Chapter Eight

B y eight o’clock, Luke was awake, albeit miserable. Once again, he was a sweaty mess. This morning brought the addition of occasional head-to-toe shivers, and he could still feel every heartbeat stabbing a knife into his head. His thoughts were consumed with whisky. Well, and Isabella in that red silk ensemble.

Despite his mental appreciation for her appeal, his body was not interested. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a rousing round of sex? Or even a mediocre one? Blast, he was a young man, he should be engaging a wench a night or more. That thought should be motivation enough for him to straighten out his life, but the lure of whisky was more powerful.

And cor, he needed forty winks. Never mind that he’d just risen or that he’d slept more in the last day and a half than he normally did in half a week. Fatigue dragged at him. Worse, he faced another day with no purpose and no idea what to do about it.

Sitting up, he peered over the edge of the bed. Isabella was not there. Of course she wasn’t. She had a purpose. Scowling, he checked his wrist. His tether had been removed, so he made his way back to the room he’d used the first night.

A bath waited for him, buckets of water keeping warm on the hearth. Ringing for a servant, he stripped and sank into it, shivering despite the fire’s heat. He bathed and dressed with help, feeling ever more idiotic for needing the assistance due to shaking hands.

Whoever had fetched his clothes from his house had not brought shoes. Although, at the moment, it wouldn’t have mattered. Luke was incapable of venturing outside, much less finding his way home.

He padded downstairs in stocking feet in search of tea.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Isabella’s voice drummed in his head. He swore she was being deliberately loud. “Come have tea. How do you feel?”

“Like a four-horse carriage ran me over. Twice.”

“Well, you at least look a teeny bit better than yesterday. Come in here.” She turned into the dining room.

Luke tensed, craving tea almost as much as whisky, but fearing the smells, given his stomach’s continued missishness. He took one step into the doorway, followed by one more inside the room. There was no cooked breakfast laid out, only toast and a loaf cake on the table with the tea set. Sighing in relief, he crossed to sit.

“Here. Try a small piece. You needn’t eat it if you don’t like it, but I do think it will settle your stomach. Charlotte introduced me to a bakery that makes the best ginger cake I’ve ever had.”

He poured tea first and took a fortifying gulp. Reaching for his fork, he broke off a piece of cake and brought it to his mouth. His stomach did not protest. Ginger and flour and sugar and... cinnamon? So many flavors burst on his tongue, but all somehow still soothed. He moaned.

She closed her eyes on a long blink at his overt enjoyment.

He gave her a wan smile and ate another small bite. So far, so good. Wanting to take his mind off his ailments, he asked, “I seem to recall you were discussing a prospective husband with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. So... ehm... are you still in the same line of work?”

She’d informed him of her vocation in that fateful carriage ride from Charlotte’s house.

“You mean catering to wealthy lords’ wishes?”

“Ah, yes.” She had a diplomatic way of wording it, but she probably needed to.

“I was hoping to retire, but it seems I have one more to indulge,” she replied with a raised brow.

His shoulders drooped. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

“I was teasing you,” she said. “I am retired, though. Unlike some in my trade, I do not wish to marry for power or connections. I want companionship and a family.”

Although surprised she was sharing these details with him, he dared not voice that sentiment. Indeed, the entire conversation and all of his questions were beyond the pale for a polite conversation. However, as it kept his mind off his physical misery, he pursued the subject. “What if you do not find someone to suit?”

“Then I suppose I’ll continue on. I have no need of the funds, but I enjoy having a partner, both at home and at social events.”

Luke knew that most benefactors rented houses for their mistresses. But as she seemed to be wealthy enough to retire even without marriage, he wondered. “Whose house is this, then? Yours?”

She nodded with a proud smile.

“’Tis lovely.” He looked around, unable to imagine how he’d earn enough to afford a house such as this. He had no real skills.

Morose again, he hung his head.

“Is the cake not sitting well?” she asked, her hand hovering over the toast rack.

“No, ’tis fine.” He waved it off. “I am frustrated and feel like a clump of muddy straw. You say I need a purpose, but I cannot even piece enough thoughts together to fathom what one might be. Then I look around and you—without all the privileges I had—accomplished all this. What is wrong with me? I fail at everything. Even life. You should have just left me. I don’t know what Mrs. Dove-Lyon was thinking.”

She frowned. “I dislike entitled young men wallowing in self-pity. However, I’m trying to suspend my disgust to understand where this came from. How did you end up like this? What happened to you?”

“Yes, yes, the poor little earl’s son. I simply cannot seem to do anything right.” For the first time, he wished for one success, one right to brag. To impress this self-made woman who he found so attractive. It wasn’t the best reason to want to improve, but perhaps it could be a start, especially if she helped him.

“Says who?”

“My father.”

“What of your mother?”

“My mother died when I was twelve,” he said, his lips twisting at the memory. Her absence had changed everything.

“When was the last time you succeeded at something?”

His brows raised at the barrage of questions becoming ever more probing. Apparently, they were both abandoning society rules on conversation topics this morning. And perhaps the lovely and skilled Isabella had some small desire to help him, beyond her commitment to the Black Widow.

