He stumbled to a halt and blinked. What a strange thing to think. Had he ever threatened his servants with dismissal before, even in his mind?
“Your Grace?” The head groom shifted on his feet. “May we be of assistance?”
“Yes,” Griffith said, hopefully with some authority. “No one is to tell my mother.”
The grooms looked at each other, and a muffled giggle came from Griffith’s left.
“Of course, Your Grace.” The groom reached for the horse’s bridle. “Should we fetch a physician?”
Griffith frowned down at his arm. He’d been injured, but Isabella had patched him up. Did he really need to call the physician and risk having his mother learn of the incident?
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Isabella said softly.
With a sigh, Griffith nodded. The presence of a doctor increased the chances of the news of his injury getting out, but if Isabella would feel better having her ministrations checked by a doctor, then Griffith would have him summoned. “Bring him in the back and up the servant stairs. Don’t tell anyone you don’t have to tell. Including my mother.”
A small smile tilted the head groom’s lips. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Griffith nodded and allowed the men to help him the rest of the way to the house. He slipped in the back entrance and up the stairs, Isabella at his side. After they’d climbed the stairs to the first floor, he knew they had to part ways, as her bedchamber and his were on opposite sides of the house. He was surprised at his reluctance to do so. Even as he felt the effects of the alcohol begin to wane from his system, he knew that he would not allow himself to be this intimate with Isabella ever again. And he already mourned the loss.
“I should go.” Isabella backed away from him, moving toward the guest chambers. “Take care of your arm.”
Griffith nodded, reaching his good arm out to the wall to brace himself as the movement made the corridor spin.
He stumbled into his room and dropped into a chair by the fireplace to await the physician. Moments later his door opened, admitting his valet and a servant carrying a steaming tea tray. The earthy scent of willow bark tea made his mouth dry. He’d never cared for it, but if he was going to get through this week without letting anyone learn of his injury, he was going to have to drink buckets of the stuff.
He was halfway through the pot when the physician came in. His valet had managed to remove all of the torn and dirty clothing, and Griffith had managed not to say too many ridiculous things. Thankfully, he’d hired servants with discretion he could count on. At least he hoped he could. He’d never explicitly given instructions to hide something from his mother before.
“Whoever stitched you up did a fine job,” the old physician said after doing a thorough inspection of Griffith’s arm. “It’s likely to itch for a while, and have someone come to me if it turns red or swells.”
The man removed a bottle from his bag and set it on the table. He looked at the cooling pot of willow bark tea with a curled lip. “This should actually take care of the pain.”
Griffith recognized the laudanum bottle but saw no reason to tell the doctor he wouldn’t touch it unless he was on the verge of dying. He’d sooner go back and find Mrs. Ingham’s bottle of whisky.
The doctor looked at Griffith with a slight smile. “That would work as well, Your Grace.”
A groan ripped from Griffith’s chest as he dropped his head back against his chair. He was never drinking alcohol again.
Chapter 17
The sun had been up for three hours. He’d been sitting at his desk for two. He hadn’t growled at anyone in at least one. If he’d needed another reason to avoid imbibing in spirits, besides its apparent loosening of his lips, he certainly had it now. A subtle ache remained in the center of his head, and he couldn’t seem to drink enough water. Between that and the tea he kept drinking, his stomach felt like it sloshed with every move he made.
The tea was working, though. While everything felt stiff and his arm radiated with a dull pain and pinched when he moved it, the physical effects of his misadventure were minimal.
It was the other, less tangible effects that were sure to linger and make his life miserable.
The fact that he had not fallen so deeply into the bottle as to impair his memory could be seen as both a blessing and a very unfortunate condition. Regardless of its benefits or lack thereof, his memory remained intact, if a little fuzzy around the edges. The things he’d said to Miss Breckenridge—Isabella—they could never be taken back.
Did he really want them to be?
For as much as he never wanted to be as lacking in control as he’d been in the cottage the day before, he also couldn’t bring himself to regret the wall that had been removed between him and Isabella. He was now almost obligated to pursue her.
Except she wanted him to keep pursuing Miss St. Claire. But not really. Something was definitely going on with those two women, and simply thinking about it made his head hurt.
Well, made his head hurt more.
He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, hoping and praying the pressure would stop some of the throbbing. The tension the pressing created in his arm made him groan and give up applying the pain-relieving pressure.
The quiet shift of the study door being pushed open stabbed through his brain, as if someone had shouted in his ear. He waited, bracing himself for more mind-piercing noises, but none came. It was a servant, then, come to see to the breakfast tray he’d ordered and then abandoned after his stomach clenched on the first bite of ham.
The scrape of the drapery rings hit him right before the sunlight did, making it impossible to restrain his groan of agony. “Close them.”
The rustle of fabric and jangling of metal rings against the curtain rod indicated the servant was still beside the window, but his order was not being followed.
The anomaly sent a spark of concern through Griffith’s addled mind. Was something wrong? He’d skipped dinner last night and managed to avoid almost everyone this morning while slipping into his study to suffer in private, but if a true emergency had arisen, surely his staff wouldn’t think twice about interrupting him.
