Page 72 of Deceiving an Earl
He felt as if there was more she was saying but through his pain he couldn’t grasp what.
“So this is it? Our entire past is gone? There is no future?”
She lifted her chin. “There never was a future for us, Oliver.”
It felt as if a door had closed and he was in a windowless, airless room. Suffocating.
…
Oliver rolled out of his unkempt bed and winced at his throbbing head. Everything on him hurt. The alcohol had numbed his emotions, but not enough, and even that was wearing off.
He reached for the decanter of port only to become enraged when he found it empty. He hollered for Richard, furious that the man had left the decanter empty when Oliver needed it the most.
But Richard didn’t come trotting in full of apologies with another full decanter. Oliver hollered again, louder this time, and was relieved when his summons resulted in the door opening. But it wasn’t Richard who came striding in.
“Where’s Richard?” Oliver asked. His voice was rough from consuming too much alcohol and not enough sleep.
“I sent him home,” Ashland said.
“Home?” Did Richard have a home? Oliver assumed the man lived in the servant’s quarters below.
“Good God, man, you look like hell.”
“Piss off.”
Ashland made a humming noise as he picked his way toward the windows and pulled back the heavy draperies. Oliver covered his eyes as the sun came streaming through, blinding him.
“What in the hell are you doing?”
Ashland eyed him critically. “How long have you slept in those clothes?”
Oliver looked down at his trousers and a shirt that was so wrinkled it would have been embarrassing if he cared.
“You need a bath. You reek of alcohol.”
“What didn’t you understand about piss off?”
“Oh, I understood.”
The door opened again, and a footman entered, his gaze flickering to Oliver then away as he slunk in and placed a full breakfast tray on a table, then scurried out.
“What’s this?” Oliver asked.
“Food. Sustenance.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
Oliver glared at Ashland, but his friend just stared placidly back. There had been a time—two times, actually—when Oliver had done the same for Ashland. When Ashland’s first wife, Cora, had died in childbirth, and Oliver had very much feared that Ashland’s grief would send him to the grave, and when Ashland had been attacked by Charlotte’s murderous cousin and no one had known if he would survive.
Oliver knew that Ashland was giving back to him, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t want Ashland’s pity or his insights into Ellen’s engagement. He didn’t want to be saved.
His stomach grumbled loudly, and Ashland smirked.
Oliver marched over to the food and sat down to eat.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Ashland asked.
