Page 45 of Lord Garson's Bride
She didn’t retreat. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not ill. Go away.”
“I’m coming in.” She stifled a twinge of hurt at his curt dismissal. “You sound awful.”
“Damn it, don’t—”
She pushed the door open to find him standing in the center of a narrow, windowless room, not much bigger than a cupboard.
“…come in.” In the flickering light of a single candle, he glared at her.
She studied him with concern. He looked disheveled and uncertain on his feet. Had he caught a chill, staying out so late on a freezing night? “I heard you fall.”
“I lost my balance. There’s nothing going on. Go back to bed.”
He sounded grumpy. That in itself worried her. Hugh was almost always even-tempered. Even on their wedding night, he’d remained polite and pleasant. Mostly.
“Not until I’m sure you’re all right.”
Those thick coffee-colored brows contracted in a fearsome scowl. “I’m all right.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“I’m tired.” Actually now she looked, he appeared utterly exhausted and beneath his truculence, heartsick. His prickly temper stemmed from something deeper than a simple late night.
Oh, no, was he desperately unhappy with their marriage? After the last few days, she’d hoped they started to find a way to go on together.
Inevitably, the specter of Morwenna Nash rose. Why wouldn’t Hugh be unhappy? He was in love with another woman.
Which didn’t mean Jane intended to leave him alone and sick and wretched. “Let me help you undress.”
“That’s the worst suggestion you’ve made yet,” he snapped. Or at least she guessed he meant to snap, but the words didn’t emerge with the usual crisp clarity.
“You’re dead on your feet.”
“Go away, Jane.” He was swaying and seemed to have trouble focusing.
She ignored him and stepped forward to take his arm. He looked likely to collapse.
The moment she came close enough to touch him, she knew exactly what was the matter. “Ugh.”
Unsuccessfully, he tried to pull away. “I told you your wifely concern was wasted.”
She winced at the bitter emphasis he placed on “wifely.” “You’re drunk.”
“I am indeed.” He blinked owlishly at her. The stench of brandy was a miasma around him. “Now go away, and let me sleep it off. I’m no fit company for a lady.”
“No, you’re not.” Good heavens, she hadn’t heard Lord Garson was a drunkard.
“Save the nagging for the morning.” He tugged at his crumpled, dirty neck cloth. “I know I deserve it.”
“I have no intention of nagging,” she said coldly.
“Pleased to hear it,” he sniped back. “Clearly I’ve got myself a wife in a million. If only she could bring herself to be my wife.”
Ouch. That was pointed. “I hate to think I’ve driven you to drink.”
“I’m in no state to bandy words with you,” he said, although she hadn’t been joking.
