Page 33 of Sinful Persuasion of a Lady in the Making
“I don’t care for poker this evening,” he shouted over his shoulder as he sauntered away and to another table. “Keep the money. Divide it between yourself or take it to the brothel. See if I care.”
He could hear their murmuring concerns, whispering about his reaction between each other, their game paused. But he didn’t look back, not wanting to see what he once loved so destroyed by a simple conversation with a lady he barely knew.
What is wrong with me?
“Fetch me a brandy,” he said to a passing servant who quickly scuttled away in search of a glass.
The table at which he sat was small and round, the bench that ran along the wall on one side and a wide-based armchair on the other. Sebastian settled onto the bench, the shawl still clenched in his fist, and he sighed wearily.
The tables around him were filled with men of all ages, most of whom had shrugged off the shackles of society life, preferring the amenable and accepting behavior of the lords there. They didn’t care what Sebastian was up to, and if they did dare say anything about his life, it was always—and only—in jest.
“Your brandy, My Lord.” The servant put the short-stemmed glass down on the table.
Sebastian leaned forward to pick up his glass. But as the servant went to move away, he called, “Wait!”
He gulped it down in one, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from his thoughts.
“My Lord?”
“Another, please,” Sebastian said, coughing a little.
“As you wish, My Lord.”
The night wore on and Sebastian, in his misery and confusion, knocked back drink after drink. The noise around him became a murmur of chatter, punctuated by spikes of laughter. The world swirled around him, his vision blurring, and still he grasped hold of the shawl, not wanting to let it go, not wanting to lethergo, even though he knew he didn’t have much choice.
She will never want me when she knows the truth.
Already, with just one conversation and an awkward dance, he wanted to change, to become a better man, for her.
Soon, he rested his head on the table, the other men in the room moving around him, shapes becoming larger and smaller, until he could hear her voice, soft and gentle but somehow louder than all the other voices in the room.
“Lord Hartwood,” she whispered, tentative and tempting, seductive.
“Miss Jones,” he whispered back.
He was unable to open his eyes, but she still managed to find a way into him. Everything faded to black, all silent but for her words, the sight of the beautiful Miss Jones, crouching down beside his table and smiling gently at him.
“You do not need to drink yourself into oblivion, My Lord,” she said, tilting her head, her eyes soft and caring. She reached out and touched his arm, and he felt a shiver of emotion run through him. “You need not destroy yourself. You are a good man.”
“I am not,” he slurred, his brow creased with confusion.How did she get here? What’s happening?
She leaned forward and whispered directly into her ear. “You are, My Love, if you choose to be.”
With that, she melted away, her body vanishing into the air.
He felt a violent shake against his shoulder and a man’s voice, harsh in his ear.
“Lord Hartwood! Lord Hartwood!”
Sebastian groaned and opened one eye, looking up at the servant.
“My Lord, you’ve been asleep for some hours. But we need to lock up now, and—”
“All right, all right,” Sebastian growled, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol. He waved a hand then staggered up, knocking his chair over in the process, then stumbled out into the cold night air.
“Take me home,” he snapped, eyes half closed, his mouth dry as he climbed into the coach.
“Yes, My Lord,” his footman said, leaping up from his own dozing and setting the coach to return home.
