Lady Myddelton's Lover by Evangeline Holland Page A

him in his slumber, the disorderly emotions his very aliveness roused within her safely banked by her control over the circumstances. She dropped her hand and straightened abruptly at this thought, an uncomfortable thought that reminded her of her inadvertent interruption of his and Sir Carleton’s presumptuous conversation about her romantic life. It incensed her to hear them discussing her so cavalierly, as though she was a lot divided between them, or a prize won on the roll of a die. A rush of anger suddenly rushed through her at the image of them at the table, both so sure of their attraction and of their opinions about her, and of who she was.
    To the baronet, she was the Countess of Myddelton, the beautiful and charming wife of his old friend, who always deferred to the greater intellect of a gentleman and cushioned them from the aggravations of life with her soft voice and concern. To the new earl, she was beautiful—desirable to be more exact—and someone to push and tease and scandalize, until she bent to his will. And to Hugh…Lord, to Hugh, she was his wife and it was her place to honor his name, obey his will, and bear his children. She failed the last, which was why Richard was here. However, did that mean she was a failure?
    Aline struggled with this thought, trying to understand what she wanted. She wanted…oh she just wanted to be thought of as a person—a woman yea, but a person upon whom no one projected his or her expectations. She sank onto the sofa, head bent and a cool hand cradling her forehead, all of a sudden more than spent. She would sleep tonight, and make plans in the morning.
     

Chapter 9
     
     
    Richard jerked, swearing loudly at the shaft of light stabbing his eyes beneath their closed lids. His curses faded into a groan as he felt a dozen tiny devils walking up his spine to chisel away at pieces of his skull through his scalp. Ooh , he winced, forcing a sleep-numbed arm up to his head to brush at his devils. Every muscle in his body ached, even his ears (did ears have muscles?), which seemed to spasm and flinch at the horrible sounds of grunting and scraping and mumbling echoing in the room. He tried wrenching one eye open and a spell of vertigo hit him, followed by the nauseating churn of his stomach, and he dry heaved, nearly vomiting the entire contents of his innards.
    “There, there, my lord,” Said a disgustingly cheery voice. “Drink this.”
    He braved another attempt to open his eyes and realized he lay flat on his face, smothered in pillows and blankets. He jerked again when his tormentor ripped the blanket away from his body and lifted an arm, curling his fingers around something cool and round. Not another damned drink! He finally understood the multitude of sermons about the evils of drink and liquor. He had not consumed this much alcohol since he was a green lad on the cattle station, determined to prove to his mates that he could drink some foul-smelling concoction he brewed from every bottle and decanter of liquor his Da stored in their house. After that ghastly experience, he had not touched a swallow of alcohol.
    He pushed it back at the person, but they held fast, guiding his hand to his mouth and using their other hand to lift the glass to his face so he could drink. Richard was as helpless as a babe against their gentle handling, and swallowed the liquid they tipped into his mouth. He wrenched his eyes open with a raspy cough, sitting up as the drink burned down his gullet and singed his stomach. He glared at Aline, who stood beside the bed with that awful drink.
    “What the—” His voice crackled and he cleared his throat. “What the devil was that?”
    “It worked!” She glanced dubiously at the contents of the glass. “Truscott recommended this as a remedy for a ‘gentleman’s head’, but it looks very nasty.”
    “You’re damned right it is very nasty,” He took the glass from her hand and sniffed. “Tomato juice, Bromo seltzer, an egg, and a