Page 89 of A Symphony for the Earl

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Richard watched Fiona’s emotional exit with an aching heart. What had he expected? That she would throw her arms around him and refuse to return to Ireland with her one living relative? Recklessly, and blind with anger at Gerald Rafferty, he had broken their engagement. Did he think she would protest her dismissal and refuse to comply?

She loved him. His heart leaped at hearing those words. God knows he had waited long enough for her to say them. Was she simply placating her father? It had taken every bit of self-control not to plant a facer in Rafferty’s livid countenance—more so because the man’s accusations held a ring of truth. Clinging to his tattered pride, he didn’t say he loved her. Instead, he sent her back to Ireland. He was an utter fool.

Hansen appeared at the door with impeccable timing.

“Please fetch Mr. Rafferty’s hat and cloak, Hansen,” Richard ordered, still furious. “Our guest is ready to leave.”

Rafferty looked as though he might protest, but he tightened his lips and gave the briefest of bows before following the majordomo out of the room.

Richard escaped to his study before his mother or sister could return. He recognized the tightness in the back of his head and the pounding in his temples. The beginning of a colossal headache. He couldn’t remember the last time he had suffered one. If ever there was a night to prompt a headache, it was this miserable evening. His valet materialized as he reached the door and followed him into the room.

“Let me take your coat, sir. I will snuff the candles and leave the fire.”

Numbly, Richard allowed John to ease the tight-fitting garment from his shoulders and slide each sleeve down his arms. After carefully laying the coat over the desk, John returned.

“Your boots, sir.”

The earl waved him away irritably. “You’re dismissed.” He grimaced.

“My lord,” John stood firmly in place. “It is obvious that you are not feeling well. Let me remove your boots and loosen your cravat, and I will leave you in peace.”

The candlelight flickered, and Richard sat in the overstuffed armchair by the fire, shutting his eyes against the dancing glare. He extended one leg, then the other, as John struggled to pull off the molded leather. When he finished, Richard’s head fell back against the cushioned headrest, and raising a hand to refuse any help, he pulled at the intricate knots in his snowy cravat, releasing them and throwing aside the fabric.

Sighing in relief, Richard undid the first few buttons of his thin lawn shirt.

“Are you happy now?” he growled at the hovering valet.

“Let me bring some brandy, my lord, and a carafe of water.”

“Whiskey,” the earl muttered. John slipped out to return a short time later with a tray, which he set down on the small mahogany table by Richard’s chair. He moved quietly about the room, dampening the tapers with a snuffer.

Richard opened his eyes. “You should have brought a bottle.”

“Nonsense, my lord. A glass will do. And water is the best thing for you, not spirits. There is also some laudanum.”

“If I agree to take it, will you leave?” The firelight exposed the older man’s grave concern and Richard regretted his churlishness.

“Thank you, John. I shall doze here for a while, and it will be fine. Please don’t wait up, and send word that I won’t attend supper.”

“Yes, my lord.” He bowed and softly closed the door behind him.

Richard downed half the whiskey and sank into the upholstered cushions as the spirits warmed his throat and settled in his stomach. Eyeing the carafe of water and a fresh glass beside it, he expelled an impatient breath and filled the glass, adding two drops of the opiate. He drank that and another glass of water.

Although the bands of pain around his head and neck persisted to throb, it was easier to bear after the numbing effects of the whiskey and the near darkness of the room. Soon, the laudanum would take effect.

Richard ran a hand through his tousled hair, drawing a deep, unsteady breath. It always amazed him how quickly the headaches attacked. Eventually, they abated, leaving him groggy and unbalanced. Usually, a bit of solitude in a quiet, dim room and mindful breathing stilled the warning signs.

But tonight had almost broken him. Gerald Rafferty’s accusations were true. He had taken advantage of his daughter. The seductive skills gained from his meaningless affairs had succeeded only too well. Fiona believed she was in love with him. How could he be sure he hadn’t just dazzled her with his wealth and status?

She was a wealthy woman now. How could he hold her to an engagement that he had coerced her into accepting? She was young enough to recover from a broken heart. Unfortunately, he could not say the same.

Finally, the dim room and crackling of the dying embers lulled him into a restless sleep.

Richard awoke with a start, his mouth dry, and sat up too quickly. A wave of lightheadedness engulfed him. He reached for the water carafe and poured a glass with unsteady hands. Gradually, the room righted itself. Groaning, he rubbed his temples, rose from the chair, staggering slightly, and went over to stoke the smoldering fire. A dim flame flared up.

Perhaps he had just dreamed the music. Richard opened the study door to listen, but the house was quiet. If it were the piano, that would mean Fiona was awake. He had to know for certain.