Page 23 of A Lady's Curves
She stares at me for a long moment. “I’m glad to hear there is no quarrel.” She sips her sherry with a gentle smile pulling at her lips. “How much more work do you have on the accounts of this house?”
“Not much. A few days at most. The damage is not as bad as we first thought. While the old steward did take some money, he did not run up debt with his lordship’s credit. That is a small blessing. The entire thing makes little sense.” I look at the cart with the glasses and sherry and wonder if a drink would make me feel less worried about the foolish choices I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours.
“What do you mean?” Finishing the drink, she leans forward and places the crystal glass on the table. In her pink dress with many layers of material, she looks like a flower sitting on the green velvet settee.
“Why ruin your career as Bellston did and take only five thousand pounds? He could have taken much more and I’m sure he had to pay off the butler and housekeeper whom he hired.” I’ve been puzzling over the matter for weeks and it makes no sense. He could live for a while on that money, but not indefinitely, and he’ll find it nearly impossible to find a new position without the earl’s referral.
“Didn’t you tell me that a maid ran away with him?” Honoria raises an eyebrow.
“You think this is about love?” I can’t fathom throwing everything away over a woman.
“Or lust. Either way, don’t look so shocked. You, of all people, should understand. Didn’t you give up everything youknew to be with the man you loved in that first season?” There is only caring in her voice and soft expression. Others have taunted, but Honoria only means to make a point.
“Only to find that without my dowry, his love was fleeting.” Even all these years later, it stings.
She sighs. “Because he never truly loved you and you were misled. I would advise not to let one man’s bad character ruin all of your life.”
A bitter laugh escapes before I can stifle it. “At eight and twenty, I’m afraid your advice is too late, my lady. However, I appreciate that you care and are my dearest friend.”
Popping up, she flounces back to the cart with her glass. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to join me?”
What harm can it do to have a sherry a bit earlier than is custom? “Thank you. I will have a small one.”
Grinning, she pours.
For the second day in a row, morning came far too early. My head is splitting and as punishment, I force myself to go out into the garden and brave the sunshine.
Honoria kept pouring, and I kept drinking. I barely remember dinner or much else of the evening.
Finding a shady spot under a tree, I slump onto the bench and hold my head in my hand.
“Are you ill, Ann?” Oscar’s voice is like a balm. Deep and soft, I could listen to him all day.
Foolish woman, that’s what I am. I force my gaze to his. “I took too much sherry and perhaps Lady Chervil poured some other spirits last night. My head and my stomach wish we were back in bed.”
His laughter is not as pleasant as his voice. “That must have been a sight. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“I am not sorry for that.” I put my head back down, wishing for nightfall at ten in the morning.
His hand reaches into my gaze. “Come on.”
I stare at the large yet gentle hand. “Where are we going?”
“I will have cook fix you a remedy.” He wiggles his fingers.
Taking his hand, I let him help me to my feet. Part of me thinks I should suffer for my stupidity, but the rest of me can’t resist the lure of his touch. “You’re not going to make me drink something terrible, are you?”
He leads me through the garden and into the kitchen through the servants’ door. “It’s not bad actually, and it works every time.”
I follow along and sit at the table where the cook writes her menus while Oscar whispers in her ear.
Mrs. Jones, the cook, is a slight woman with red hair and freckles. She’s not married, but as the cook is given the honor of theMrs.title. She gives me a pitiful look. “I’ll get you fixed up, Miss.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’m sorry to take you away from your work.” I should have some dignity, but my elbow rests on her little desk and my head feels so weighted down, that I rest it in my palm. I spy a bucket in the corner and think I could make it there should I become ill. The idea of that happening in front of Oscar keeps my lips pressed together.
Oscar leans on the wall beside me. His finger grazes my shoulder as if he’s reassuring me that he’s there, but also so discreet that no one on the servants’ level would think anything was untoward.
A few minutes pass, and I’m soothed by the feel of him near me and the stillness of resting in the kitchen.
