Page 27 of The Earl's Hired Bride
“A drink is the least I owe you, since I missed that lecture we planned to attend—and since I’d like to hear what you took away from it,” he said with a grin.
“I should thank you for turning me onto it,” Peter said, raising his glass. “I’ll put what I learned to use at my mother’s estate in Yorkshire.”
They talked of grain strains and planting techniques for the better part of the bottle, before Peter claimed prior plans and left him. Hart drank on, and when a pack of Town bucks came by, offering a night of drinking and gaming, he threw his hands up and went along.
He had sense enough to know that he’d already done too much of the former to be any good at the latter, so he continued the evening as he’d started, contenting himself with watered-down whisky and a role as cheerleader at the E.O. wheel.
Even watered whisky has an effect, though, especially after half a bottle of brandy, and it was still early when he realized that he was properly soused—as far below the mahogany as he’d been since his school days.
Intent on heading home, he got to his feet, only to stumble before he’d gone a couple of steps.
One of his friends caught him. “Whoa! Easy now, Hartford. Where are you heading?”
“Home,” he mumbled. “Need to sleep it off.”
“Hold on a moment. You’re in no shape to get there on your own. Ho, Hamilton!” the young man summoned another one of the group. “We can stop off at Portman Square on the way to the hell, can we not?”
Hamilton tossed a sour look over Hart. “Aye. If he’s not going to gamble, then we might as well drop him off before he starts to puke. Come on lads,” he called. “We’re off!”
The crowded hackney ride was naught but a blur. Hart only knew it was over when he found himself standing on the pavement before his house, listening to the whoops and hollers of the others fade as the hack moved on.
He stumbled to the door and stood frowning at it. Why did it not open?
“Wait.” Only then did he realize his friends had dropped him at Herrington House. “I’m not staying here.”
He turned to catch them, but the coach had already rounded the corner.
He turned back and blinked stupidly at the door—and thought longingly of his bed upstairs, so much closer than Grillon’s.
He shouldn’t. Even in his cups he knew it was a bad idea. But the world was spinning and if it didn’t stop he was going to cast up his accounts on the stoop. Spreading his arms, he leaned against the door to steady it—or himself. Either would do.
He misjudged the distance, though, and thunked his temple on the wood.
“Ow.” It was all he got out before the world shifted—or the door opened. Same difference. He stumbled into his entry hall and onto his knees. The trip was more than his addled brain could take, and he groaned and sunk the rest of the way down.
“My lord?” It was Williams. “Are you all right?”
Instead of answering, Hart rolled over and blinked up at him.
“We weren’t expecting you,” the footman fretted. “The ladies decided on an evening in tonight and everyone is abed.”
“Don’t wake them.” Oh, Lord, had he shouted that? “Wrong house. Don’t worry. I’m leaving.”
Williams pushed and pulled and managed to get him upright. “Perhaps you’d better rest here tonight, sir.” He struggled to catch his breath and prop Hart up at the same time.
“Yes! Just a rest.” He hoped that came out in a whisper. “Just a moment to stop the spin and then I’ll move on.”
“Shall I help you upstairs, sir?”
Hart snorted. “No, for then I’ll have to navigate my way back down and no one wants that.”
“No, sir.” Williams shook his head vigorously.
“I’m not staying. Just get me to a chair for a few moments.”
He leaned heavily on the man and in moments the parlor sofa loomed comfortingly ahead. “Ah. Just the thing. Good man.” He stretched out and closed his eyes.
“Just for a moment . . .” he murmured.
