In a dizzy spell of rage, he launched himself at the man and delivered a punch to his gut. But his opponent was practically sober and Henry could hardly stand. He didn’t know what had happened until he heard the crash and felt something warm drip down his head.
He lifted his hand and touched the warm drip. His fingers came away red. The man had smashed a glass over his head and was lifting a bottle with the same intention. Henry could hear shouting and hollering, but he wasn’t sure if they were cheering or trying to stop the man. Probably the former.
When his opponent pushed him up against the bar and raised another glass, Henry put his hand up just in time. The glass smashed into his palm, gashing it.
“Out! Out!”
It was the owner, shouting at the top of his lungs. Henry felt himself being dragged outside, then released. He was alone, and he felt suddenly cold. In his drunken state, he didn’t think about taking a carriage. He just started staggering forwards.
In his condition, it took him almost thirty minutes to get home. A walk that would have ordinarily only taken him fifteen. He had to stop several times and almost passed out on the side of the road.
When he finally reached Radingley, Alfred was waiting for him. As he stumbled inside, Alfred tried to take his arm and support him but Henry shook him off. “Don’t,” he said. “I’m fine. Go to bed.”
“My Lord, let me-”
“No,” Henry replied. “Go to bed. That’s an order.”
Alfred didn’t see the blood on Henry’s head. It was too dark in the hallway, and Alfred had weak eyes on account of his age.
Reluctantly, Alfred let go of his arm and made his way to the servant quarters. Henry was left alone in the foyer. He thought about going to bed, but felt such an overwhelming thirst that he wound up in the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down, then went searching for something to eat. He found a loaf of bread, but when he tore off a piece his elbow knocked his empty glass.
The glass went hurtling off the counter, smashing loudly into the floor. “Damn it,” Henry shouted. Flustered and disorientated, he jumped back to avoid the glass and knocked a pan, which was even louder when it hit the ground.
God, his head hurt.
He leaned back against the counter as everything went silent again, breathing a little heavily. Henry wasn’t sure if he was going to vomit or pass out, but he hoped it was the latter. He wanted a dreamless sleep, so that he could have a little peace. Even drunk as he was, he could feel the presence of his burdens lurking beneath the haze.
“Lord Rivers,” came a murmur through the dark.
Henry looked up… to see Maggie standing in the doorway.
***
Miss Magdalene Riley, Daughter of the Baron of Brambleheath
After what she’d said to Henry, Maggie couldn’t sleep. She went to bed, laid on her front and hugged her pillow, willing herself to forget the look he’d had on his face when he’d left. She’d thought there was only rage and bitterness in him, but had discovered something else. Something gentler that needed protecting. And instead of protecting it, she’d poked at it with unkind words.
Perhaps all of it was about his wife. What if she hadn’t left him because he was surly and cold? What if he was surly and cold because she’d left him?
It was a new consideration for her. One that made her feel so awful that she was sleepless for hours, and lying in bed for so long was beginning to drive her mad. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, she gave up and went downstairs. She hoped that moving around would stop her feeling so restless.
When she heard the crash, Maggie nearly jumped out of her skin. She sucked in a gasp and froze. It sounded like it had come from the kitchen. And after a few moments, she heard another sound, this one louder than the last.
Her heart was thumping in her chest, but curiosity got the better of her. She headed towards the kitchen, slowly. She snuck down the stairs to the kitchen, moving as quietly as she could, and squinted through the dim lighting.
When she first saw him standing there, she thought he must be an intruder. She was just about to turn tail, run up the stairs and sound the alarm, when he moved and his face was momentarily illuminated by moonlight spilling through the window.
“Lord Rivers,” she whispered, and he looked up.
It was clear that he was blind drunk. But also that he was hurt. In the moonlight, she could see the flash of red, which made her move towards him thoughtlessly. “You’re hurt,” she breathed, lifting her hand towards his face, where blood dripped down his temple.
“What happened?”
His hand was cut too. She lifted it into hers and looked closely at his palm. There was still some glass stuck in the wound.
Henry hadn’t answered her, so she looked up into his eyes. They were glazed over, and he looked bewildered. “Sit down,” she suggested, pulling gently at his wrist so that she could navigate him towards a seat.
She moved away from him to wet a cloth and said, “We should call for the doctor.”
“No,” he mumbled out. It was the first thing he’d said since she’d found him. “No doctor.”
Maggie balked at this. She approached him and put the cloth aside for the moment, so that she could work on getting the glass out of his hand. “We have to, my Lord. You have a head injury.”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t want anymore rumors. No doctor,” he said again.
Maggie thought about denying him, but predicted that it might cause him more injury if he decided to kick up a fuss. So, with a sigh, she knelt down in front of him and took his hand in hers, holding it palm up.
“This may hurt a little,” she said, softly. Then, with the very tips of her fingers, she pinched the slither of glass that was peeking out through the gash in his hand.
