With another woman? "And?"
Arabella drew a deep breath and pursed her lips. "He was foxed."
Oh. Did she laugh in relief or cry in despair? Brahm was drinking again. Because of her? She didn't doubt for a minute that she was the cause. Her rejection no doubt made him think there was no point in trying to prove that he was a changed man.
Or perhaps he missed her so much, it was the only way he could numb his pain. Yes, she preferred that reason. But she would much rather hear that he was sober and melancholy than drunk on her account.
There was only one thing to do. He was miserable. She was miserable, and there was no need of it. It was foolishness that kept them apart, and she was tired of being foolish.
She jumped to her feet. "Help me pack, Belle. I will leave in the morning."
Her sister offered no argument, but also rose to her feet and went straight for the chest of drawers where Eleanor kept her stockings and shifts. "What are you going to do when you get there?"
What was she going to do? Keep her promise to look after him, to help him heal? She didn't know, but she had to go. Her heart would not allow her to stay away and be this ungodly miserable any longer. If she had a chance to be happy with Brahm, then she owed it to the both of them to fight for it.
Pulling her trunk from the wardrobe, Eleanor set her jaw determinedly. "I am going to find out if he is the man I believe he is. The man he told me he could be."
The man she was very much afraid she had lost for good.
* * *
His eyes were burning, rough and dry as a desert. His throat was parched, his tongue was thick, and his head was splitting. Worst of all, he was sobering up.
Brahm's stomach churned as he shifted on the bed. He kept his eyes shut against the motion of the mattress. The room was not turning, it was just his head. He knew this, still, it felt as though he were spinning in circles.
He moved his feet, at least they still worked. He hadn't broken his other leg in a drunken stupor.
He was still wearing his boots. Ah, he was wearing trousers and a shirt as well. He had obviously managed to shuck his waistcoat and cravat before passing out. Was that smell him? Christ, he needed a drink before he came completely to his senses.
His eyes closed, he groped for the bottle beside his bed. He knew it was there because that was where he always put it.
His hand met nothing but air. He groped some more. There was nothing but carpet beneath his hand— no bottles to be found.
Damnation. He was going to have to go get one. He'd ring for a servant and have him bring him one, yes, that was the answer. Better that than the alternative, which was sobriety. It might have been a long time since he felt this utterly rotten, but it would be a longer time still before he forgot what it was like to become sober again.
He was raising his hand to the pull cord when a blinding light pierced his brain, bringing with it a pain that felt very much like his skull being cleaved in two. His eyes, he realized, were not closed, they were open. The drapes had been closed, leaving the room black as pitch, but now a set of those drapes was open— opened by, he could only guess, Satan herself. She stood by the window, her arms folded beneath her breasts. She had only a shadow where her face should be and an angelic halo around her head.
Oh yes, it was Satan all right.
"Hello, Brahm."
His heart lurched. His stomach churned. Pride demanded that he leap to his feet and pitch her from the room, but he could do nothing but lie there and pray for death. Death was the best he could hope for now that she had found him.
Eleanor.
It was Eleanor who was trying to kill him. Beautiful, delicate, funny Eleanor, who had ripped out his heart and stomped on it. She was in his room.
He tried to scowl at her, but it felt more like a half-arsed squint. "What the hell are you doing here?"
She came closer. Now that she was no longer backlit by the window, he could see the disappointment on her beautiful face. "What kind of question is that for your betrothed?"
"Go back to the window," he ordered. "You are not my betrothed."
She came closer, arching a fine brow in obvious defiance of both his request and his statement. "Am I not? Are you reneging?"
"You did, remember?" He'd lift his head if it didn't weigh ten stone.
"Ah yes." She made a show of pondering that for a moment. "Then I suppose you will have to consider me your nurse."
"My nurse! What the hell are you talking about?" Oh God, it hurt to raise his voice.
She was near enough now that she bent down to talk to him, bringing her face so close to his that he could see the striations of blue in her eyes.
"I promised you I would nurse you should you ever fall ill again." Her haughty nose wrinkled. "I can see that you have indeed fallen ill."
"I am not ill, I am hung over. Nothing a glass of Scotch will not cure." He reached again for the bellpull. Damn her for being here. Damn her for seeing him this way. Damn
him
for not being too drunk to care. He stank like the very devil of brandy, whiskey, scotch, sweat, dirt, and God only knew what else. Actually,
he
knew what else, but Brahm didn't want to think of that right now, not with his stomach in such a delicate condition.
"You needn't bother the servants," she said quickly.
His hand stilled around the cord. She'd let him go through all this exertion only to stop him now that he had reached his goal? She was of a cruel nature, this one. "What do you mean?"
Her spine was as straight as a nun's, her expression just as pious and righteous. What had she done now? "Only that there is no Scotch, whiskey, or anything else of that nature for them to bring you."
He would have yelled every expletive he knew if he didn't think it would kill him. "What do you mean?" There had been a whole case two nights ago. Even he couldn't have drunk it all that fast.
Was it his imagination, or had she taken a step back now that he had moved away from the bell cord? "I had it thrown out— all the whiskey and bourbon, port and brandy. Actually, I think some of your footmen plan to sell it to a dockside tavern, but I'm not supposed to know that."
