A Risk Worth Taking

by Laura Landon

  “Thank you, my lord. It was so kind of you to invite me.”

  The earl nodded, then turned to the petite blonde woman at his side. “Allow me to introduce my wife, the Countess of Covington. My dear, may I present Lady Anne Carmichael.”

  The Countess of Covington stepped forward. Anne greeted her formally with a slight curtsy, then breathed a sigh of relief when the countess smiled. Her smile was warm and friendly, and it immediately put Anne at ease.

  “It is a pleasure to have you here.” The countess grasped Anne’s hands and held them. Her gesture was sincere. Anne would find it pleasant here, at least for as long as it took to find a husband.

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “And, please, you must call me Patience. I insist.”

  “And, please, call me Anne.”

  The countess nodded, then turned her attention to Mr. Blackmoor. She crossed the room until she stood next to him. “Griff,” she said, reaching out to him. She took his hands in hers. “How are you?”

  Lady Covington turned her cheek to accept his kiss. “It has been entirely too long, you know. It’s about time you came back to us. You will have to put forth a massive effort to have me forgive you for staying away so long.”

  “I will do my best, my lady. I would never wish to disappoint you.”

  “And you won’t. I care for you far too much to let that happen.”

  Anne saw the genuine affection on the countess’s face. She also saw the worry in her eyes.

  “Please, everyone. Do sit down and I’ll pour tea.”

  Groupings of sofas and chairs were arranged in small clusters throughout the room. They sat in one of those clusters, except Mr. Blackmoor, who took the cup of tea the countess handed him and made his way to the window.

  The earl turned to watch his brother. There was apprehension in his gaze, perhaps concern. It was difficult to tell. The earl did not appear to show much emotion.

  Anne wondered if he knew how much his brother had had to drink already today, and if that’s what distressed him.

  The countess kept the conversation flowing with practiced ease. She spoke of how busy London was at this time of year, and the many things there were to see, the many things she had planned for them to do. Their conversation, though, could not hold Anne’s attention. She concentrated more on how the cup of tea shook in Mr. Blackmoor’s hands. At the glassy look in his eyes. At his sallow, drawn complexion.

  “I hope you don’t mind?” the countess said.

  “Mind?” Anne replied, making her way back to the conversation.

  “I was saying that we will have another guest for dinner tonight. A very good friend of ours, Dr. Samuel Thornton, who will be staying with us for a few days. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. That should be quite pleasant.”

  The earl and his brother exchanged glances. Anne thought at first Dr. Thornton’s presence might be significant, but Mr. Blackmoor only turned his head and drained the liquid in his cup in one swallow. He drank it with the same desperation she’d seen when he’d emptied his flask. She somehow knew he wanted the liquid in his cup to be something stronger than tea.

  When their tea was finished, the countess rose. “I’m certain you would like to rest awhile before dinner. I’ll have Fenwick show you to your rooms.”

  As if by magic, Fenwick appeared at the door.

  “Thank you so very much, my lady,” Anne said. “You have been most generous, and I am exceedingly grateful.”

  “Nonsense. I look forward to having you as our guest. Tomorrow I must introduce you to our three sons. Timothy is nearly five, and Matthew three, and Simon not quite a year. For now, though, I’ll let you retire to your room. I’m sure you’ll want to rest after such a long trip. Dinner is served at eight. I’ll have someone call you in plenty of time to dress.”

  “Thank you again,” Anne said, then walked to where Fenwick waited for her. When she reached the door, she stopped. She could feel Mr. Blackmoor’s gaze on her, watching her. She turned. “Thank you, Mr. Blackmoor,” she said. “For everything.”

  “It is nothing,” he said, then turned his back to her and stared out the window. It was as if he’d hardened himself to any display of kindness. Any show of concern.

  Anne followed Fenwick up the stairs to her room. When she was alone, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. She wanted to push Griffin Blackmoor from her mind. To forget how much he disturbed her.

  There was no connection between the two of them other than the promise he’d made to Freddie. His obligation to her was over. Now it was up to her to do what was necessary, up to her to find a husband who was wealthy enough to provide for her and Becca. A husband who would not expect her to be the perfect wife, or love him, or cherish him, or care for him. Above all else, the man she chose as her husband would never be someone who wanted the liquor in a bottle more than his wife or his children.

  Griffin Blackmoor’s dark, handsome face appeared in her mind’s eye. She quickly shoved his image away. He was the last man she would ever risk taking as her husband. He would demand too much of her. He would take too much from her.

  She’d never seen another human being who needed someone to love him more than he did.

  Never seen a man who resembled her father more than he did.

  He couldn’t do this.

  He’d barely made it through dinner without throwing the china to the floor and storming from the room to find a drink. His hands shook so badly he’d spilled his glass of water twice and upset his cup of tea more times than he could count. He needed a drink.

  “This is ridiculous!” he said, pacing the floor like a caged animal. “I don’t need to do this.” He spun around to face Adam and Dr. Thornton. “I can stop anytime I want.”

  “Can you?” the doctor asked.

  Griff didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Of course he could.

  Except right now he wasn’t sure. He’d already gone without a drink longer than he had in months and was nearly frantic for even one swallow.

