Page 133 of Doxy for the Ton
He clinked his glass against hers. Then she tipped her head back and drained hers.
“It’s good for the pain,” she said. “Wheeler procured it from a man called Trelawney.”
“Trelawney’s an excellent man,” Alexander said. “He supplies the very best. Perhaps I ought to savor it.”
“I’ve asked Charles to bring you another,” she said.
He drained his glass, his breath catching as the liquor warmed his throat. “A rather unusual sherry,” he said, licking his lips. “There’s a bitter aftertaste.”
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “I have another bottle. You could try that instead.”
“Yes, that would be…” He blinked as the world shifted out of focus, then he shook his head. That injury must have affected him more than he thought.
But then, it wasn’t every day that a man got himself shot.
He relaxed back into the chaise longue, and she nestled into his embrace. The warmth of the fire caressed his senses and a delicious languor flowed through him. The woman in his arms took his hand and kissed it, and he curled his fingers around hers.
“Oh, Mimi, I love you so much…” he murmured.
“And I you,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, please believe that I love you more than I have ever loved another—or ever will.”
What did she mean,whatever happens?
But it mattered not when her soft fingers caressed his face—when her warm, sweet lips kissed him.
With her whispered words of love in his mind, Alexander closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Alexander woke,the air had cooled. The soft orange glow of the embers of the fire had been replaced by the cold, harsh light of the dawn.
He sat up and winced as a sharp pain sliced through his head. His mouth felt dry, and a bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat.
Rubbing his chin, the beginnings of stubble abrading against his fingertips, he looked around. The room was empty, save for the furniture and the clock on the mantelshelf. The pile of books beside the door was gone, and there was nothing on the tables except…
Except the two sherry glasses, empty save for a sticky residue at the bottom. He picked up the larger glass and sniffed the contents. Sherry—and another odor.
What was it?
He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the aroma—the faint, bitter afternote to match the bitterness in his throat.
Laudanum.
He leaped to his feet and stumbled toward the mantelshelf, willing his eyes to focus as he approached the clock.
It was almost half past six in the morning.
He stumbled out of the parlor.
“Charles!” he cried. “Wheeler—anyone!”
His voice echoed across the hall as he glanced about.
Then he saw it—a folded note in the dish by the door. He picked it up and read the inscription.
Alexander.
His hands trembling, he unfolded it and read the words.
