consummated the union? Yet he distinctly remembered taking someone to bed…
Nia? He’d fucked his mistress instead of Lady Eleanor? That made absolutely no sense.
Despite feeling as if he’d been run over by a post coach, Percival staggered to the wash basin behind the privacy screen at one side of the room; he shed clothing as he went. What exactly had he done last night and why had no one talked him out of it?
Damn friends.
Midway through washing his face and chest, he dry-heaved, for the pain in his head was incredible. How much had he drunk?
“Are you quite well, Your Lordship?” Forrester, his long-time valet, asked as he came into the room.
Percival grunted. “Apart from the worst hangover I’ve had in a long while?” He relieved himself in the enamel chamber pot then as his stomach heaved sharply, he retched into the vessel. “Bloody hell.” After wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he returned to the washbasin and pressed a wet rag to his mouth. The coolness was most welcome.
“I meant more of a general well-being, after the surprising events of last night.” Amusement rang in the man’s voice.
Ah, here was a chance to discern how deep he’d fallen into the muck. “Meaning?” Percival began the arduous process of giving himself a quick cleaning. Unfortunately, there was no time for a bath, and if Lady Eleanor was waiting belowstairs, he was already on borrowed time.
“You married your mistress, Your Lordship.” A note of censure threaded through the announcement. “And you missed your customary breakfast with your daughter.”
Well, fuck. Percival peered into the mirror hanging over the basin. His eyes were bloodshot, whiskers covered his cheeks and jaws—the sprinkled grays more prominent today—his hair was in hopeless disarray. To say nothing of his skin that appeared a shade paler.
In short, he looked like death, and felt like it too.
“I shall visit my daughter as soon as I’m properly dressed.”
“And your wife?”
His stomach heaved again, but a spate of swallows staved off retching. “I will talk with her as well. Where is she?” He dumped a good amount of powder on the bristles of his toothbrush and then set out to banish the foul tastes from his mouth.
Truly, I need to learn how to stop drinking.
“The last time I checked, she was conducting meetings with various members of your staff. Her staff, I should amend now that you and she are wed.”
Percival didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to brush his teeth. At the moment, his wife wasn’t the biggest of his concerns. He spat into the basin. “Where is Lady Eleanor?”
“I couldn’t venture to say after news of last night’s debacle got ‘round.”
Wonderful. “Was she even here in the past four and twenty hours?”
