“You’d better call some footmen, Dobson,” George suggested.
“I’m afraid,” Dobson puffed without looking back, “they’re on errands for the mistress, my lord.”
“Bloody hell.” Anthony perked up, hearing that. “What’s she doing dispatching—”
George poked him in the ribs to shut him up. The lady in question had come out of the parlor and stood with hands on hips and an unpleasant gleam in her hazel eyes, which moved over them all. George swallowed hard.Thiswas Anthony’s wife? Gad, she was breathtaking—and furious.
“Beg pardon, Lady Malory,” George offered hesitantly. “I found these two rather deep in their cups. Thought it prudent to get them home to sleep it off.”
“And who are you, sir?” Roslynn asked stonily.
George didn’t get a chance to answer. Anthony, fixing his gaze on his wife, sneered, “Oh, come now, my dear, you must know old George. He’s the very chap responsible for your distrust of the male gender.”
George flushed hotly as her eyes narrowed with a distinct golden glow on him. “Blister it, Malory,” he hissed, throwing Anthony’s arm off his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of your wife. No more than you deserve after that crack.” Not that he understood it, but that was no way to introduce one’s best friend to one’s wife.
To Roslynn, George nodded. “Another time, Lady Malory, hopefully under better circumstances.” And he departed angrily, not even bothering to close the door.
Anthony stared after him, bemused and unsuccessfully trying to keep his balance in the middle of the hall. “Was it something I said, George?”
James laughed so hard at that, he and Dobson fell back two steps on the stairs. “You’re amazing, Tony. Either you don’t remember at all, or you remember more than you should.”
Anthony rounded about to stare at James, halfway up the stairs now. His “What the deuce does that mean?” got only another laugh.
When it looked as if Anthony was going to fall flat on his face, Roslynn rushed forward, dragging his arm about her neck, and putting her own around his waist. “I canna believe you’ve done this, mon,” she gritted out, maneuvering him carefully across the hall. “Do you ken what time of day it is, to be coming home like this?”
“Certainly,” he replied indignantly. “It’s—it’s…well, whatever time it is, where else would I come home to, except to my own home?”
He tripped on the bottom step, pulling Roslynn down with him to sprawl at the foot of the stairs. “Hell’s teeth! I ought to leave you here!”
Anthony misunderstood in his befuddled state. His arm whipped around her, holding her so tight against his chest she couldn’t breathe. “You’re not leaving me, Roslynn. I won’t allow it.”
She stared at him incredulously. “You…oh, God, save me from drunks and imbeciles,” she said in exasperation, pushing away from him. “Come on, you foolish man. Get up.”
Somehow, she got him upstairs and into his bedroom. When Dobson appeared at the door a moment later, she waved him away, why, she wasn’t sure. She could have used his assistance. But it was a uniquesituation, having Anthony helpless and unable to do for himself. She was rather enjoying it, now that the first irritation had passed. That she was likely the cause of his condition was satisfying too. Or was she?
“Do you mind telling me why you’ve come home drunk in the middle of the day?” she asked as she straddled his leg to remove the first boot.
“Drunk? Good God, woman, that’s a disgusting word. Gentlemen do not get drunk.”
“Oh? Then what do they get?”
He shoved against her backside with his other foot until the boot popped off. “The word is…it’s…what the deuce is it?”
“Drunk,” she repeated smugly.
He grunted, and when she came for the second boot, his shove was a bit harder, sending her nearly toppling when the boot came off in her hands. She swung around, eyes narrowed, only to find him grinning innocently at her.
She threw the boot down, coming back to the bed to tackle his coat. “You didn’t answer my question, Anthony.”
“What question was that?”
“Why are you in this disgusting condition?”
He didn’t take offense this time. “Come now, my dear. Why else would a man tip one too many? Either he’s lost his wealth, a relative’s died, or his bed’s empty.”
It was her turn to look deliberately innocent. “Did someone die?”
He placed his hands on her hips, pulling her a touch closer between his legs. He was smiling, but there was nothing humorous about it. “Play with fire, sweetheart, and you’ll get burned,” he warned thickly.
