Page 47 of As the Earl Likes
Sheff began to think Jo’s suggestion that he run away and hide wasn’t a bad idea. He could remove to the Grove near Weston for the entire summer. Or to his father’s remote hunting lodge in Scotland. Either would do nicely.
Since he couldn’t dash off immediately, he would have to settle for a few moments alone. The press of people and the lie of his betrothal were weighing on him.
He hated that Jo was uncomfortable, that his mother was causing her undue stress. And what was he to do? His future wife shouldn’t be working at a gaming club. But Jo wasn’t really his future wife.
Disgruntled and in need of a glass of something stronger than ratafia, he went downstairs to his father’s study. The instant he opened the door, he knew something was amiss.
The air reeked of perfume—roses and neroli, a cloying scent. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t hiding. Had he stumbled into an assignation? How embarrassing. For everyone involved.
Still, he wasn’t going to yield the room. He needed that bloody drink and a respite.
Closing the door, Sheff walked toward the liquor cabinet. His gaze swept the space, and he froze when he saw a familiar body lying across the settee, one leg dangling on the floor, his fall open so that far too much of his flesh was exposed.
“Dammit,” Sheff breathed, his irritation blooming into full-blown anger. “You can’t even behave yourself at your son’s bloody betrothal ball?” He didn’t yell, but he wasn’t quiet either. His emphasis on the last words provoked his father to both open his eyes and slide from the settee onto the floor.
“What’s that?” the duke slurred.
How was he this intoxicated already? “Did your paramour leave?” Sheff asked in disgust.
“I think so. You know me, I am so relaxed after a good shag that I can barely keep my eyes open.” He smiled drunkenly.
“It helps that you are three sheets to the wind.”
“Suppose it does.” He glanced down. “Blimey, didn’t even fasten myself up.” He fumbled at trying to button his fall, but Sheff wasn’t going to help him. The duke wasn’t that far gone tonight. Still, he would need help up to his chamber.
Sheff stepped out and found a footman, whom he tasked with fetching his father’s valet. Returning to the study, Sheff saw the duke was attempting to pour himself a glass of port. However, the dark wine missed the glass entirely and pooled on the tray.
“You don’t need more wine.” Sheff took the decanter from him and set it down before steering his father away from the liquor.
“Always room for more wine,” the duke said, pouting slightly.
“Jackson will be here shortly and will take you upstairs.”
The duke wrinkled his nose as he attempted to focus on Sheff. “Back to the ball?”
Sheff’s shoulder twitched. “God, no. He’ll put you to bed. You aren’t fit for my betrothal ball.”
“Hardly spent time there anyway. Your mother prefers it that way.” He swayed a bit, then straightened. “Rather go to my club. Have the coach brought around.”
“Definitely not.” Sheff shook his head. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure which version of his father was worse—the incapacitated one he had to wrestle home and into bed or this one, who would argue and be difficult.
“You can’t order me about, my boy.” The duke started toward the door but stumbled. Sheff raced forward just as the door opened. The valet, Jackson, caught Sheff’s father before he fell. The footman entered behind him and moved quickly to the duke’s other side.
“Careful there, Your Grace,” Jackson, a man of nearly forty who surely needed greater compensation for what he endured in taking care of the duke, said. “Let’s get you up to bed.”
Sheff wondered if he should have let his father have the additional glass of wine. He might be unconscious by now, and then they could just carry him up.
But no, Sheff would never give him more drink. “Jackson, I think you and the footman will need to watch over the duke to make sure he stays abed. I doubt he will try to join the ball, but he just asked for the coach.”
“Of course, my lord,” Jackson replied. “We’ll make certain he rests.”
“He’s already had enough excitement for one evening.” Sheff scrubbed his hand down the side of his face.
Jackson nodded, and he and the footman guided the duke from the study. They left the door ajar, but Sheff didn’t care. He ought to return to the ball, except he’d come here seeking a moment’s peace—and perhaps a glass of brandy—which he now needed more than ever.
Turning toward the liquor cabinet, he frowned at the mess his father had made. He reached for the brandy, then startled when he heard his name.
“Sheff?”
