Leonie pulled at the kid leather, but she acted a bit confused. Perhaps she was so impressed with the ring she was having nerves?
Her mother stepped in to help. Roman slid the sapphire on Leonie’s ring finger. He liked seeing it there. It was the only thing of value he had to give her, other than his heart.
He would have appreciated a sign from his bride that she was impressed with the stone. Instead, she heaved a great sigh and looked to Reverend Davis as if wondering what would happen next.
The reverend took both of their hands, covering them with his own. “With the joining of hands and the giving and receiving of a ring, I pronounce that they are husband and wife.” He then blessed them before announcing, “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”
It was done.
Roman was married to Leonie Charnock—no, he corrected himself. She was Leonie, Lady Rochdale. His wife. His countess.
He smiled down at her. She was studying the ring with great concentration. Finally, she was noticing the gift of the stone. Her lips curved into a slow, lazy smile. “This is truly lovely, my lord.”
And with the last word, Roman caught a whiff of mint... and brandy. His wife had been back in the bottle.
As if to confirm his suspicions, she started to lean and then began to fall. Instinctively, Roman reached out for her, catching her in his arms.
She grinned up at him. “Thank you for that,” she whispered on a soft, silly sigh before passing out and turning into dead weight.
Chapter 9
Leonie did not wish to open her eyes. Her mind was stirring, but not her body.
Then, she discovered, shecouldn’tlift her lids.
They seemed to be either sealed shut or too heavy to move.
She drew a deep breath, released it... and realized she was in bed?
Snuffling against the pillow, she stretched, ready to become more comfortable and fall back to sleep, except she couldn’t. Sleep was uncomfortable, worrisome even. She was also conscious that even her slightest movement created a hammering in the forefront of her brain. Why, even her head on the pillow seemed to annoy it.
She shifted her weight and discovered her legs seemed to be caught up in the heaviest of nightdresses. Dry drool caked the side of her mouth. To her horror, she had been sleeping with her mouth open. Her throat was dry and she was beyond thirsty.
Rubbing the drool away, she forced her eyes open—and then immediately shut them again with a groan. The drapes were drawn. The room was dark save for the light from the lamp across the room from her—but even that flickering brightness was too much.
A male voice said, “Good evening.”
Every fiber of her being froze.
She wasnotalone.Roman was with her.
What time was it? Was she not in her bedroom—?
Memory returned. She had gone to the church. St. Anne’s. She was to marry... and she had consumed a teapot full of brandy. At the last thought, her stomach suddenly revolted.
A strong hand pulled her to the edge of the bed. She wanted to warn him that she was going to be ill but he already seemed to know that. He unceremonious twisted her hair out of her way and said, “Use this.”
Leonie wasn’t certain what “this” was but she no longer had control over her body. She retched in the most unladylike way possible into a chamber pot.
The spicy sweetness of brandy was not as pleasant coming up as it had been going down. Again and again her stomach roiled until there was nothing left and still the heaving continued.
Tears ran down her cheeks with her exertions. She would never outlive the embarrassment. Roman kept her hair out of her face but she still managed to make a mess of herself.
When she was completely spent, she raised a hand and he released his hold. The mattress lifted as he stood. As she weakly pushed herself to sit up on the bed, she was conscious of his walking to the door. He opened it and gave the chamber pot to someone—another person aware of her humiliation!
She wiped her mouth with the edge of a bedsheet. She was still wearing the exquisite gown she’d worn to her wedding. She even had the diamond band in her hair, although it was askew and the edges of it dug into her scalp. She pulled the band off and attempted to put it on the bedside table but her arm didn’t seem to have any grace. She ended up practically throwing the delicate piece with a force she had not anticipated.
Roman stood by the door. He was in shirtsleeves and had removed his boots. She remembered that he had looked very fine at the church. He wore the same shirt, the same breeches. Then again, he was the sort of man who could make a drayman’s simple togs appear fashionable.