  “It’s going to get a hell of a lot worse before it’s over,” the doctor said, sitting with his legs outstretched before the fire. “This is only the beginning.”

  Griff closed his eyes and took a deep breath. They’d gone to the study after they had finished eating under the pretext of having an after-dinner brandy. That was a joke. There wasn’t a drop of liquor in the whole damn house. He knew that for a fact. He’d searched every inch of Adam’s town house for one. He was desperate.

  He clenched his fingers around the glass of water Adam had given him. His hands shook like a leaf in a windstorm. He was cold and clammy one minute and hot and sweaty the next. If he could just have one drink, he’d be better. He knew he would.

  “Do you want to know what you’re going to have to face, Mr. Blackmoor? Or would you rather go into this blind?”

  Griff looked at the doctor Adam had hired to get him through this. “Neither,” he answered. “I’d rather not go through this at all, but my brother has left me with no choice.”

  Dr. Thornton set his glass on the table and stood. “Then I’m afraid trying to help you is a waste of my time.”

  “Samuel, please,” Adam interrupted, and the doctor sat back in his chair.

  Griff kept his gaze leveled on the doctor. He was younger than Griff had expected him to be, twenty-four or twenty-five at the most. And he was a great deal more handsome than any doctor Griff had ever seen before. At least Patience and Freddie’s sister must have thought so. Neither of them had been able to take their eyes off him during dinner. He was quite amiable, but there was a tough side to his nature Griff couldn’t ignore.

  “What do you mean, helping him will be a waste of your time?” Adam asked.

  “We’ve found that patients who have a deep desire to cure their alcohol dependency have an excellent chance of succeeding. Those that do not fail nearly one hundred percent of the time.”

  “What does that mean, Samue
l?” Adam asked.

  “It means if your brother doesn’t want to be helped, nothing you or I do is going to work. He’s the only one who can want to be cured badly enough to make it happen.” The doctor intensified the look he gave Griff. “Do you, Mr. Blackmoor?”

  Griff turned his head and stared at the flames flickering in the fireplace. Did he want it badly enough? He closed his eyes and struggled to find the answer.

  He was tired of not knowing where he was most of the time. Of not knowing who he was, or where he was going. Or where he had been.

  He was tired of the lost days and nights, and waking up in strange places and not knowing how he’d gotten there. Of being so sick he thought he would die before he had his first drink, then downing enough until he no longer cared.

  Of not being able to remember Freddie’s face, or Julia’s voice, or Andrew’s laughter.

  He was tired of it all. Just plain tired. A pain burned like fire in his gut. He sighed. “What am I facing? I’d rather know.”

  Dr. Thornton straightened in his chair. “All right. Here’s the worst of it. You already know the first signs. You’re suffering from them right now. You are desperate for a drink and don’t think you can survive if you don’t have one. You are nauseous and you can’t stop your hands from shaking. First you’re hot, then you’re cold, and your head hurts so badly you’re afraid it might explode at any moment. That will only get worse. You’ll shake until you can’t even stay lying on a bed. We’ll tie you down if we have to. The nausea will intensify, along with the sweating. You’ll be so hot you’ll think you’re burning up. And the pain will be so powerful you’ll pray you’ll die.”

  “Will I?”

  Samuel Thornton didn’t answer for several long seconds. “Not if I can help it.”

  “How long will this last?”

  “If you’re lucky, three days, maybe four. If you’re not, it might be a week. By then, all the symptoms will have lessened and will eventually go away. All except one.”

  Dr. Thornton looked at Griff with more conviction. “You will never lose the craving for a drink, Mr. Blackmoor. You will always want one. But once you take your first drink, you’ll be back to the point you are right now. Worse. The next time, it will be even harder to stop. Eventually, the liquor you can’t live without will kill you.”

  Griff swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The room was like an oven. He felt like hell.

  “This will not be easy, Mr. Blackmoor. I won’t lie to you and tell you it will. You have to want to stay sober a hell of a lot more than you want to be drunk.”

  Griff turned his gaze to Adam and found him watching him. A tightness clenched in Griff’s chest. Dear God, he wanted to be the man he used to be. The loving, caring man he’d been when he still had Julia and Andrew. And even after. After he’d lost them. When he hurt so badly he wanted to die. Even then he’d still found the courage to go on.

  Then he’d gone to war and had come home a man who had seen too much and endured too much but who could, if he tried hard enough, forget most of it some of the time, some of it most of the time. But all that changed when Freddie had died. Freddie had been one death too many. The death that should have been his own.

  “Decide tonight, Griff,” Adam said. “Before Lady Anne gets too settled.”

  Griff stiffened. He could do this. At least until she chose a husband. How hard could it be, after all? It wasn’t that he couldn’t stop drinking anytime he chose to; he just didn’t want to. But he would. Until Freddie’s sister had made a match.

  Griff looked at the unyielding expression on Adam’s face and tried to appear in control. But the unbearable pain thundering inside his head and the roiling of his stomach made pretending he was in command impossible.

  Bloody hell.