Using a large hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light, he eased one eyelid up enough to make out the silhouette of the person by the window.
With a sigh he let his eye fall shut again and folded his arms on his desk before allowing his head to drop onto them. It wasn’t a servant.
It was his mother.
“I trust you intend to grace us with your presence today.”
He groaned. There was no holding it back, even though the grating noise made it feel as if his head were splitting open. The idea of smiling at a bunch of ladies desperate to win his hand—because that was, in actuality, who his mother wanted graced with Griffith’s presence—caused a more revolting reaction in his stomach than the ham had.
Except Isabella would be among them, and that made the prospect much more appealing.
He traced every step his mother took from the window to the desk by the clear swish of her skirt. Had women’s skirts always made so much noise?
He felt the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder. “Are you unwell?”
That was putting it mildly. And yet not correctly at the same time. How could one be unwell when the illness was brought on by his own actions? And while he couldn’t regret the initial swallows that had brought blessed numbness and allowed Isabella to stitch up the gash on his arm, he shouldn’t have continued to drink the fiery liquid.
He’d liked the results, though. At least, at the time he had. There was no denying that part of him rejoiced in the confessing of his thoughts about Isabella and how she’d sent his plans to marry her cousin off course. This morning, though, that confession made him almost as uncomfortable as his pounding head.
“I’m going to have Watkins send a man for the doctor.”
And have the man laugh himself silly at being called to nurse the aftereffects of the du
ke’s drunkenness while knowing the duke had also kept his injury from his mother? “No, Mother, I am well.”
The lie stuck in his throat, but he swallowed it. The injury was healing, his head would mend, and she had more than enough to worry about keeping a houseful of guests happy when they weren’t getting the entertainment they’d been hoping for, namely his selection of a bride.
He lifted his head and forced his eyes to open. Fortunately he didn’t have to look right into the bright windows in order to look in his mother’s direction now. “’Tis only a headache. Have them bring me some tea and a bit of headache powder and I shall be ready to face the inquisition.”
The thought of even more willow bark tea made his stomach roil all over again. He swallowed, hoping to keep the tea he’d already drunk in place.
Apparently assured that her son was indeed well, his mother straightened and lifted one golden eyebrow in displeasure. “Inquisition? Really, Griffith, if you’d simply shown a bit of interest in settling down before now I wouldn’t have resorted to such measures. You have a responsibility, though, and given your father’s early . . .”
Her words stumbled to a choking halt as she visibly worked to reclaim her composure.
Griffith felt like a reprehensible lout. He’d never considered what his delay was doing to his mother. She never spoke of it, had seemed to understand his desire to have everyone settled before he threw his own life into upheaval with a wife and family. Perhaps she did understand it, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t caused her more than a moment or two of worry.
Justified worry. His father had been frightfully young when he died in his bed of a sudden heart condition.
“Mother, I—”
“You can’t leave these things to chance, Griffith. I’ve been more than patient with you, but it’s time you take a wife.”
“I agree.” What else could he say? He did agree—or at least he had—that it was time for him to wed. He still thought it was time, though his person of choice was shifting.
Mother’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”
Griffith considered nodding but then thought better of it. “I do. It’s time.”
“No.”
He knew his head was pounding and that everything seemed to be working a little slower this morning, but as of yet he hadn’t been hallucinating. That was the only explanation he could come up with for his mother seeming to contradict herself in a matter of moments. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are not to choose a wife as you would choose a horse. We’ve a tradition in this family. You’re to uphold it.”
One side of Griffith’s mouth quirked up. “Are you ordering me to fall in love?”
“No.” She sniffed. “That would be ridiculous. I’m ordering you to go find it.”
She spun around, her skirt swishing against the desk, and glided toward the door. “We’re bowling on the lawn in an hour. You will be there or I will know why.”
Griffith winced as the door closed behind her, hoping she’d remember to send the footman with the headache powder. Griffith hated the stuff, often feeling that the slight wooziness of the treatment was worse than the malady itself. He’d take it today, though, because there was no way he was going to make it through a morning of noisy, physical outdoor activity without a little help.
There were many things the aristocracy loved that Isabella had never done. Lawn bowls, however, wasn’t one of them.
While it was true that no one in her village was wealthy enough to afford the license to maintain a lawn bowling green, there were no such restrictions across the border at her grandmother’s house. It had been several years since she’d played the game, but she occasionally still amused herself by throwing rocks at acorns and seeing how close she could get them. It was nearly the same principle, except the rocks never rolled as well as a lawn bowling ball would.
She cast a glance from Uncle Percy to the house and back again as the group of houseguests crossed the grounds to the strip of manicured lawn where the rack of balls had already been placed. She’d made a show of wanting to stay inside, but most of it had been for Uncle Percy’s sake. She dearly wanted to join in on this particular event.
And not only because it had been such a long time since she had played lawn bowls.
