Page 34 of Sinful Persuasion of a Lady in the Making
The uneven roads made the carriage judder and jolt, throwing Sebastian’s stomach into disarray. He swallowed back his urge to vomit, disgrace and horror rushing through him. He was no stranger to drink or gambling, but to get so drunk as to fall asleep, alone and self-pitying, that didn’t happen very often.
“We’re here, My Lord,” the footman said through the door of the carriage, and Sebastian jolted upright, unsure how they had got to the house so quickly.
“Did I—?” He wanted to ask if he’d been asleep, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he shook his head, hoping—and failing—to clear it.
He staggered through the door and up the stairs, then collapsed into bed, no more thoughts, no conversation. He slept soundlessly, heavily, until mid-morning, when he woke with a start and a pounding headache.
He raised his hand to his forehead, groaning and looking weakly about him.
“You are your own worst enemy, Sebastian Nicholes,” he muttered as he climbed to his feet, still lost in self-pity, still dressed in last night’s clothing, and he rang the bell for his valet.
He stood in front of the looking glass, feeling the effects of a heavy night, along with that sting of shame he always felt. It was true that he had no time for the ways of theton, nor their judgmental ways. The men he associated with at the gaming hall, although perhaps lacking in decorum, accepted him, welcomed him, and he felt free.
That didn’t mean he was proud of his actions. Far from it. Whenever he woke with little memory of the night before—or worse, sometimes, when he remembered every debauched minute—he was consumed by an indignity he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to shake.
“Good morning, My Lord,” the valet chimed cheerily as he entered the room, a clean shirt and breeches hanging from his arm. “And how are you this morning?”
Sebastian stared open-mouthed at his reflection, memories flooding back to him.
Miss Jones!
He swung around. “The shawl!”
“I beg your pardon, My Lord?”
“The shawl! Miss Jones’ shawl!”
He dashed around the valet and out of the room, his footsteps pounding loudly on the floor as he sped into the breakfast room.
“Diana, have you seen a shawl? I would have brought it home with me last night, I—”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Diana asked, triangle of toast half way to her mouth. “Are you still drunk, Brother?”
“No, I… I came home with a silk shawl last night. I need it. It belongs to Miss Jones. I had planned to—”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Diana said. “And should anyone had found a silk shawl, it would no doubt have been given to me on the natural assumption that I was its owner.”
“But Ineedit,” he cried, feeling the panic rise in his throat.
“Perhaps you left it at the gaming hall? I’m guessing that’s where you were last night, isn’t it?”
Sebastian groaned yet again.
A fool and an idiot!
He deserved all the bad words said about him, the poor treatment he received by polite society. He turned on his heels and went to run out of the door, just as he heard Diana shout after him.
“Don’t act so ridiculously over a woman you hardly know! She is not worthy of your time.”
“Not now, Diana,” he growled over his shoulder.
“Really,” she tutted as he left. “It should be us females who inherit, since we’re so much smarter than you men!”
Sebastian scoffed, pulling open the front door and running down the steps. It was a point Diana made often, feeling perhaps dispirited for not being an heiress. But he didn’t care—he couldn’t care. He just had to get that shawl.
