Page 12 of Deceiving an Earl
Oliver couldn’t fault the boy for having a little fun. There had been a few nights he’d rolled home so pissed he couldn’t stand. There had been the one time he’d vomited into his mother’s prized Chinese vase. That outcome had not been good for him. He’d suffered the wrath of his motherandfather for that idiotic stunt.
And then, of course, had been the night Ellen married. Even now his memories were vague about that night—exactly how he had wanted it.
But there was something about this boy that worried Oliver, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He didn’t like how the boy spoke of Ellen or the fact that he’d taken umbrage when Oliver had grabbed him—thinking he should not be touched in such a way, since he was an earl.
Oliver grinned in the darkness. They were evenly matched in titles, although the Armbruster title was older by a few generations. But they were unevenly matched in wit and brawn. Oliver could easily take the boy down, but that was not the way to handle such a situation.
The lad would regret his rash words come morning—if he remembered them at all. Oliver would be the bigger man and would not remind him of his foolish posturing.
They reached the Fieldhurst mansion, and Oliver and his driver practically had to carry the boy out of the carriage. Oliver half dragged him to the front door and knocked, wincing at the late hour, knowing he was probably waking up the household.
The butler was wearing a robe and his sleeping cap when he answered the door, his eyes blurry with sleep, but they widened when he saw Fieldhurst.
“This way,” he said, as if this was a usual occurrence. He directed a sleepy footman to fetch the countess. “Would you like to take him into the sitting room?” he asked Oliver.
“It’s probably best to take him straight to his room.”
“Very well.” The butler hesitated, probably trying to decide it if was a good idea for Oliver to take the boy up. The man was old, and Oliver didn’t think he could manage on his own.
There was scurrying from the upper level and then Ellen was hurrying down the steps, tying a deep red robe around her waist. Her hair was in a braid that draped over one shoulder. She did not look as sleepy as the butler, and Oliver wondered if she had been waiting up for her son.
She stopped at the bottom of the steps and put a hand to her mouth, her dark eyes wide.
“Oliver?”
Oliver hadn’t thought of a reason to give her that he was the one bringing her son home. He certainly couldn’t say they had spent the evening together carousing. That would be strange, and not the truth.
“I have a mate at Scotland Yard who asked me to bring him home.”
She looked at her son, whose head was hanging down, his chin nearly touching his chest. His knees were giving out, and Oliver was supporting his entire body weight.
“Scotland Yard?”
Oliver hesitated and looked at the butler. Sensing that this was a discussion he should not overhear, he instructed the footman to prepare his lordship’s bed, and they both hurried off.
“I think I should get him to bed,” Oliver said, bypassing her question about Scotland Yard.
“Yes, of course. I could get a footman…”
“Probably best that fewer people see him like this.”
She nodded. “You’re right, of course. This way.”
Young Fieldhurst was useless at this point, not even able to put one foot in front of the other. Oliver hoisted him up over his shoulders and carried him up the steps. The boy was light, but not that light, and Oliver was winded by the time he made it to the top of the stairs and the gallery above.
“Not much farther,” Ellen said.
Oliver would admit to sometimes being a vain man, and he did not want Ellen to think that he couldn’t carry her son to his room, so he hid his breathlessness and gamely carried on, much relieved when they finally reached the boy’s chambers.
His valet was waiting for him, and Oliver dumped the lad on the bed. He moaned and rolled onto his stomach then went still.
“My apologies,” Ellen said to the valet. “Can you…”
“Certainly, my lady. He’ll be suffering a bit come morning, but he’s none the worse for wear.”
Ellen backed out of the room, worried eyes on her son. Oliver followed and closed the door behind him.
Ellen put a hand over her eyes and another on her stomach and stood in the middle of the hallway, not moving, not speaking.