  He wiped the sweat from his face and paced the room. “I’ve got to get out of here.” He stopped. Even he heard the panic in his voice, a terror that bordered on desperation. “I’m going upstairs.”

  “There’s a room ready for you in the east wing, at the end of the hall,” Adam said. “Fenwick will show you up. Dr. Thornton and I will be up shortly.”

  Griff paid little attention to what Adam said. He stalked to the door and walked away without a look back. His stomach lurched and his vision blurred. How ironic. He was going to spend the week going through hell in order to wash away the liquor he’d consumed in excess over the last four months. But right now, he’d chop off his right hand if only someone would give him a drink.

  At least one.

  Chapter 8

  Anne lay in the dark, unable to sleep. She’d already spent two and a half days in London. Each day had been a whirlwind of activity. Lady Covington had been wonderful, taking her to one of London’s most famous modistes each morning to select designs and material for the new gowns she would have made. Then they stopped at the milliner and the shoemaker. When they finished, they took their packages home, ate a light lunch, and rested a short while; then at precisely five o’clock, the most advantageous time to be seen, they went for an open carriage ride through Hyde Park.

  Patience had secretly hinted that this would ensure invitations to the most prestigious events where Anne could meet the créme of London’s eligible young men—which, she reminded herself, was the reason she’d come to London.

  She stifled a shiver.

  She had not seen Mr. Blackmoor since the first evening they’d arrived. Perhaps he’d gone back to the country. No one said, and Anne didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know where he’d gone. At the same time, she did. She wanted to know everything about him. That she wanted to know everything about him frustrated her.

  On the surface, the countess had at first seemed reserved, always the epitome of decorum and refinement. Underneath, Anne found her to be charming and witty. She thought they could easily become friends. The earl, however, remained a mystery. Anne had the impression that something was terribly wrong.

  She saw him very seldom. He ate dinner with them each evening but spoke little and excused himself early. The worry lines on his face said something was not right. The look he and his wife exchanged every time he entered the room confirmed it.

  Anne reminded herself that perhaps she imagined a problem. At dinner that evening, the earl had promised he would be in attendance for the dinner party to which they had accepted an invitation for later next week.

  Next week.

  Anne threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Her search would begin Friday.

  Patience informed her that she’d received an invitation to a tea hosted by the Duchess of Wallingsford next Friday afternoon. Then there would be the dinner party at the Marquess of Edington’s that evening. Although the countess did not expect there to be a huge number of males attending either event, she assured Anne that such small gatherings would be an excellent opportunity to begin her process. She also assured her that by the middle of next week, she would have invitations to more events than she would have time to attend.

  Although the countess never openly mentioned Anne’s reason for coming to London, it was obvious she understood the purpose. She was here to select a prime candidate to be her husband.

  Blood rushed like ice water through her veins.

  She jumped from the bed and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her robe. There suddenly was not enough air to breathe. The wonderfully spacious room was not big enough for her. She had to escape these four walls.

  She lit two branches of the candelabra on the table by the door and slipped out of her room. Perhaps she would go to the library and search for a book to read. Something to occupy her time, to shift her thoughts from why she’d come to London. Something different to concentrate on other than her search for a husband.

  If only there were a different way to guarantee Becca a secure future. But if there was, it was a mystery to her.

  She walked down the narrow hall, careful to take the back way so she wouldn’t wake anyone. Positive she wouldn’t enc
ounter anyone in this part of the house at this hour, she held her candle high as she made her way to the stairs.

  If she hadn’t been so lost in thought, she probably would have seen the Earl of Covington approaching, but she wasn’t paying attention.

  On the small landing where the stairs from the floors above connected with the stairs going down, she nearly collided with Covington as he raced down the steps. She covered her hand over her mouth to stifle her squeal of fright, then leaned against the wall while her heart thundered in her breast.

  “I’m terribly sorry, my lord,” she whispered by way of an apology, but she wasn’t sure the earl heard her. His eyes were wide with alarm. When he spoke, the worry in his voice added to her concern.

  “Would you help me? Please. I need your help.”

  The shock she suffered from coming upon him in the dark changed to concern. Then to fear. “Of course. Is something the matter?”

  “It’s Griff.”

  “Mr. Blackmoor?”

  “Yes. Please, come with me.”

  She nodded her assent.

  The earl took the candelabra from her hand and led her up the stairs from which he’d just descended. They went down a long hallway to the east wing.

  She hadn’t been in this part of the house before.

  “I’m sorry to involve you in this.” He kept his hand on her elbow and led her down another long, narrow hallway. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Of course,” she assured him. She tried but couldn’t come up with a reason Mr. Blackmoor might need her. Then she heard his voice. The tone was strained and harsh. From this distance, he almost sounded hoarse, as if he’d been calling out for hours. She heard it again.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s…sick. He’s getting so very weak. I’m afraid he might…”

  Blackmoor called again.

  “What is he saying?”

  “Julia. He’s calling out for his wife.”

  Anne’s heart skipped a beat. “His wife?”

  “Yes. She drowned four years ago, but he—he’s not himself right now. I was on my way to get my wife. Dr. Thornton thought if someone answered him, another female perhaps, he would think it was her and calm down. Will you do it?”