Henry hissed in a breath and winced, but didn’t yank his hand away. Very carefully, she pulled at the glass until the flesh around it liberated it. When it was free, she held it up against the light. It was a fairly big piece of glass, which had no doubt caused a fair bit of damage. And now that it was out, his cut was bleeding more heavily.
Maggie used the wet cloth to clean his injury, then wrapped a clean dish towel around his hand and tightened it, which made him groan. “Is that okay?” She asked, quietly. She felt compelled to speak in whispers, because of the time and the darkness.
Henry nodded, but didn’t say anything. He was staring at her. “What happened?” She hadn’t let go of his hand, but had her fingers resting lightly over his bandaged palm.
He grimaced and shook his head. His eyes had slipped closed, and she realized that he would soon be unconscious. “Lord Rivers,” she said, as she stood and gently jostled his shoulder. “I need to check your head. Can you stay awake? Lord Rivers?”
His head started to roll back, so Maggie grabbed his chin and held him steady. “Henry.”
At the sound of his name, he opened his eyes. He wore a groggy expression at first, but when he saw how close she was, he blinked his eyes open wider and his lips parted slightly. “Magdalene...” he whispered.
He’d never called her that before.
Maggie swallowed. His eyes were so bright. They reminded her of lightning on a stormy night. “Yes, it’s me,” she said, finding that her voice was strangely raspy. She put it down to tiredness, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. The truth was that being so close to Henry… affected her.
“Let me just get another cloth,” she said. Maggie started to draw away from him, but before she could move he grabbed her wrist. She looked back at him, and her stomach did a flip. “Lord Rivers?”
“Henry,” he murmured, huskily. “Call me Henry again.”
It felt like a dangerous thing to do. She wanted to say no, to pull away, get a cloth, and treat him as she’d treat anyone who was injured. But instead, Maggie let him pull her gently towards him by the wrist. And she whispered, “Henry,” in a shaken voice.
“You don’t like me very much,” he ack
nowledged. He was slurring less now, but his eyes were still shining with intoxication.
It wasn’t a question, but Maggie felt like she had to answer anyway. “I don’t understand you,” she admitted. He still hadn’t let go of her wrist, and she could feel his thumb moving in soft circles over her rapid pulse.
“What’s there to understand? I’m a simple man.”
“That’s not true,” she replied, her voice quick and sharp with conviction. “I think you’d like people to believe that… but it’s not true.”
Henry laughed. It was a bitter, sad sound. “What else do you think there is? Come, tell me.”
As he said this, his free hand – the injured one – moved to rest on her hip, and he eased her a little closer. She was almost standing between his legs. He had his head tipped back so that he could look up at her. She could see the blood matted in his hair and knew that she needed to tend to the injury, but couldn’t will herself to move away.
“Well?”
When he spoke, she could feel his breath through the fibers of her nightgown, tickling along her chest. She knew that it should feel wrong to be here like this with him, but it didn’t. It made her feel electric.
“I think,” she began, in a soft and raspy voice. “That you aren’t as uncaring, nor as strong, as you try to lead people to believe.”
His face didn’t move, but there was a subtle change in his eyes. “And when did you come to this conclusion?” He asked, his voice a little stiffer.
Maggie smiled, sadly. “Tonight,” she answered. “After what I said to you. When I saw how it made you feel.”
The reminder changed him, and she saw his countenance twist, as if he was holding back a flinch. “I’ve been trying to figure you out,” she admitted. “And I’d decided that you were an ogre, until tonight. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what I said.”
In answer, his hand dropped from her waist, and he looked away. “I’ve hardly thought of it,” he replied. It was a lie; she knew it, so she didn’t begrudge him for it. She just nodded and said, “Just the same, I’m sorry.”
Maggie stepped away from him then and retrieved another wet cloth so that she could inspect his cut. He didn’t speak again, and neither did she. The silence was strangely comfortable, almost soothing. She returned to him with the cloth and began to gently dab at his forehead with it, wiping away the blood.
She did this for some time, without taking her eyes off the cloth, which was slowly stained pink with his blood. Maggie parted his hair with the utmost care so that she could look at the cut. There wasn’t any glass in it, thank God, which reassured her. It seemed like the bleeding was slowing, and the wound didn’t look especially deep.
Chapter 13
Miss Magdalene Riley, Daughter of the Baron of Brambleheath
Maggie realized, after a few moments, that the space between them was utterly silent. She couldn’t even hear Henry breathing. When she looked down into his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at her. His expression wasn’t tender, but intense. She wondered what was going through his mind, and her hands stilled.
She wondered if perhaps she should leave, but before she could take a step back, Henry touched her hand. “Don’t,” he whispered, his voice still slurred from the liquor. “Don’t go.”
