Page 94 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

“Ahem. Your Grace? Ahem.”

Christian furrowed his brow. Why was Hooves in his room, leaning over him? Was he standing on the bed? Why was he so high up?

Christian blinked groggily. Then he realized with a jolt that Hooves had not clambered on his mattress to loom over him, but that he had fallen asleep face-down on the rug.

The fire had died down, leaving him goose-bumped and shivery. This was likely not helped by the fact that he was still naked after his bath. Hooves must have thrown a towel over his lower half.

“Gah,” he croaked.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember much of anything after the sharp pain of the ice-cold bath, numbed by his fifth glass of whiskey.

Hooves cleared his throat. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“What time is it?”

“Half past seven, Your Grace.”

Christian rolled onto his side, squinting up at the butler. “And you thought this was an appropriate time to wake me, did you?”

“Generally, I would not,” Hooves conceded. “But this time, I thought I would make an exception.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Her Grace is preparing to leave.”

Christian flinched. “What? Where is she going? I don’t understand.”

The butler straightened up, biting his lower lip. For a moment, Christian saw worry flash across his face.

“I understand she is going home, Your Grace.”

Christian blinked. He felt a rush of nausea, which was hardly surprising after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

“Home? But this is her home.”

“Nevertheless, Your Grace, she has packed up her things and is waiting for the carriage as we speak.”

He let out a long, shaky breath. “I see. Well, thank you for telling me. I shall go down and speak to her now.”

He stiffly rose to his feet, wincing at the soreness in his joints. He’d staggered about halfway to the door before Hooves gave a gentle cough.

“Perhaps some breeches and a shirt before you go down?”

Christian paused, glancing over his shoulder at where the towel lay crumpled on the rug. “Ah,” he mumbled. “Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea. But quickly. I don’t want to miss her.”

The butler immediately produced a pair of breeches and a clean shirt. “I took the liberty of preparing clothes before I woke you, Your Grace.”

Christian brightened. “Have I ever told you that you’re worth your weight in gold, Hooves?”

The butler modestly inclined his head. “I believe you have, Your Grace, yes.”

About five minutes later, Christian padded barefoot down the wide, velvet-carpeted stairs. He spotted several bandboxes and bags littered around, along with the sensible, middle-aged maid who had come with Thalia. Mabel was her name, if he recalled correctly.

Thalia stood in front of the door, staring at it as if waiting for it to open. She must have heard him descend the stairs, but she did not turn around.

“Mabel,” he said when he reached the bottom step, “would you give us a moment, please?”

Mabel hesitated, glancing at her mistress. “I was meant to load up the bags and such when the carriage gets here, Your Grace.”