A Risk Worth Taking (9 page)

The carriage came to a halt in front of a town house in the better part of London, and he lowered himself to the ground. He wasn’t drunk, and yet he wasn’t exactly sober.

A servant opened the carriage door, then stepped to the side while Mr. Blackmoor helped her alight. He towered over her. His height, which should have been intimidating, was instead somehow comforting. She placed her hand on his outstretched arm and felt the hard muscles beneath
her grasp; then she looked up. Their gazes locked, the jolt to her emotions unexplainable.

“You have nothing to fear, Lady Anne. Adam will take good care of you.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’ll try to get this done as quickly as possible so I am not an imposition.”

He raised his eyebrows and cast her a sidelong glance. “There is no hurry.”

“I regret Freddie made such a demand on your friendship,” she whispered as they made their way down the walk. She did not want to be overheard. “Once I’m settled, you may walk away with a clear conscience.”

He stopped, the look on his face hard. “Only dead men have the luxury of a clear conscience, my lady.”

His words shocked her. She could not think of anything to answer him, so she turned her head and moved with him down the walk and up the steps that led to the Earl of Covington’s town house.

She thought he staggered on the first step and she tightened her grip on his arm to keep him steady. But perhaps she’d been wrong. If he noticed, he gave no indication.

The door opened and a butler wearing the Covington maroon-and-silver livery admitted them. He took their coats and hats and handed them to a waiting maid.

“Fenwick, would you inform the earl and countess their guest has arrived?” Mr. Blackmoor said.

“My lord and lady are on their way down, sir. I am to take you and my lady into the sitting room, where refreshments are waiting.” Fenwick led the way through the spacious foyer.

Rich oak paneling and beautiful marble floors enhanced the room, while elegant tables laden with fresh-cut flower arrangements added a homey feeling that was welcoming. When they reached the third door on the right, Fenwick stepped back for them to enter.

Anne couldn’t stop the quiet intake of her breath when she saw the beautiful room, done in shades of rose and blues, set off by deep oak woodwork.

A servant followed them into the room, carrying a tea tray and a plate of sandwiches and cakes. “I will return later,” Fenwick added, pointing for the servant to place the tray in the center of a nearby table. “Then show you to your room after you’ve had some refreshment. Lady Covington thought perhaps my lady would like to rest a bit before dinner is served.”

“Thank you, Fenwick,” a deep voice said from behind them.

Anne turned to see the Earl and Countess of Covington enter the room. She tried not to stare, but it was impossible.

She’d seen the earl before, of course. They were neighbors, although Lord Covington and Mr. Blackmoor had never visited Brentwood Manor. Because one never knew what condition their father might be in, Freddie went to visit them.

Today was the first time she’d had to compare the two brothers. The difference between them was striking. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d seen the two of them at Freddie’s funeral, but she could not help comparing them now.

Mr. Blackmoor’s hair was a deep mahogany while the earl’s was blond and thinning on top. They were both
handsome in their own distinctive ways, and had the same startling blue eyes, but the earl’s gaze had a penetrating hardness that was absent in Mr. Blackmoor’s. There was also a certain aloofness in the earl’s countenance that Anne found more off-putting.

“Lady Anne,” the earl said. “Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you, my lord. It was so kind of you to invite me.”

The earl nodded, then turned to the petite blonde woman at his side. “Allow me to introduce my wife, the Countess of Covington. My dear, may I present Lady Anne Carmichael.”

The Countess of Covington stepped forward. Anne greeted her formally with a slight curtsy, then breathed a sigh of relief when the countess smiled. Her smile was warm and friendly, and it immediately put Anne at ease.

“It is a pleasure to have you here.” The countess grasped Anne’s hands and held them. Her gesture was sincere. Anne would find it pleasant here, at least for as long as it took to find a husband.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And, please, you must call me Patience. I insist.”

“And, please, call me Anne.”

The countess nodded, then turned her attention to Mr. Blackmoor. She crossed the room until she stood next to him. “Griff,” she said, reaching out to him. She took his hands in hers. “How are you?”

Lady Covington turned her cheek to accept his kiss. “It has been entirely too long, you know. It’s about time you came back to us. You will have to put forth a massive effort to have me forgive you for staying away so long.”

“I will do my best, my lady. I would never wish to disappoint you.”

“And you won’t. I care for you far too much to let that happen.”

Anne saw the genuine affection on the countess’s face. She also saw the worry in her eyes.

“Please, everyone. Do sit down and I’ll pour tea.”

Groupings of sofas and chairs were arranged in small clusters throughout the room. They sat in one of those clusters, except Mr. Blackmoor, who took the cup of tea the countess handed him and made his way to the window.

The earl turned to watch his brother. There was apprehension in his gaze, perhaps concern. It was difficult to tell. The earl did not appear to show much emotion.

Anne wondered if he knew how much his brother had had to drink already today, and if that’s what distressed him.

The countess kept the conversation flowing with practiced ease. She spoke of how busy London was at this time of year, and the many things there were to see, the many things she had planned for them to do. Their conversation, though, could not hold Anne’s attention. She concentrated more on how the cup of tea shook in Mr. Blackmoor’s hands. At the glassy look in his eyes. At his sallow, drawn complexion.

“I hope you don’t mind?” the countess said.

“Mind?” Anne replied, making her way back to the conversation.

“I was saying that we will have another guest for dinner tonight. A very good friend of ours, Dr. Samuel Thornton, who will be staying with us for a few days. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. That should be quite pleasant.”

The earl and his brother exchanged glances. Anne thought at first Dr. Thornton’s presence might be significant, but Mr. Blackmoor only turned his head and drained the liquid in his cup in one swallow. He drank it with the same desperation she’d seen when he’d emptied his flask. She somehow knew he wanted the liquid in his cup to be something stronger than tea.

