Then he was in the street, the echo of the door he’d slammed behind him loud in the quiet. Some builders glanced over from the house opposite, took one look at his face, and hurriedly resumed their work.
There was, he decided—stupid thoughts being the easiest to hide behind—no protocol for moments like this. Not when one didn’t drink. And not when public spectacle was anathema.
He went home. There were the bundles, still in the hallway, blue satin and white spilling from the disbelieving rent he’d made in the paper. Tom gave a happy shout of welcome, feet skidding as he rounded the corner and ran into the hallway.
“Not now.” He had no idea what the boy was even saying. He waved away the noise. “No. Not now.” He went upstairs to his room.
There was nothing to be gained by pacing, was there? Nothing to be gained by dragging his hands through his hair tight enough to tear it from his ringing skull. He looked for a moment at his reflection, hands braced on the dressing table edge, but the reflection there was just as stupid. More so.
Sobriety seemed suddenly overrated. What harm could there be in taking the edge off? He went to his father’s room, holding his breath against the smell. But there was none. Or nothing unpleasant. Only shaving foam and coffee and soap. His father was downstairs—yes, he remembered now, there were all those cogs over the floor…
No decanters on the dressing table. None on the shelf. But he normally kept them in the cupboard at the side. Sebastian opened it. Found it empty.
The bedside table, then.
Empty too.
Wonderful. He couldn’t even get a drink, could he, in his own house?
He marched downstairs. But the office, the sitting room, and the drawing room were all empty. He ignored his father’s greetings and whatever it was he said about gears and went to the kitchens. The chef said nothing at all as Sebastian took the brandy from the work surface near where a sauce was being prepared. It was hardly the first time the kitchen had been raided by a Thorne.
Back in his room, the first glass didn’t help. The second didn’t either. But he poured a third and started it grimly, resolved upon this course. He was perfectly capable of getting drunk, thank you very much.
There was a knock at the door, which he ignored. Another knock, and then the handle turned and his father stepped in, hesitating and diffident and irritating with it. Was he the earl, or was he some stupid mouse?
“Well?” snapped Sebastian.
His father took a step inside the room, though he kept his hand on the door, giving a troubled glance at the glass in Sebastian’s hand.
Sebastian, sitting at his dressing table with one booted ankle on his knee, picked up the decanter and slopped the glass full.
“Why not fetch a glass and join me, Father? I can’t recall if we’ve ever shared a bottle of anything in our lives. Surely it’s high time we did.”
His father’s jaw worked. A nervous swallow. Then he carefully and quietly closed the door behind him, as though the precision of his movements were important. Just as carefully and quietly, he came to sit on the end of Sebastian’s bed. He tucked his hands under his thighs and kept his eyes on the floor.
“No, thank you, Sebastian. I don’t think I will.”
Sebastian huffed a laugh. “Oh, don’t play the saint. Though you’ve done an admirable job of cleaning your room. I couldn’t find your new hiding place, though I admit I didn’t look too hard. But don’t pretend anything has changed. I saw you when I came in last night, flailing and raving in your room. It took both Daniels and Doctor Phillips to pin you to the floor.”
What an edifying sightthathad been to return to after he’d stormed away from the ball. He’d been in no state to feign composure even for a moment. He’d returned to the familiar comforts of home.
His father’s lips pressed together as he studied the rug at his feet. A flicker of shame, perhaps. Or hurt.
“It is thedelirium tremens. It is all part of the…the process. Doctor Phillips explained it all to me when we decided onthis current course of…of weaning. He is a good man, Doctor Phillips. A very good man. He’s been researching the issue for many years.”
“Weaning,” repeated Sebastian, not hiding his scorn. He drank off half his glass in one go, eyes mocking as his father glanced up in embarrassment. “What son is supposed to witness his own father’sweaning?Should I get you a nurse? Should she bring up warmed bottles with a sucking teat?”
His father’s jaw tensed. A small show of temper. Good. Good. Sebastian was in the mood for a fight. But the old man let out a breath, full of sorrow not rage, and pushed himself up from the bed. He took a step towards the door.
“I hoped…I’d hoped with Tom, and the aunt, and most of all Mrs Ardingly, that Jonathan Tait hadn’t quite beaten all the heart out of you. But I think perhaps I was wrong.”
Sebastian sat still, burning as his father took several weak steps towards the door. He was reaching for the handle when Sebastian said, his voice cold enough to send shivers down his own back, “And who was there to protect me, Father? You blame me for my own beatings, do you?”
Perhaps the wordswereice, because his father froze.
Sebastian got up, and despite everything, there was still some part of him that was dismayed when his father cringed as though he feared a blow. But that hurt could fuel his anger. Anger was stronger than pain. And if he couldn’t be strong right now, he would be nothing, nothing left.
So he put a hand on the door, blocking his father’s escape. God, he was inches taller than the man. Since when?