She wanted to see Griffith again. It didn’t matter how bad an idea it was or how much she knew it would displease her uncle, the urge was overwhelming to see if the changes that occurred during their intimate conversation the day before continued in the light of a new day.
Assuming he even remembered them. There was every possibility he intended to avoid her entirely.
And what would she do if he didn’t? Gambling that a courtship with the duke would be successful and that he wouldn’t care about being lied to and then that he’d be willing to pay a large sum of money to help her family would be the height of foolishness, considering everything else she’d already done to secure her family’s future. He was far too upright a man to do either.
That didn’t stop her from wondering, though. What would it mean if she enjoyed his company today? If his attentions were directed at her instead of her cousin or one of the other attractive, titled young ladies now strolling across the cropped grass?
Unease trickled down her spine as she glanced back at Uncle Percy’s narrowed gaze.
Nothing. It would mean nothing. Because she couldn’t let it.
But Griffith didn’t know that. He’d begun to suspect, but she’d never actually told him why he needed to leave his attentions on Frederica. He was a duke, used to doing and getting whatever he wished. If he decided he wanted to refocus his attentions, there’d be nothing she could do to stop him.
A large figure emerged from a side door, and his long legs ate up the distance from the house to the lawn bowling green at a rate that caused her heart to speed up and match it. As he came closer, his features became more defined—the thick brows, the small dip in the middle of his chin, and the wave of his hair styled to perfection and dropping forward to cover his ears. Her gaze met his, and she felt every bit as awed as she had stumbling across the fields, talking more openly with the drunken duke than she ever had with anyone other than Frederica.
Her uncle was going to have a fit.
Breaking the connection, Isabella turned and strolled as calmly as she could to Frederica’s side. At least now, if Griffith carried through on the seeming promise in his eyes, they could make it appear as though he’d crossed the lawn to approach Frederica instead of herself. Perhaps it would be enough to fool Uncle Percy.
“Finally decided to speak to me this morning?” Frederica tried to look stern, but the curved corners of her lips said otherwise.
Isabella closed her eyes on a sigh. “I’m so sorry.”
With a shrug, Frederica shifted her gaze from Isabella to the rapidly approaching duke. “Think nothing of it. A group of ladies had taken a jaunt to the village. Arthur escorted me to them and I joined their party on the way back.” Her brown eyes narrowed in Isabella’s direction. “I have a feeling, though, that your story isn’t so simple.”
Isabella opened her mouth to answer, but the looming sensation of someone approaching stayed her tongue.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Isabella and Frederica said at the same time, though Bella’s was little more than a murmur. As they curtsied, she flicked her eyes up to look at Griffith through her lashes. He was smiling at her. A real smile. Despite the fact that alcohol could in no way still be impeding his faculties.
Frederica straightened and looked back and forth between Bella and the duke, a small curve coming to her lips. She cleared her throat and turned to the duke. “My cousin and I were just saying how lovely your bowling green is.”
Isabella’s gaze narrowed in her cousin’s direction. They’d been saying no such thing. Why would Frederica protect her that way? It was by far the most personal thing Freddie had said to the duke in weeks. Could she tell that something
had changed between Isabella and the duke? She’d made no secret about not liking Isabella’s working with Uncle Percy, but she’d been supportive up to now. If Freddie thought her cousin could actually make a love match, though—and a very advantageous one, at that—there would be no way to stop her from encouraging the attraction in every possible way.
“I’m glad you approve.” Griffith’s deep voice rolled over Isabella, clear and free from all slurs but still maintaining the smooth tone and quality. “I don’t take as much time to indulge in it as I should. I’m glad we’re making use of it today.”
Frederica bounced twice on her toes. “Isabella is quite accomplished, you know.”
Isabella gasped through slightly parted lips and gritted teeth, causing the sucked-in air to hiss as she allowed her eyes to seek out Griffith’s green gaze.
“Is that so?” He stared at her with an unwavering look that anyone who was paying any attention at all would know was not directed in Frederica’s direction.
“I was when I was a child.” Isabella swallowed. How could she direct his attention elsewhere? He’d admitted yesterday that she was a puzzle, and she could already see him trying to put this new information together with what he remembered from before. Could he guess she came from a less-than-aristocratic background? Had he a suspicion of anything else? “My skills have probably faded over the years. In fact, I’ve the intention of sitting out this first game so that I can remember how it’s played. I wouldn’t want to impede anyone.”
One golden brow lifted as his lips twisted in an expression of disbelief and amusement. “Given that a significant portion of the game’s intent is to impede another player, I believe you might stumble your way into a victory.”
Isabella didn’t know what to say to that, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had, because their small group was soon overrun with the other unmarried young ladies who had been invited to the country house. Their mothers were also in the group, and soon the conversation fell into a competition of who could say the most remarkable thing about how much they were enjoying the house party and how much they were looking forward to being able to show His Grace how very enchanted they were to have a chance to play the illustrious game on such fine turf. One girl even went so far as to say it was finer than the lawn bowling green in Windsor.
An Inconvenient Beauty Page 18
