Page 73 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Roxburghe, Grisham, and I,” Lennox said, raising his voice and striding to the center of the room, “will select the next three ladies.”
“Come with me.” Silas yanked Mr. Hollingsworth into the hallway.
“Are you going to hit me?” Mr. Hollingsworth whimpered, raising his arm to block his face.
“No.”
Do I want to? Absolutely.
Crushing the handle in his fist, Silas opened the door to his office, then gestured for Mr. Hollingsworth to enter.
“Sit.” Silas pointed to one of two wing chairs positioned beside the fireplace.
Once Mr. Hollingsworth complied, Silas strode to his desk, lifted a decanter of whiskey, and filled two snifters with the golden-brown liquid. He carried the glasses across the room and handed one to Mr. Hollingsworth before taking the empty chair.
“Unfortunately,” Silas said, tilting the snifter toward Mr. Hollingsworth, “I have no control over the lady’s heart.”
“But you must have some sway.” Mr. Hollingsworth leaned forward, his brown eyes widening. “Perhaps with her sister or her sister’s fiancé.”
“Again, I can do nothing to assist you. If you know the lady as well as you claim, then you understand why that must be my answer.”
And, in truth, I’m going to do everything I can to prevent Miss Fernsby-Webb from ever accepting your hand.
Lifting his cup, Silas saluted Mr. Hollingsworth, then drained the glass.
Mr. Hollingsworth did the same, then set his empty snifter on a small table and said, “She did recognize me while wearing a blindfold. I suppose I should take comfort in that.”
He rose and bowed low. “Thank you for your compassion, Your Grace.”
After Mr. Hollingsworth departed, Silas grabbed the decanter and poured himself a second drink, then a third. His mind was whirling around Mr. Hollingsworth’s admission.
How had she known she was dancing with Mr. Hollingsworth? Had she cheated? Or worse, was her connection to him so strong that it defied any logical explanation?
Setting his mind to questioning Miss Fernsby-Webb, he emerged from his office several hours later with the half-depleted bottle of whiskey and staggered down the corridor in search of the lady. He wandered into the ballroom, finding the location bereft of any person, and cursed.
He took a swig from the decanter, debating if he should knock on her bedchamber door and demand an explanation for her guess. His whiskey-soaked brain couldn’t provide a logical reason not to disturb Miss Fernsby-Webb, despite the late hour, and he wandered from the room.
Trudging up the main staircase, he leaned against the wall to maintain his balance, the sleeve of his jacket rubbing against the striped wallpaper.
He paused on the second-floor landing, cocking his head and listening to the snores creeping out from beneath the closed doors. Then, he urged his body forward and stumbled down the corridor, counting bedchambers. Halfway down the hallway, he lost count.
Swearing, he returned to the landing and began the count again.
He stopped in front of Miss Fernsby-Webb’s door—he hoped—and raised his arm, his hand curling into a fist.
How will you explain yourself if Mrs. Webb answers?
The disturbing thought broke through his drunken haze, and he staggered backward, the heel of his shoe catching on a rug lining the corridor. Silas crashed to the floor, choosing to protect the whiskey decanter instead of himself.
He swore again, louder than the first time, then, realizing the volume of his curse, he clapped his free hand over his mouth and waited, praying he hadn’t woken any of the guests.
Once he was certain no one would investigate the noise, he climbed from the floor and toddled toward his bedchamber. His gaze locked on an apparition hovering at the top of the servants’ staircase.
“Miss Fernsby-Webb?” he said, wondering if his longing had caused her to materialize before him.
“Your Grace!” She twisted around, snapping a book closed. “I apologize for waking you.”
“You did no such thing,” he replied, taking a seat beside her on the top step and holding out the bottle of whiskey. “I never retired.”
