Shunned No More

by Christina McKnight

  # # #

  The sound of water being dumped from buckets woke Brock. He laid face down in his bed, his quilt covering his fully clothed form. Rolling over, he opened his eyes to light streaming in from nearly every window in the room. His head protested and his pulse beat strongly behind his eye sockets. To relieve the extreme heat that had settled on his body, he pushed the covers off to see his boots still laced tight. What the bloody hell had he done last night?

  “I see you are awake,” Harold said.

  Brock moved his head in the direction of Harold’s voice. His friend lounged against the door frame to Brock’s dressing room.

  “What in the blazes happened last night?” Brock asked.

  “No one knows for certain, but Cook found you asleep on the front stoop when she left for the market before dawn.” Harold raised an eyebrow. “I had hoped you could tell us what happened.”

  “I arrived back from Foldger’s Foals and decided to have a drink at White’s.” A bottle or two was more like it.

  “And . . . ?”

  “I imbibed quite a large quantity of scotch—”

  “I gathered that from the smell of you.”

  “Rodney showed up and we argued—”

  “Naturally,” Harold interrupted again. “Kindly skip to the part about sleeping on the front stoop.”

  “I left White’s . . . but that is the last I remember.” Brock rubbed his aching forehead and rose to sit. “How did I get to my chambers?”

  “Your valet and I carried you, of course.”

  “Why am I still wearing my boots?” Brock threw his legs over the side of the bed and placed his booted feet on the floor.

  “We are not that good of friends.” Harold laughed. “Now get up. Your bath is ready.”

  In the corner farthest from Harold stood Brock’s copper bathing tub, filled to the brim with steaming water. “You will not remove my boots, but drawing my bath is within our friendship?” It was Brock’s turn to raise a brow. He stood and removed his evening coat.

  “Ha! If it had been up to me, I would have doused you where you slept. Are you ready to tell me what transpired that had you rushing to Foldger’s Foals yesterday and then returning only to drink yourself into oblivion?”

  “She duped me.”

  “Who duped you?” Harold moved from the doorway to sit on the bench at the end of Brock’s bed.

  Brock pulled his shirt over his head and started next on removing his boots and pants. “Lady Viola Oberbrook,” he said as he leaned over to untie his laces and simultaneously hide his heated face.

  “Lady Viola duped many people, but that is behind you. You must forget about her and move on with your life. Dwelling on her and her actions will not bring back your father or the twins.”

  Brock straightened and slid his feet from his boots. “No—the woman is still engaging in foolish behavior. She is simply doing it now under the name of Lady Posey Hale.”

  “You jest,” Harold said in disbelief.

  “I assure you, I am quite certain they are one and the same person.” Brock pushed his pants down over his hips and let them drop to the floor.

  “Bloody hell.” Harold averted his gaze a second too late.

  “Bloody hell is correct. As I pilfered your bottle of Madeira at the Garnerdale’s ball, I overheard Lord Liperton speaking with Mrs. St. Augustin and Lady Darlingiver.” Brock paused and looked at Harold as he stepped into his tub. “You are aware that Liperton and Lady Darlingiver have been romantically linked for several years?”

  “On the contrary, I was unaware of this.” Harold kept his eyes averted.

  “Indeed they are. She called him Lippy! Can you imagine?”

  “You are straying from the topic. What sent you hell bent toward Hampshire and then into your cups, culminating in you forgetting how to open a door?”

  “I am getting there!” Brock submerged himself in the steaming water. “Do quiet down, my head feels as if a trumpet master has been playing all night long.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Harold asked, again training his gaze on his friend. “You know I have little sympathy for—”

  “I was leaving Lord Garnerdale’s study,” Brock continued, cutting him off, “with a bottle of Madeira under one arm and scotch under the other, when I heard hurried footsteps and then hushed conversation in the hall. Liperton had not fled the house as I’d thought, but merely hidden, proving the coward I believed him to be.”

  Harold waved his hand and Brock continued.

  “As it should happen our dear playmate, Miss Ruby, has been the companion to one Lady Viola Oberbrook, daughter of the Duke of Liperton these last seven years at Foldger’s Hall. Did I mention that Foldger’s Hall abuts to Foldger’s Foals?” Brock asked.

  “Just as your estate borders mine?” Harold crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Are you comparing that woman’s lies and deceit to my attempts to rescue you from your father’s clutches?” Brock glared at his friend as he rubbed a sponge thick with suds over his chest.

  “Not in the least. I do find it ironic, however. So tell me, did you rush to Hampshire and put Lady Viola in her place? Did you shout at her? Did she apologize for leading your brothers on a merry goose chase?”

  Brock wished any of those things had occurred. “She was not there,” he mumbled, in hopes Harold wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to question his decision to seek her out.

  “Not there, you say? And naturally you rush back to London to drink so much you cannot make it through your front door. I understand now.”

  His friend’s judgmental tone grated on Brock’s nerves.

  “What do you plan to do now?” Harold stood and made his way back to the door. “Let us hope that no one saw the aftermath of your heavy drinking. I do not care how much you have in your coffers, marrying a drunkard is not the path most respectable fathers would willingly send their daughters down.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I will await you downstairs in the breakfast room.” Harold closed the door quietly behind him.

   As annoying as Brock might find it at the moment, his friend was correct: What was his plan? He only wished he knew. He’d acted out of anger and hurt when he’d rushed to the country, and then again at White’s. If that affected Harold’s chances of gaining a respectable bride, Brock would not forgive himself.

   Regardless, he could not let Lady Viola get away with what she’d done.

   Brock massaged the sandalwood-scented sponge up his arm and over his shoulder as he contemplated his next move. A part of him wanted to return to his estate and put his thoughts of finding a wife and seeking retribution for his family behind him. So many people he’d encountered since his return had thought his brothers’ deaths were behind him.

  If Harold had the slightest idea how this weighed on him, his friend would likely bash him over the head and keep him locked down at his estate until sensible thought returned.

  The key to the return of his sanity lay in the acknowledgement of fault by only one person: Lady Viola Oberbrook.

  For the first time since his return, Brock thanked the Lord above that he hadn’t come face to face with Lady Viola.

  The element of surprise was still in his favor.