Nothing.
She could not recall a single moment beyond that blasted plant and Miss Harcourt glittering with diamonds.
“I have died,” she proclaimed, for it was the only possible answer.
And apparently, she had not been good enough in her lifetime, for rather than ascending to heaven, she had plummeted to hell, a place of blinding sunlight, where hair pins were stabbing her scalp and evening shoes pinched her feet, and she was plagued by the urge to vomit and blistered heels. Yes, that was where she had landed.
Hades.
“You are not dead, I assure you.”
The low, deep, masculine voice gave her such a start that she screamed and scrambled to a sitting position, blinking and wincing as her head thumped with even more pain and the room about her swirled.
“Christ, woman, that was loud enough towakethe dead.”
The voice had an owner. A name.
The Earl of Anglesey.
And he was sitting in an armchair, bold as you please, his gaze meeting hers in assessing fashion. Handsome, golden-haired, blue-eyed, nary a hair out of place nor a wrinkle on his impeccable coat.
Her mind, which felt rather as if it had been wrapped in wool, struggled to comprehend how this gorgeous creature could have possibly come to be sitting in her chamber. That was before she realized she was not in her chamber.
And before hazy memories began colliding with the present, intruding on her mind.
Dimly, she recalled his face swirling before her the night before. His brow furrowed, concern on his countenance. His hands on her waist.More.Her lips on his.
Good heavens!
She had kissed the Earl of Anglesey last night, had she not? What had she been thinking? What in heaven’s name had she done? Just how much champagne had she consumed to believe kissing a rake in a ball would be wise?
Unfortunately, her mortification was not complete. Her stomach gave a violent heave.
“Ah, that bad, is it?” Wincing, he rose to his feet, then retrieved a porcelain chamber pot from the floor in one graceful motion before handing it to her and turning his back.
She accepted the vessel just in time.
Another heave, and she could not swallow down the bile.
She retched. Retched until her eyes watered and the liquid in her stomach had been thoroughly cast up. Then retched some more.
When at last the heaving subsided, her hands were trembling on the rim of the pot, and the humiliation settled in, replacing the terrible surge of nausea. Although Anglesey had played the gentleman and had not watched the despicable affair, he may as well have. She had never vomited before another person, not even when she had been sick as a child, and the novelty of the experience rivaled the degradation of watching Arthur parade around the ballroom with his American heiress.
A lock of hair fell over her eyes, and she tucked it behind her ear, then cast a hasty glance about for a handkerchief with which to wipe her mouth.
“Here you are.” A white square appeared before her, neatly embroidered in the corner with what must have been his initials.ZB.“And do keep it this time, my lady. One never knows when you shall need it again.”
She would have refused the offer, but it seemed a moot point at this juncture. “Thank you.”
She accepted it, taking the handkerchief and dabbing at her mouth. It smelled like him—musk, with a hint of citrus—bringing with it more jagged memories of the night before.
Falling. Yes! She recalled that quite well, the sensation of tumbling to her doom. And her doom had been…Anglesey himself. She had fallen and landed atop him.
Or had she dreamt that?
Please, please, please, dear Lord, let me have dreamt that. Please tell me I had better judgment than to drink so much champagne that I drunkenly fell atop Lord Anglesey and smothered him with my bubb—no, forgive me, Lord. Please tell me I had better judgment than to consume so much champagne that I drunkenly fell atop Lord Anglesey and smothered him withmyself.
There. One could not saybubbiesto the Lord, after all.Oh, heavens.Was He still listening? She rather hoped not, because she had just thought the indecent word she had been attempting to avoid.
