A mischievous gleam crept into his silvery eyes as he closed the drapes, parting them only a fraction to allow a small amount of light into the chamber. Isabella felt too miserable to care much. Using both hands to steady her cup, she managed to take a tiny sip of coffee. She felt the warm, bitter liquid slide down her throat and fall into her sore stomach, then waited anxiously, her eyes pinned to the basin, for the coffee to come back up. When it didn’t, she bravely took a second swallow.
“Of course, the real cure for a hangover is what Jenkins refers to as the hair of the dog,” Damien said. “A large dose of good brandy.”
Isabella dropped the small piece of toast she had been trying to force into her mouth. “I bow to your superior knowledge of the subject, Damien. However, I can assure you I would prefer consuming actual dog hair to swallowing another drop of liquor.”
Damien laughed sympathetically. “Try to eat some toast. It will settle your stomach and help ease the pounding in your head.”
“I don’t believe that is possible,” Isabella muttered, but she followed his advice.
Damien settled himself comfortably in the chair opposite her and poured a cup of coffee. While he picked up a piece of toast, Isabella stole a quick peek at him. He was dressed very casually in a loose-fitting white cambric shirt, dark brown breeches, and freshly shined riding boots. His jaw was newly shaved and his hair slightly damp, probably from a morning bath. He looked and smelled divine.
Sitting across from him, Isabella felt like a total mess. Her slept-in gown was hopelessly rumpled and her unbounded hair disheveled and tangled. Worse than her appearance, however, were her fanciful imaginings about last night. She had a vague recollection of drinking a few glasses of wine, Damien appearing in her chamber, and a thoroughly disgraceful incident with a wash basin, but was that everything? Did anything else occur that she should be aware of?
Isabella lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Last night was hardly a subject she was eager to introduce into the conversation, but curiosity won out over common sense.
“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” Isabella muttered. “I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what happened.”
“You got drunk,” Damien said bluntly. “On my best claret. Then you retched it up in a basin. When you were done, I put you to bed.”
Isabella winced at the image. It was a harsh comment, but the unexpected warmth she saw in the earl’s eyes softened the blow. “That is all that occurred?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Isabella whispered. “I made an utter fool of myself.”
“Nonsense,” Damien replied philosophically. “I’ve been drunker. And sicker. Just ask Jenkins.”
Isabella smiled. Damien’s matter-of-fact attitude went far in restoring her serenity. “We are quite a pair, my lord.”
“I am finally beginning to realize that, my dear.”
Damien’s voice was husky. He stared steadily at Isabella for several long moments with a look she thought was almost hostile in its intensity.
“The children seem well,” Damien said, suddenly breaking the mood. “I spent the majority of last evening teaching Catherine to play backgammon. I fear that with only a bit more practice she will succeed in beating me.”
Isabella was rattled by the abrupt change of subject and struggled to follow along. “Catherine is a bright child. I’m glad you have found something that so captivates her attention. Backgammon makes a refreshing change from artillery battles.”
“She is still fighting Napoleon?”
“On occasion.” Isabella wrinkled her nose and swallowed more of her coffee. “Catherine’s interests usually turn to other matters when she spends time with you.”
“I am trying,” Damien said solemnly.
“I know.” Isabella set down her cup. “You love your children, Damien—that is the most important fact. And you are very good with them—kind, patient, loving. They even enjoy your teasing. All they really need from you is more of your time.”
The earl’s face grew serious; then he grinned. “I guess you are feeling more yourself, since you have the strength to lecture me,” he said. “How is your headache?”
Isabella managed a slight laugh. “No longer excruciating, merely raging.”
“A vast improvement.” Damien idly picked up a silver spoon and ran it between his fingers. “Shall we discuss what happened yesterday?”
Isabella nervously clenched her hands together. Her thoughts and feelings were a complex bundle of contradictions. She felt apprehensive, embarrassed, and totally unprepared.
“I feel lost, Damien. I am still the same person I was yesterday morning, yet I feel different. Everything has changed. The faceless family of my imagination is now real. It has a name. A name you disdain.”
He looked keenly at her. “Knowing the identity of your true father hasn’t made you a different person, Isabella. At least, not in my eyes. You can allow this knowledge to alter your life as much or as little as you desire. Remember, you are in control of your own destiny, my dear.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “What did Thomas—uh, Lord Poole say when you told him?”