“I don’t know,” he replied after a moment of thought. “All I know is that my father decided it was best for me to attend boarding school after my mother’s death. I begged and pleaded to stay with him, as it meant I’d lose everything and everyone familiar to me. But off I went. Then my marks were never high enough, I’d not learned enough of sports or music, I didn’t measure up to ‘The Earl’s’”—he made quotes with his fingers—“expectations. Thankfully, I met William and Folly there. They are my biggest fans, and more recently, my biggest supporters... saviors...” He trailed off.

“Were you happy before your mother died?” Isabella pursued her line of inquiry.

Mama’s picnics came to mind on the rare days that were both warm and sunny. She managed to coax his father out with them more often than not. They’d spend hours identifying plants and flowers, remaining still to watch for wildlife in the woods, or any number of adventures she thought up. His father had always been a disciplinarian, but when he was with Mama he softened—or rather, she softened him. “Oh, yes. Mama spent a lot of time with me and was very encouraging. The Earl was too, back then.”

“Perhaps,” Isabella mulled, “your father was struggling with your mother’s absence as much as you were.”

“Then why would he send his one remaining family member away?”

“I don’t know. Have you asked him that?”

“The Earl does not discuss emotions,” he scoffed.

“You won’t know unless you try. Even if he does not lead with them, he might be willing to talk about it if his only son asks.”

“It is too late now. He doesn’t yet know I dropped out of Oxford. He’ll be in the boughs when he discovers that. I believe I’ve surpassed the line of forgivable offense. Not to mention my gaming debts.” He shook his head, his belly churning as it did every time he thought of his pater, exacerbating his craving for spirits. “Please, enough about my deficiencies for now. My head and stomach cannot take it.”

“Fine. I expect you to walk the garden for at least a quarter hour this morning. I shall check in with you later,” Isabella said as she rose, presumably to get on with her purposeful day, leaving him to flounder.

After another pot of tea and the abandonment of the topic of his father, his head cleared, and his stomach seemed to like the ginger cake. As upright felt acceptable, he decided to walk while he could.

A servant had put shoes out for him in his room and he slipped them on, glad he’d worn trousers despite not knowing he’d be outside that day. The autumn weather was not fit for breeches, and he had embraced the new trend of full-length trousers for all occasions he could.

Stepping into the small well-manicured back garden, he strolled the rectangular path. He started slow but after a few laps quickened his pace. The fresh air cleared more of the cobwebs from his head, allowing him to ponder his future.

If he could maintain sobriety, come Christmas he supposed he’d have to face a difficult conversation with his father. He scowled. There was no way he was going to ask his father why he sent his son away. Doing so would show weakness, a quality The Earl abhorred. But he supposed he should start learning the earldom.

His thoughts snagged on Isabella. He owed her an apology. She had her own reasons for helping him, of course, but that didn’t give him the right to ransack her house for sherry. He didn’t even like sherry!

Refreshing his memory on the proper way to beg forgiveness, he recited the elements under his breath as he went to find his hostess.

“Penitence, identifying cause, act of contrition. Penitence . . .”

Luke was forced to wait until the evening meal to attempt his apology, as Isabella had a visitor in her back parlor.

He trudged upstairs and hid in his room to take a nap. A simple walk shouldn’t have left him this feeble, but he needed the rest.

Sitting at the same spot next to her place at the head of the table, he jumped right in, all thoughts of exchanging pleasantries forgotten. “Isabella—”

She braced herself, hands holding utensils lowered to the edge of the table.

He gave a short chuckle and cringed at how rusty it sounded. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really laughed. How sad for the poor little earl’s son. Ignoring that thought, he continued. “I suppose you should prepare. I must again”—he took a breath and wiggled his brows—“beg your pardon.”

Her silverware clattered on the plate.

He held up a hand. “Before you say anything, I remember. Hear me out, please. To elaborate, I am apologizing for sneaking into your sitting room and then making a mess of your kitchen and waking you.”

She watched him, staying silent.

“The reason I did those things was because I was suffering the ill-effects of over-imbibing for too long.” He raised a finger. “I hope to avoid that happening in the future.”

She opened her mouth to retort.

He hurried to correct himself. “I will make every effort to avoid that happening again.”

She nodded, seeming to accept that he had met the requirement of recognizing the issue to minimize the risk of recurrence.

“I do not want to take advantage of your help. You have my utmost gratitude and regret. ’Tis not an excuse, but I was overwhelmed by your competence and my cravings. We’ve already established that I am weak. I will work on that.”

She narrowed her gaze at him.

Ignoring her, he raised a second finger, counting that as sufficient penitence, then continued to his third point. “I will make up for it through service. As you indicated you prefer not to direct me, I offer a foot rub.”

“A what?” Her eyes widened, her brows near her hairline.

“’Tis a skill I honed at Oxford. I, um... wooed?... a number of tavern wenches there, and their feet always hurt after so many hours on them. They taught me what helped alleviate the pain. Heck, one preferred that over...” His cheeks heated. That made him sound like his sexual prowess was not up to snuff. Although, now that he thought about it, it might not have been. At least it was before he started drinking quite so much. Not that any of this should matter, as he’d leave here in a fortnight.

She snickered, watching his expressions.

“What say you? Did the apology meet your expectations? Do you accept my terms?” he blustered.

“I’ll decide that after the foot rub, Clodpate.”