Page 10 of Earl Crazy
That turned out to be a mistake, however, because as soon as he was upright, dizziness swamped him. His head felt as if it had met the sharp end of a fireplace poker. “God above. What did you hit me with?”
“Me?” She blinked innocently at him, a pair of long lashes falling over her dark eyes. “I never hit you.”
“Well, someone bloody did.” It hurt like the devil, too. He reached up to assess the damage, wincing. His hair was sticky, and his hand came away red with blood.
“Doubtless, they did.” She shrugged, as it made perfect sense to her that someone would want to bludgeon him. “Either that, or you fell down the stairs and struck your head on the ground. Don’t you remember anything?”
He rested his back against the step behind him, and lifted the edge of his shirt to his nose, taking a cautious sniff. No, he hadn’t imagined the absinthe. “I remember you dousing me with absinthe.”
She bit her lip. “Yes, that was, ah, perhaps not the best solution. As I said, I thought it was sherry. I did try to rouse you, but you refused to wake, and I had to do something. I couldn’t just leave you here.”
“You have no knowledge of how I happened to end up here?” The answer was hovering just on the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn’t quite reach it.
“It’s hardly a mystery.” She sniffed. “Alas, the truth is nowhere near as exciting as a female villain come to murder you. That would have been a much better story than your drinking too much port, falling down the stairs and hitting your head.”
Port? No, he hadn’t…oh, wait. Yes, he had. It all came flooding back to him, then.
He’d followed Darby and Fanny to the door, but he’d been struck by a bout of dizziness before he could get back inside. Pathetic, really, and uncomfortably reminiscent of the man he’d been when he’d last been in London.
Had it really only been a single year? He’d been happy enough to spend every night in a drunken stupor before Freddy’s death, but with one shot from a pistol, everything had changed.
It seemed as if he’d lived a dozen lives since then.
One day. He’d been back in London forone day, and he’d already broken the only promise he’d made to himself. A single day, and it looked as if he’d have done much better to remain in the country.
Perhaps Darby was right— perhaps people didn’t change, and this was all a waste of time. But the season was underway, and his promised bride awaited. If history had taught him nothing else, it had proven beyond any doubt that Fate didn’t look kindly upon Earls of Prestwick who lived lives of shameless debauchery.
God, poor Freddy—
“You’re a bit bloody, I’m afraid. I think we’d better get you inside.” She clambered to her feet, and held her hand out to him. “Here, take my hand, and I’ll help you up.”
“How do you propose to do that?” His vision had cleared, and though she was still lost in shadows, he could see well enough to discern a slight, slender figure. “You’re too small to support me. I’ll send us both sprawling.”
“Nonsense. I’m much sturdier than I look.”
He didn’t like it, but he’d pensioned off all the servants after Freddy had been… well,after— and he’d sent his valet to bed hours ago. Unless he fancied spending the night in the garden, he’d have to accept her assistance.
“Alright.” He caught her hand— a worryingly small, dainty hand —taking care to bear as much of his own weight as he could manage, but his legs weren’t quite steady. She staggered a bit before she got her balance, but slowly they made their way up the steps.
He stopped when they reached the top. “Perhaps you’d better let me go now, and go back to…” Wherever it was she’d come from.
“No, indeed. You’re staggering as it is. If I let go, you’ll only fall down the stairs again. Stop fussing, for pity’s sake, and let me help you inside.”
Overbearing chit. Still, he didn’t fancy another tumble, and he didn’t trust himself to remain upright. He clung to the railing as they shuffled up the stairs, one slow, cautious step at a time, both of them panting when they reached the top.
“Which way is it?”
He glanced down at his companion— or was she his savior? He hadn’t quite made up his mind what to make of her—who was sagging under his weight, and making a valiant attempt to hide it.
It didn’t seem wise to tempt fate by a journey up the long, curving staircase to his bedchamber on the second floor, so he nodded toward the corridor on the right. “My study. It’s the last door on the right.”
She drew in a breath, straightening her shoulders, and together they hobbled from the entryway down the corridor to his study. The door stood open, and she led him to a settee on one side of the fireplace. The fire was still burning in the grate, and a good bloody thing, too, as his shirt was wet, and clinging damply to his chest.
Once they were there, she wasted no time in dumping him unceremoniously onto the settee. “This settee looks dreadfully uncomfortable, but it’s better than the floor. My goodness, where did all this broken glass come from?”
Oh yes, he’d forgotten. His study floor was an ocean of shattered crystal. “Apparently there was, ah…a bit of a fencing bout earlier in the evening.”
“Fencing?” Her eyebrows rose. “In yourstudy?”