When their tea was finished, the countess rose. “I’m certain you would like to rest awhile before dinner. I’ll have Fenwick show you to your rooms.”

As if by magic, Fenwick appeared at the door.

“Thank you so very much, my lady,” Anne said. “You have been most generous, and I am exceedingly grateful.”

“Nonsense. I look forward to having you as our guest. Tomorrow I must introduce you to our three sons. Timothy is nearly five, and Matthew three, and Simon not quite a year. For now, though, I’ll let you retire to your room. I’m sure you’ll want to rest after such a long trip. Dinner is served at eight. I’ll have someone call you in plenty of time to dress.”

“Thank you again,” Anne said, then walked to where Fenwick waited for her. When she reached the door, she stopped. She could feel Mr. Blackmoor’s gaze on her, watching her. She turned. “Thank you, Mr. Blackmoor,” she said. “For everything.”

“It is nothing,” he said, then turned his back to her and stared out the window. It was as if he’d hardened himself to any display of kindness. Any show of concern.

Anne followed Fenwick up the stairs to her room. When she was alone, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. She wanted to push Griffin Blackmoor from her mind. To forget how much he disturbed her.

There was no connection between the two of them other than the promise he’d made to Freddie. His obligation to her was over. Now it was up to her to do what was necessary, up to her to find a husband who was wealthy enough to provide for her and Becca. A husband who would not expect her to be the perfect wife, or love him, or cherish him, or care for him. Above all else, the man she chose as her husband would never be someone who wanted the liquor in a bottle more than his wife or his children.

Griffin Blackmoor’s dark, handsome face appeared in her mind’s eye. She quickly shoved his image away. He was the last man she would ever risk taking as her husband. He would demand too much of her. He would take too much from her.

She’d never seen another human being who needed someone to love him more than he did.

Never seen a man who resembled her father more than he did.

He couldn’t do this.

He’d barely made it through dinner without throwing the china to the floor and storming from the room to find a drink. His hands shook so badly he’d spilled his glass of water twice and upset his cup of tea more times than he could count. He needed a drink.

“This is ridiculous!” he said, pacing the floor like a caged animal. “I don’t need to do this.” He spun around to face Adam and Dr. Thornton. “I can stop anytime I want.”

“Can you?” the doctor asked.

Griff didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Of course he could.

Except right now he wasn’t sure. He’d already gone without a drink longer than he had in months and was nearly frantic for even one swallow.

“It’s going to get a hell of a lot worse before it’s over,” the doctor said, sitting with his legs outstretched before the fire. “This is only the beginning.”

Griff closed his eyes and took a deep breath. They’d gone to the study after they had finished eating under the pretext of having an after-dinner brandy. That was a joke. There wasn’t a drop of liquor in the whole damn house. He knew that for a fact. He’d searched every inch of Adam’s town house for one. He was desperate.

He clenched his fingers around the glass of water Adam had given him. His hands shook like a leaf in a windstorm. He was cold and clammy one minute and hot and sweaty the next. If he could just have one drink, he’d be better. He knew he would.

“Do you want to know what you’re going to have to face, Mr. Blackmoor? Or would you rather go into this blind?”

Griff looked at the doctor Adam had hired to get him through this. “Neither,” he answered. “I’d rather not go through this at all, but my brother has left me with no choice.”

Dr. Thornton set his glass on the table and stood. “Then I’m afraid trying to help you is a waste of my time.”

“Samuel, please,” Adam interrupted, and the doctor sat back in his chair.

Griff kept his gaze leveled on the doctor. He was younger than Griff had expected him to be, twenty-four
or twenty-five at the most. And he was a great deal more handsome than any doctor Griff had ever seen before. At least Patience and Freddie’s sister must have thought so. Neither of them had been able to take their eyes off him during dinner. He was quite amiable, but there was a tough side to his nature Griff couldn’t ignore.

“What do you mean, helping him will be a waste of your time?” Adam asked.

“We’ve found that patients who have a deep desire to cure their alcohol dependency have an excellent chance of succeeding. Those that do not fail nearly one hundred percent of the time.”

“What does that mean, Samuel?” Adam asked.

“It means if your brother doesn’t want to be helped, nothing you or I do is going to work. He’s the only one who can want to be cured badly enough to make it happen.” The doctor intensified the look he gave Griff. “Do you, Mr. Blackmoor?”

Griff turned his head and stared at the flames flickering in the fireplace. Did he want it badly enough? He closed his eyes and struggled to find the answer.

He was tired of not knowing where he was most of the time. Of not knowing who he was, or where he was going. Or where he had been.

He was tired of the lost days and nights, and waking up in strange places and not knowing how he’d gotten there. Of being so sick he thought he would die before he had his first drink, then downing enough until he no longer cared.

Of not being able to remember Freddie’s face, or Julia’s voice, or Andrew’s laughter.

He was tired of it all. Just plain tired. A pain burned like fire in his gut. He sighed. “What am I facing? I’d rather know.”

Dr. Thornton straightened in his chair. “All right. Here’s the worst of it. You already know the first signs. You’re suffering from them right now. You are desperate for a drink and don’t think you can survive if you don’t have one. You are nauseous and you can’t stop your hands from shaking. First you’re hot, then you’re cold, and your head hurts so badly you’re afraid it might explode at any moment. That will only get worse. You’ll shake until you can’t even stay lying on a bed. We’ll tie you down if we have to. The nausea will intensify, along with the sweating. You’ll be so hot you’ll think you’re burning up. And the pain will be so powerful you’ll pray you’ll die.”