The wench had thrown out his drink. She had destroyed his chances of getting blissfully drunk. Hadn't destroying his chance at happiness been enough? Christ almighty, he never would have thought her capable of such unwarranted fiendishness. Well, he hoped she was prepared for the consequences of her rash actions. Once all the alcohol was out of his system— and it wouldn't be long now— he was not going to be a pretty sight, and the only thing that would take the edge off was a drink. He'd start shaking then, and God knew what else. The brain fever would come. But before that, he'd be retching his guts up all over the place.
He'd be damned if he'd let her witness that.
"Get out of my house."
She took another step back, but the steel was still in her spine. "No."
He lurched upward. "I said, get the hell out of my house!" Damn, damn, damn. He fell back on the bed, his skull pulsing in agony.
"Brahm?" Eleanor was by his side, her hands cool on his face and forehead. "Brahm, are you all right?"
"No," he croaked. "Chamber pot…under bed…hurry."
He kept his eyes closed to ease the pain and the spinning, but he could hear her as she looked under the bed and withdrew the porcelain pot there. He hoped it was empty.
"Where do you want it?"
Obviously it was clean or she would have expressed her disgust. He opened his eyes as wide as he dared— it wasn't much, but he could make out her fuzzy outline. "Give it to me."
She did so without hesitation. Snatching it from her hands, Brahm sat up once more and tore the cover from the pot. Yes, it was empty, but he was too far gone to care at this point as he finally gave up fighting his stomach and allowed the muscles there to do their worst. He retched once, twice. Bitter, acrid. His stomach emptied itself, yet refused to stop heaving. It was as though the damn thing was trying to turn itself inside out.
He had forgotten this part, forgotten how awful it was. He could add humiliating to the list as well. It had been a long time since he'd had someone watching when he puked.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. Eleanor took the pot from him, and he was too drained to argue. His hand trembled ever so slightly as it released the cool porcelain.
It was starting already.
"Eleanor, please go."
She shook her head. "I cannot leave you like this."
How he wished he could do something to wipe that stricken expression off her face. No doubt she'd find some way to blame herself for this as well. Let her. She'd leave when it got bad, and he was low enough that he didn't mind admitting he'd enjoy knowing she felt some guilt over his current state.
He was tempted to tell her that, but the minute he opened his mouth, bile rushed from the back of his throat, and he dived for the chamber pot, seizing it just in time.
She couldn't leave him, eh? He'd give her an hour at the most before she broke that promise as well.
Chapter 16
B
rahm was dying.
Eleanor had expected him to be less than pleased to see her. She had expected that his condition would be unpleasant, to say the least. She did not expect it to worsen after her arrival. Wasn't he supposed to get better now that he wasn't drinking?
He'd been ill— violently so— and then his foul mood worsened. He became mean and belligerent, agitated and easily set off. Then came the tremors that eventually grew into shivers that would not stop.
Just a few moments ago, shortly before dawn the morning after her arrival, he had begun to shake so fervently that Eleanor thought he must be having a fit. And still he told her to leave. He said many things, none of them pleasant. A few of them Eleanor hadn't quite understood, and she didn't want to. His belligerence had come very close to making her want to leave, he had been so mean, but his physical symptoms were so awful, she could not leave him.
This latest development was what had her running down the stairs, wearing the same clothes she had been wearing the entire night sitting by his bed. It was the first time she had left his room since her arrival. She took her meals there, and used his dressing room for more private necessities.
What was she going to do? She had to get help for Brahm, but it had been so long since she had spent any significant time in London that she didn't know where the best physicians were. She certainly didn't know who Brahm's personal physician was. Surely one of his servants would know. His valet at least.
Luck was with her when she hurried into the great hall. The housekeeper and a man she took for the butler were standing in the middle of the floor, talking. They were talking about her no doubt— the strange woman who hastily introduced herself, asked for tea, then spent the night in the master's apartments.
Normally she would have been moved to stop and admire her surroundings— the cool, lustrous marble, the chessboard floor— but not this morning. Later, if Brahm allowed her to stay, if he married her as she wanted him to, then she would take the time to appreciate the house of which she was mistress.
"Quickly," she snapped as she approached the pair. "Lord Creed needs a physician. Immediately."
The two of them stared at her as though she had spoken Javanese rather than English. "Did you not hear me? I said Lord Creed needs medical attention."
"We heard you, ma'am," the man replied in a tone not totally disrespectful.
Where had Brahm found this man, Covent Garden? "Then why are you not sending for the physician?"
He exchanged an uncomfortable glance with the woman. "No offense, ma'am, but Lord Creed does not take kindly to our interfering when his condition is such as it is. And since you are not known to us, we must bow to his wishes."
Not known to them! Had Brahm's valet not informed the other servants of her identity? Surely he would know her. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen the man since her arrival. Brahm had either dismissed him or told him he had no need of his services at present.
"I,"
she informed them in her haughtiest tone, "am Lady Eleanor Durbane, daughter of the Earl Burrough and future Viscountess Creed, a title I may never get a chance to hold if one of you does not send for a physician.
Now,
please."
The housekeeper jumped to do her bidding, but not before bobbing a quick curtsy. The butler flushed and bowed, but stayed where he was.
"Shall I send for His Lordship's brothers, my lady? They have some experience in these matters."
Eleanor nodded, rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She was so tired and frightened. "Yes, do that." She'd appreciate all the help she could get at this point. "And what is your name?"
