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He scrubbed his face and then pried his eyes open as sunlight poured into the room. Where was he?
But memories floated back. Gris. The carriage. Tea. Mirabelle.
The kiss came next and then the confession. Rage made his head throb all the more. Had she told him the name of the lady? He swung his feet over the side of the bed, ignoring the roll of his stomach as he grabbed his head with his hands once again. Blast, he was hungover.
A slip of paper on the floor caught his notice. It was a foot from the door. Leaning down, ignoring the pitch of his stomach, he picked it up and tried to focus on the words.
Lord Boxby,
We’re scheduledfor our tea today at two. Last night does not count. Shall we postpone until tomorrow? Will you be recovered by then?
Best,
Mirabelle
Shouldhe tell her that unwed ladies did not write notes to gentlemen? Not that he cared. He’d meant what he’d said to her last night. He liked all the ways she was different. She was fun and exciting. She had tenacity and yet balanced that with a sweetness that he found irresistible.
And he suddenly understood why Somersworth was so angry. He’d already known what Ken had just realized.
He more than liked Mirabelle. If he wasn’t mistaken, he loved her.
He’d fallen in love with a woman who was exactly different enough to fill all the places in his life that had been empty. And even more damning, he didn’t give a single care about what he might give up for that love. Freedom—who wished for that anyway? Drinking? Never again.
His head gave another painful throb as he noticed his coat on the foot of the bed. Reaching down, his fished in the pocket and pulled out his pocket watch.
Pressing the latch, he flipped it open, noting that it was half past twelve. That should be enough time.
Pushing off the bed, he stumbled toward the door. He couldn’t return home, but maybe Gris would allow him to borrow a fresh shirt…
Opening the door, he shuffled out of the room and found the back stairs, starting toward what he was certain was the kitchen.
The noise of several grown men caught his ears and he followed the sound, sure he’d find the Smith brothers.
They were gathered in the kitchen, Tris, Gris, Rush, and Fulton all eating and drinking what looked like black tar.
Gris spotted him and gave a salute. “You look like proper shit.”
Tris laughed. “Tied a good one back, did you?”
“My head feels like it’s been pummeled with a mallet.” Everyone laughed at that as Rush handed him a cup of black liquid.
“Coffee. It will help.”
His eyes squinted. “Coffee?”
“Fulton gets it when he travels. Stronger than tea, it will put hair on your chest for certain.”
“And you want that?” he asked, looking dubiously down at the liquid. He’d had coffee before, he just wasn’t certain if the strong brew would make him feel better or worse. He gave a sniff. It smelled decent enough, but after he took a sip, his nostrils flared as the bitter taste curled his tongue. Still, as the liquid slid down his throat, the heat of it lessened the ache.
Fulton stuffed a pork pastry into his hand. “Eat this.”
These men were adept at curing the effects of overindulgence. As he ate and drank, he felt better. So much so, that by the time he was done, he’d mustered himself enough to ask, “Does anyone have a fresh shirt I might use?”
The room quieted as they turned to look at him. “What for?” Rush asked, his head cocking to the side.
Ken lowered his cup. “Lady Mirabelle and I have an appointment for tea.”
The mood of the room promptly changed. Ken grimaced as he realized his mistake. There were four of them and only one of him. Worse, he wasn’t at his best and Mirabelle wasn’t here to defend him with her broom.
