And Christ, how he wanted to reach.
He almost had, last night. The only thing keeping him from hauling her into his arms and kissing the devil out of her had been the bottle in his hand and the last modicum of pride he possessed. She would have owned that too if she had lingered.
He dropped to his knees and retrieved the chamber pot—not making it to the water closet. That was too bloody far.
And retched.
Brutally.
Then retched some more. Until there was nothing left, his stomach merely heaving, eyes watering. He was never going to consume another drop of Sauternes for as long as his stupid, useless heart was beating.
His head throbbed as he rose to his feet at last. He crossed his chamber to the dressing area and the bathroom he had recently commissioned. There, he dispensed with the evidence of his night of misery, washed his face, and rinsed the sourness from his mouth. The reflection greeting him in the mirror was haggard. A reproach.
He looked like hell.
Sidney felt like hell, too.
He ran a hand over his jaw, knowing he needed a shave. Mayhap tomorrow. He rang for his valet, drank whatever concoction the man brought him—always a step ahead, Grove—and dressed to go fencing at his club. He had a standing arrangement with the Duke of Northwich, and since a day of self-flagellation was in order, may as well get on with it.
“Do I look as bloody terrible as I feel, Grove?” he asked his valet.
Grove had been his attendant for years now. Not one of Sidney’s servants knew him better. Over the years, they had developed an ease with each other.
Grove cast a careful eye over Sidney’s person. “You look well enough. May I recommend a shave, however?”
“You may recommend it.” Sidney rubbed his prickly jaw. “But I respectfully decline. I rather fancy looking a beast today.”
Because he certainly felt like one.
“It will take but a few minutes,” Grove said, frowning.
His valet possessed an impeccable sense of fashion. He was also orderly and neat to a fault. Two traits Sidney did not possess, much to Grove’s dismay.
“Beastly or nothing,” he declared stubbornly.
“Respectfully, sir, a shave will make you look more like the heir to a marquisate and less like a costermonger.”
A costermonger? That earned Grove a pointed glare.Devil take it, his head was aching again. “More of your despicable concoction, Grove. I need to be able to give Northwich a fair competition this morning. That arsehole has beaten me the last three weeks.”
“If your appearance this morning is any indication, I have an unfortunate prediction for today’s outcome,” Grove said.
“Go to hell,” he told his valet without heat.
Grove raised a brow. “Perhaps one day I shall. But first, back to the kitchens to fetch you your panacea.”
Impertinent chap. He was fortunate indeed that their camaraderie was old and well-established. Sidney was in a mean humor today.
Also thanks toher.
Forcefully, he banished all thoughts of Lady Julianna Somerset as he marched to the breakfast table. Also as he broke his fast.
But despite his best intentions and most stringent efforts, he thought about her as he ate a rasher of bacon. As he drank his coffee, he remembered the serenity in her face when she had confronted him. And as he finished the last drop of the concoction Grove had sent him, he wondered what she had wanted to explain.
There was nothing she could say—not one goddamn word—that would induce him to shackle himself to her. She’d had her chance. Mayhap she had discovered all her American beaux did not measure up.
Irritated with himself for allowing thoughts of her to consume him during his meal, he set down his coffee cup with too much force. The dark liquid sloshed all over the tablecloth and his hand, burning him.
“Fuck,” he swore.
