Taming an Impossible Rogue by Suzanne Enoch

here?”
    “His Grace returned just moments ago.”
    “Had he been gone long?”
    “His Grace spent the evening in, sir.”
    “When did that note arrive for me?”
    “Just before dusk, sir.”
    So Adam had decided to wait better than six hours—until he’d demonstrated that he meant to stay out all night drinking—before delivering it to him. Apparently he did have a nanny, unlikely a one as Adam Baswich made. Considering that the news was good, he was willing to overlook his friend’s hovering. This once. Because generally he believed he should be left to wallow in the hole he’d dug for himself. No one else needed to be muddied on his account.
    He didn’t recall making his way up to the private rooms Adam had given over to him, and he didn’t remember shedding his clothes or falling onto the bed. In fact, his next conscious thought was that he was going to punch his valet in the nose if Pidgeon didn’t stop tapping him on the shoulder. “Bugger off,” he muttered, “or you’re sacked.”
    “I don’t work for you.”
    Keating forced open one eye. “Bugger off, anyway.”
    The Duke of Greaves picked up a pitcher of water and threw it on him.
    Cursing, Keating shot to his feet. Shock and throbbing pain in his head both hit him at the same time. With a growl he launched himself at the duke.
    Greaves sidestepped, and Keating crashed to the floor. Before he could stumble back to his feet, Adam put a booted foot on the small of his back. “Stay down,” he said evenly.
    “I was down, damn it all. In bed. Now I’m on the bloody floor.”
    “You know, I can’t decide whether you prefer hitting, or being hit.” The boot heel dug into his back. “You aren’t precisely prime at the moment.”
    “I’m not the one who threw water on me.” Keating uttered another epithet. “Get your foot off me, or you’ll find out firsthand.”
    The weight came off his back. “Pidgeon tried to wake you earlier,” Greaves commented, moving backward. “I’m here because it’s past noon, and I believe you have an appointment at two o’clock.”
    The angry retort Keating had been about to make stopped in his throat. “How far past noon?”
    “It’s twenty minutes of one. I had a bath drawn in your sitting room. Use it. There’s tea and sugar and toasted bread in there. Do I need to dress you as well?”
    Sitting upright, Keating leaned back against the side of the bed. “No.” He drew a tight breath. “Thank you, Adam.”
    “Yes, well, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m all for creating mischief.” He walked to the door. “I’ll send in Pidgeon at one o’clock.”
    Once the door closed, Keating swiped a hand through his dripping hair. At least it was water. There were times, a few years ago, when he’d awakened in worse. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’d told himself that he needed to stop drinking to such excess. Previously he’d always managed to take care of his duties as a landowner regardless of—or in spite of—his fondness for drunken oblivion.
    Now, however, he had a woman’s trust to gain, with ten thousand pounds at risk. And his head felt ready to pound straight off his neck. Of all the things he felt ready to do, being charming wasn’t one of them. “Damnation,” he mumbled, pushing to his feet and belatedly realizing that he was stark naked.
    He stifled a rueful chuckle. That must have given Adam a start. To his friend’s credit, the duke had awakened him, anyway. Not bothering to find a robe, he walked the short distance down the hallway to his sitting room. An upstairs maid shrieked and fled down the stairs, but other than his porcupine hair and beard stubble he didn’t see what was so frightening. Unless she’d been overwhelmed with desire at the sight of his cock, of course.
    Though he’d half expected the cast-iron bath to be full of icy water, it was pleasantly warm and steaming. After fifteen minutes of alternating sweet tea and submersion, he began