The Lord and his Lady (Forbidden #2)

Chapter Thirty Five

The confusion did not leave despite the raging headache that had come on the next day. He sat up on his elbows and twisted his body to get out of bed, only to see the poem Miss Price had struggled to write that day, sitting cutely atop his table.

Richard flopped back into bed, face half-buried in the silky comfort of the pillow, unable to take his gaze away from the poem.

Why is it so damn endearing? he thought. Surely he was going mad. Rapid knocks on the door made him shove his face fully into the pillow and groan. The knock echoed again and he sat up with a fervour that forced the room to spin. Nausea hit him in full waves, and he swallowed down the acid that crawled up in his dry throat. His head felt like it was being pounded on, not the door.

"My lord, may I assist you out of bed?" Ashurst asked from the other side. "Your mother is asking for your presence downstairs."

"For what?" he croaked out.

"The play, my lord."

"What time is it?"

"Past six."

He squinted at his window; the curtains were drawn but barely any natural light squeezed past the sides of the thin fabric.

"In the eve?" Surely not. Surely he did not sleep the entire day away?

"Yes, my lord. We were under strict instructions not to wake you."

"By who?"

"His Grace. You were..." he could hear the hesitation even from behind the door. "...unlike yourself."

He was scammered, in other words, and in front of his father, too. Some Marquess he was!

"My lord?"

"Please bring me a glass of water, Ashurst." The throbbing in the side of his forehead increased in intensity and all of a sudden, he was thirsty. Hurrying footsteps faded and involuntarily he looked over at the neglected poem on the bedside table once again. There were more important matters and here he was, questioning his entire existence like the addlepated buffoon he was.

Richard shook his head, snickering under his breath. "Why must I even doubt my feelings for Lady Delafort? The absurdity!"

But even as he drank the water his valet brought in and fitted in his finest minutes later; a tailored brown overcoat, black-spotted cravat and polished Hessian boots, he did not derive satisfaction, going through the motions as if a puppet on a string rather than a man of his own volition. He had even forgotten to dismiss his valet from his duties like he usually did until after the man left.

Richard made his way to the ground floor, bowing his head to the maids and other servants he walked past. The butler guided him to where his mother waited with his father, who stood near the window with his back to the fire grating in the fireplace.

"Richard," she breathed in relief, tension oozing from her at the sight of him. "You look better than you did last night."

He winced. "Was I quite so bad?"

"You were ape-drunk," said his father, finally turning to appraise him. "One would think you were the one in an accident, not I."

"I don't think I've ever seen you that way."

Nor I, he thought. He was not one to drink until his vision faded, more a person who found relief in being a trifle disguised. "The days have been long but the night's even longer and that had helped," he said, instead.

His father cut in. "You are lucky your friends found you and offered to escort you back. If anyone had seen you in the state we had then your reputation would be in shambles, I hope you are aware." Oh, I am very well aware. "Are you well rested enough to attend the play?"