‘You’re higher than a kite.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Just a little in the wind.’
‘What’s wrong, old friend?’ Sunny said in a low voice. ‘It’s not like you to get blind drunk, let alone arrive in that state at a ball.’
Wick blinked at Sunny. He didn’t know what had come over his best friend lately. He’d shared his personal feelings and wanted Wick to talk about his. That was not how Englishmen behaved. They punched their friends and were polite to their enemies. They were stoic and strong and didn’t cry in public. Not even when they wanted to. And they most certainly did not confide in other men.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look terrible,’ Sunny said, pointing at him. ‘Your appearance would make your valet weep. Your hair is a mess and your clothes are rumpled.’
Wick snorted. ‘If my appearance offends you, then I shall leave.’
He spun on his foot to go, and nearly lost his balance on the loose gravel.
‘You can’t just waltz with her once and leave,’ Sunny said, grabbing Wick’s shoulder and forcing him to face him. ‘You’ll have every tabby coupling your names together. You need to dance with other ladies.’
‘I don’t want to,’ Wick said, sounding like a child even to his own ears.
Sunny’s free hand went to Wick’s other shoulder. ‘I don’t care what you want, you idiot. I care about Lady Louisa’s reputation—which is already a little shaky, thanks to her horrid relations. You will make her the talk of the town. You waltzed with her as if she was a serving wench you could hold as close to you as you liked. Then you escorted her out of the ballroom. Many a matron will be expecting an engagement announcement in theGazettetomorrow.’
Swallowing heavily, Wick shook his head. ‘I can’t. I can’t marry her. It’s too much—too much.’
His friend huffed in frustration. ‘Well, if you won’t marry Lady Louisa, then you will restore her reputation, and yours, by dancing every set until this cursed ball ends.’
‘You said I look a fright.’
‘Oh, you do,’ Sunny said sharply. ‘But after my valet has had you for a half an hour I expect you to return to the ballroom as fresh as a daisy and ready to dance. Am I clear?’
‘Yes.’
Sunny moved his hands from Wick’s shoulders and grabbed him by the elbow. He hauled him through the back of the house and went with him up the servants’ staircase—which wasn’t necessary because Wick knew his friend’s house as if it were his own. Then Sunny opened the door to his bedchamber and shoved Wick inside. He stumbled a few steps, still trying to clear his foggy, pounding head.
If Mr Mayhew was surprised to see either lord during the middle of a ball, he gave no such sign. He was a young man about their own age. Slim, pale and unassuming, with light brown hair and a hooked nose.
He bowed. ‘May I be of assistance, Your Grace?’
‘Tidy his clothes and his hair and sober him up, if you please, Mayhew,’ Sunny said. ‘I don’t expect a miracle—just do your best. Then escort him back to the ballroom.’
Wick sighed. ‘I know the way.’
‘You know nothing,’ Sunny said, shutting the door behind him.
Mayhew came up to Wick. ‘Why don’t you take a seat, my lord? I’ll find you a drink that will help clear your mind, and then we can tidy up your appearance.’
Unsteady on his feet, Wick was grateful for the chance to sit down. The valet led him to a chair and Wick closed his eyes. He must have dozed off, for suddenly Mayhew shook his shoulder roughly.
‘Lord Cheswick, here is your drink.’
His eyes flickered open and he accepted the glass from the man. Lifting it to his nostrils, he winced. It smelled horrendous. ‘What’s in this thing?’
‘’Tis best if you don’t know,’ Mayhew said, with a faint look of amusement on his face. ‘Just swallow the whole thing down as quickly as possible.’
Wick followed his directions, and the concoction tasted even worse than it smelled. For a few moments he feared that he would be sick all over his shoes. But slowly the fog in his brain began to clear, leaving only a pounding headache and a heart full of regret.
Sunny had been right. Drunk or sober, Wick’s behaviour at the ball towards Louisa was unpardonable.
He allowed Mayhew to comb his hair and replace his crumpled cravat with a new one belonging to Sunny. Wick usually tied his own cravat, but his hands were shaking too much for him to do a creditable job. Mayhew confided that Sunny never tied his own cravat, and carefully folded Wick’s into the mathematical style. Then the valet brushed out the wrinkles in his coat and polished his shoes.