At least the governess was good for something, even if she sat in judgment on him for his mistake of a marriage. “That is good advice.” With a groan and a hand to his aching head, he stood. “And some I should follow post haste.” Which meant seeking Nia out and trying to ascertain some answers.
But Deborah stopped him with a sharp tug to the hem of his jacket. “What is my new mama’s name?”
What the devil? Everything was becoming all too real. Though he usually referred to his mistress as Nia, her full name was Lavinia. And now he thought about it, that was a more regal-sounding name that he should probably employ. “Perhaps I shall ask her what she’d like for you to call her.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I will see you later today, poppet. Papa has a rather large mess to attend to at present.”
“Did you spill something, Papa? Miss Hamilton doesn’t like it when I do that.”
If only it were that simple. If he didn’t stem the flow of gossip, it would be his guts spilled all over the ground somewhere in Hyde Park by the Duke of Bradford’s hand. “Not quite, but it’s ugly nonetheless.”
Then Percival fled with guilt following close on his heels. The closer he came to the countess suite at the opposite end of the corridor from his rooms, the angrier he grew. How could this have happened? Surely, he hadn’t been that drunk. Couldn’t he control himself when it came to brandy? Didn’t he stop at his threshold? Worry surged down his spine and roiled through his gut, for he knew the truth.
Yet, he ignored it all the same, for someone had to be responsible. Ah, then it came to him. He’d been manipulated! Of course he had. Why else would he have done such a nodcock thing? When he burst into her private sitting room, Nia was calmly taking an early tea. She held a copy of The Times in one hand and a cup in the other.
Percival wiped at the cold sweat on his brow with the back of a hand. “What the devil have you done, madam?” He didn’t give a flying fig if every servant in the damn place could hear his explosion.
One of her finely feathered eyebrows rose in question. As calmly as if she were a duchess, she lowered the folded paper and set it on the small round table at her elbow. “I don’t know what you mean, Laughton.”
“You do!” He waved his right hand. Only then did he realize his signet ring was missing. Upon closer scrutiny, he spied the bauble on the fourth finger of her left hand. Damn it all to hell. Not quite the evidence he wanted to see. Temporarily confused, Percival cast a look about the room. Personal effects decorated the tabletops. A few paintings now hung on the walls of the apartment that he swore used to be in her residence. It was a decent distraction. “You’ve certainly wasted no time in moving in.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Especially when you spent the morning and part of the afternoon unconscious?” Her shrug was elegant. After another sip of tea, she set the cup into its saucer on the table. “We are married. Legally, in front of God and your closest friends.”
Another wave of anger slammed into him, which increased the incessant pounding in his head. “You manipulated me into doing that.” He pressed his fingers to the spot above his left eye where the headache stabbed him the most.
“Hardly. Go deeper into your pickled brain. You’ll find your answers.”
The fact that she wasn’t perturbed by the situation or his outburst, ramped his annoyance. For the moment without the ability to speak since his ire strangled the words, Percival studied her instead.
Dark brown hair he knew from experience reached her waist when unbound was twisted into a neat chignon and held into place with pins and combs. A dress of mint green stamped with darker green ivy vines clung to her curves in all the right places. No matter how livid he was at the circumstances, his fingers itched to caress that lush body, taste those full breasts, claim the pink lips he already knew were as soft as rose petals.
“I rather think you did this on purpose, Nia.” His strength depleted, Percival sat heavily on a nearby chair with a groan. He concentrated on his pounding head.
“Of course I did.”
The affirmation surprised him. “What?”
She shifted in her chair to better look at him. “You were adamant that we wed. In fact, you were so bullheaded and arrogant that you refused to listen to me or Lords Randolph or Saintfort. So here we are.” She held up her left hand where the signet ring winked in the afternoon sunlight. “Married, and you so drunk you didn’t have a ring available to say nothing of being able to identify me.”
Scraps of that memory came back to him. Heat crept up the back of his neck. “You could have protested. I usually take your advice.”
“I did protest. Multiple times. They were overruled.” Nia shrugged. “After that, I went along with your insane plan. I’m clever, and I don’t waste opportunities when they come my way. Like it or not, you are now my husband and I’m your countess.” There was no malice in her voice, only a calm matter-of-fact logic he couldn’t ignore.
“Because I was drunk.”
“Quite foxed, truly. I’ve only seen you in that state twice before.”
He’d been thinking about his wife, and when he did that, copious amounts of brandy always followed. God, he could use a drink now to dull this ever-growing nightmare.
“However, you weren’t so incapacitated that you couldn’t repeat vows—more or less—or consummate the marriage—without finesse or skill I might add.” She flashed a small, tight grin that contained no mirth. “The excuses you’re formulating are not just cause for annulment or even divorce, I’d venture to say.”
Bloody, bloody hell.
The next smile she gave him was more genuine and crinkled the corners of her eyes. Lines also framed her mouth. He remembered that smile. “Face it, Laughton. This is your life now. You might as well make the best of it.”
“But…” Percival opened and closed his mouth. What the devil could he say about any of it? “You’re a whore.” That was uncouth, yet it had been the truth four and twenty hours ago.
“Not anymore.” Her smile died. In its place came worry and a touch of insecurity. “My status has been elevated. I need not work that trade nor have a man’s fleeting protection.” Slowly, she rose to her feet and chose to pace between her chair and the fireplace. “Besides, we rub along well together, both in bed—excepting your performance last night—as well as out of it. This might be a good experience for both of us.”
How could she remain so damned calm about this when his reputation was in danger of being shredded and the hostesses within the ton would surely shun her?