Maggie hesitated, feeling this bright, sharp feeling in her chest. Adrenaline was stirring up a storm in her heart, and she found herself nodding shakily.
When he stood, she didn’t know his intention. Not until she felt the tangle of his fist through her hair. His hand was so big that it dwarfed her head, making her feel small and fragile; a feeling she usually hated. But here, in this moment, it felt good. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Her breath caught audibly in her throat, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated. She should have been afraid… but she wasn’t.
He kissed her, and she made a soft, plaintive noise in the back of her throat the moment she felt his lips. They were so much softer than she could have ever dreamed, and the taste of whiskey on his breath didn’t disgust her as she would have thought. Instead, it made him taste illicit. Forbidden.
It was addictive.
Maggie could have stayed like that with him forever, but it wasn’t to be. Before long, his grip on her changed. She felt the tightening of his fingers in her hair as his passion mounted, and the force of his mouth bearing down harder. He made a guttural sound, and staggered forwards, pushing her back into the kitchen counter.
His hands moved to her hips and, despite being drunk, he managed to lift her with such ease. She found herself sitting on the edge of the counter, with his hands pushing her thighs open so that he could stand between them. “Henry,” she gasped against his lips, but she wasn’t sure if she meant to tell him to stop or beg him not to.
Maggie put her hands on his shoulders, feeling the breadth of them, the grooves of his clavicle. He was bunching up her skirts, but fumbling a little on account of his injured hand. Or perhaps it was just the liquor.
That thought made her wonder… just how drunk was he?
Was it possible that he was so drunk that he was doing something he might regret? Or something he wouldn’t otherwise do? And was this who she was now? A governess kissing her master in the middle of the night?
“Henry,” she said again, as she felt his fingertips on her inner thigh. He’d managed to get past her skirts, and now the warmth of his touch was travelling higher. “Henry.” Her voice was getting fiercer. More urgent. All the while, he kissed a path along her neck, over the curve of her shoulder. She knew that he’d go lower soon and open up her corset. There was a part of her that yearned for it so fitfully that she could hardly think of anything else.
And another part of her was frightened. “Stop,” she breathed, and pushed against his shoulders. “Henry, stop.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. Not until she gave a sudden shove against his shoulders and sent him tumbling back. As she did this, she said, “Lord Rivers,” in a sharp voice, which resounded through the kitchen.
Maggie didn’t know what she was expecting when she pushed him away. Certainly not what happened. Once Henry fell, he wasn’t able to get back up again. He slumped down the counter opposite the one she sat on and groaned.
His eyes rolled back into his head, and he grimaced as if he was in pain. “Henry? Did I hurt you?” Maggie said, feeling frantic as she jumped down off the counter and went to him. She crouched down beside him and touched his cheek, trying to make him look at her. But the moment she touched him, she realized that his face was blazing hot. Something she’d been too distracted to notice when he’d been kissing her.
Maggie’s brows drew together and she put her hand against his forehead.
“You’re very warm,” she noted. Then she blinked quickly and turned her hand so that she could feel his skin with her knuckles. “Feverish, even,” she corrected.
“I’m fine,” he assured her, but he sounded increasingly groggy. She kept her hand against his forehead with a wrinkled brow, feeling beads of sweat gather around her fingers.
“How do you feel?” She asked, feeling her concern rise.
“Fine,” he said again, but there was a lurch in his throat. She knew what was going to happen before it did. Instinctively, she grabbed a mop bucket from the corner of the kitchen and thrust it under his head, at the very moment that he vomited.
Thankfully, Maggie had never been the squeamish sort. She’d looked after her mother when she’d been sick, so she was familiar with this particular aspect of care. While he heaved up the contents of his stomach, Maggie stroked his back gently.
“Henry, you have a fever,” she murmured to him, as his heaving came to an end. “I need to call for the doctor.”
“No,” he groaned, barely able to lift his head from the bucket. But the longer she looked at him, the more concerned she became. There was something wrong with him, and she didn’t think it was mere drunkenness. He was sweating heavily, but didn’t seem inclined to pass out an
ymore. Instead, he looked as if he was awake, but his mind was inhabiting another world. He couldn’t concentrate on her or on his surroundings.
“Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?”
In answer, Henry only moaned, letting his head roll back against the tops of his shoulders. Feeling rising conviction, Maggie headed for the kitchen door. She didn’t want to leave him in this state, but quickly realized that she didn’t have an alternative. She had to find someone so that the doctor could be called.
She picked up her skirts and ran.
***
Lord Henry Rivers, Earl of Radingley
When Henry woke up, he was in his bed. Sunlight was spilling into the room through a crack in the curtains. He squinted, feeling like he’d been trampled by a stampede of buffalo. His head hurt terribly, and his eyes were hazy.
The Sinful Secret 0f A Broken Earl (Historical Regency Romance) Page 10