Dyfal donc a dyr y garreg.
Persistent blows shatter the stone. (Welsh proverb)
Coquettish giggles shrieked through the Duke of Rakecombe’s skull and he whimpered at the sharp stab of pain.
Where the deuce was he?
His eyes refused to open, his face was stuck, and his mouth felt like a pit of ash.
God, he hadn’t drunk like this since…Gwen.
At a boomed male chuckle, Rakecombe attempted to lift his head. A tearing noise made him realise his face was flat on his study desk and that he’d drooled on his blotting paper, gluing it to his cheek.
“Oh, you naughty scoundrel… And a dog called Roger? Then the highwayman?” a female squealed from somewhere across the hall, causing everything to thump alarmingly. “You couldn’t make it up…” More sniggers.
A pistol sat on the desk and Rakecombe frowned, eyes slitted.
Ah yes. Winterbourne had attempted to extract him from his study, and so he’d warned the fellow off with his trusty Ketland brass-barrelledunenamelledflintlock. No one had believed his threat until he’d cocked it and blasted the bust of Orpheus to smithereens.
Damn, how utterly unconstrained, and what must the neighbours have thought?
Not that any of that mattered. They could bugger off. He was a duke.
Vaguely, he recollected gathering two more decanters of brandy, some bread, requisitioning the only spare key from Rawlins and then locking himself away to read the most depressing Blake poetry he could find.
His head swam and his stomach wanted to cast up its meagre contents at the thought of not hearing that Irish lilt this morning or smelling violets or reacting to curses, for however longAideen wished tostay in Ireland.
Another male burble interrupted his thoughts. “Youmustcall me Jack,” the rogue purred to much vapid tittering.
Was Winterbournereally seducing some lackwit maid in his drawing room?
“Oh…Jack, if you insist, and you must call me Meghan.”
Rakecombe’s head shot up, hand held to said appendage to avert it from tumbling off.
Mother?
“Such an enchanting name,” Winterbourne’s deepest tone replied. “And I would be honoured to whisk you to the pyramids, Meghan. We could explore all those…forbidden delights together.”
Rakecombe scowled. He knew what they were doing even in his current state. Well, it wouldn’t work. He would never open that door.
“I’m a little old for you, Jack.” His mothergiggledagain.
“Au contraire,my delightful flower. You are a rose of late summer, the most fragrant and lush of them all.”
Rakecombe ground his jaw. He visualised those flashing ivories and molesting fingers.
“Oh! You handsome flatterer, but Lord Fotherington has finally offered to take me, and he is more of my age.”
Hah, take that, Witterbore. A Rakecombe woman doesn’t fall so easily for glib tongues.
“But,” the rogue rasped, “Lord Fotherington wouldn’t have the…stamina to squire you around all of those pyramids. Whereas I can persevere the entire day if necessary,fy nghariad bach.”
Toadying, dissolute buck fitch. That wouldn’t work on Mother, the pronunciation was appalling, like a honking goose.
“My, such exquisite Welsh,” she squealed girlishly. “So flawless, the very rumble makes me all–”
“Get your rancid mittens off my mother,” Rakecombe yelled from his desk, using both hands to hold his head still.
