Page 70 of Saved By the Rakish Duke

“I thought we were endeavoring to be more responsible these days?” his dark-haired friend had reminded him the other night, having intruded on Duncan’s personal drinking bout.

“Iambeing responsible,” Duncan had growled back. “I’m not drinking for fun, just for some reprieve. After this, I can get some rest and then get back to the paperwork. Besides, we used to drinkfarmore than this back at Louxbridge.”

“Yes, but we only drank so much perhaps once or twice a week,” Harlington had rejoined. “Whereas you’re drinking as mucheverynight.”

“I am well aware of my limits,” Duncan scoffed at his friend, “Do you know yours?”

Harlington eventually acquiesced, leaving Duncan to do as he pleased. But the latter never did get around to his paperwork that night, falling asleep slumped on the sofa of his office instead.

His work did not suffer much during the day, but in the late afternoons, his hands reached for the bottles with practiced ease.

The next to speak up had been Fairhaven. Duncan had been in his favored armchair in Gillingham’s smoke room, attempting to hide the scowls that flashed across his face whenever a discussion got too loud, or a presence became too irritating.

When Fairhaven approached, Duncan had been expecting the other duke to pull up an armchair to join him. But instead, his red-haired friend snatched Duncan’s glass out of his hand.

“We are getting you home,” Fairhaven stated matter-of-factly, almost as though remarking with enough confidence would will it into coming true.

The right corner of Duncan’s lips pulled into a smirk. “I know you said you were excited to become a father. But isn't this a tad too early to be practicing?”

Yet another argument ensued between the two friends as Duncan failed to see how he was doing anything wrong.

“We've always drunk heavily,” he reminded Fairhaven. “And rather than stumbling through the fields of Bechdalla, I am merely enjoying a quiet drink in an armchair where I can’t possibly hurt myself. How is this any worse or any different than our usual custom?”

“It’s different because we used to drink torelax-”

“That’s exactly what I’m doi-”

“No. Given the volume, frequency, and severity, your drinking is clearly not about relaxing from your woes,” Fairhaven cut him off. “You’re trying to drown them.”

His remark cut through the haze and sobered Duncan momentarily, but it was a fleeting sensation. “What can I say? The manifests and reports have been quite concerning as of late.”

“But-”

“I know what I'm doing, Fairhaven. I can more than handle it.”

And hehadhandled it quite successfully for a good share of the past few weeks. His new routine suited him well—spending his days consumed by work and then spending his nights consuming the drink.

But on a particularly 'fruitful’ evening, Duncan had arrived home and decided he wanted to enjoy the cool evening air before going to bed. He had hobbled to the nearest garden bench with the intention of staying for fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes before he’d go upstairs to get ready for bed.

He had settled onto the bench with his hands in his pockets and his heavy eyelids had fallen shut as he relished the crisp air on his cheeks.

A huge mistake.

Duncan was awoken—not by the gentleness of the rising sun or the prettiness of the birdsong that surrounded him but—by a sneeze so powerful and loud it almost shook him off the bench.

That was two days ago. And, as expected, with the loss of his new routine, the unease, and short temper returned but this time coated in a layer of snot.

He was still plagued by constant headaches but now without the pleasure of having downed his drinks from the night before.

Another knock at the door irritated him further.

“I said not now, Rowley!” he thundered. “Just tell Mother I’ll take the soup later!”

He expected to hear Rowley’s usual “Very good, Your Grace!” or “Most certainly, Your Grace!” but no response came through the door this time—highly uncharacteristic for the butler.

Even more uncharacteristically, the voice that came through the door several moments later was higher-pitched and less self-assured, “May I come in, Your Grace?”

Rowley, why do you suddenly sound like Lady Penelope?Duncan almost called out before his lids flew open in realization.

---