A Winter Wish (The Read Family Saga #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,4

was—was all still a great mystery. Not that it mattered, either way. With the ton having retreated to their country properties for the Christmastide season—his parents fortunately among those numbers—Luke had no responsibilities.

None.

There were no gentlemen with whom to discuss the state of England.

No brothers to see, though they hadn’t been seen since his youngest brother had been accused and, with the help of their other brother, cleared of treason.

And there was no wife. Or betrothed.

There was no Josephine.

His chest spasmed at the reminder that was always near just how badly he’d bumbled, well, everything.

He who, until five months ago, had never so much as had a cravat askew.

For thirty years, he’d made his role as heir to the earldom—and all the estates, wealth, and responsibilities that went with it—his only priority. From the moment he’d left the nursery for the schoolroom, the importance of the Holman name and legacy had been well ingrained into him. And never had he deviated from those commitments. With his head for business, the responsibilities of seeing to the familial finances had fallen to him. A mantle he’d taken on as happily as he had any other before… and after it. Between those efforts and maintaining proper relationships with ranking members of the peerage, there’d been no time for pleasure… until he’d met Miss Josephine Pratt.

She’d been unconventional, spirited, with a head for books, and he’d been alternately horrified and entranced by her. And then had come his brother’s scandal with the Home Office, and it had commanded all of Luke’s energies.

Nay, that wasn’t altogether true. You broke it off with her because you thought it was best to sever all ties with her… for the both of them…

If he could have mustered the energy for a sufficient chuckle without throwing up in his bed, he would have set that cynical mirth free. Instead, Luke managed to lift his right hand in a mock toast to the empty room. “And all in the name of honor,” he whispered into his sheets.

There was a light scratch at the door, because even knocks in the Holman household were delivered with utmost decorum.

Ignoring that irritating rap, Luke stretched both palms out and drew the curtains tightly closed.

They’d go away, because the servants were as loyal as the London day was wet and knew, unless instructions were given, they weren’t to bother a Holman with visitors who’d arrived without an appointment.

Or, they had known.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

“My lord?” His valet’s slightly strident voice stretched through the heavy oak panel.

“Go away, Louie. I’m not to be disturbed,” he called and then promptly groaned at the misery he’d unleashed anew in his head. Swallowing another emission, he caught his head in his hands.

“Yes, yes. I’m aware of your preferences—”

“If you were aware of them, you’d not be jabbering on the other side of that door.”

“However, I thought I might urge you to rise for the day, because—”

“I cannot think of one damned reason why I should rise this day or any day,” he bellowed.

Silence from the hall and a ringing in his ears were the only answers. That ringing sent another wave of nausea roiling in his gut.

Good, you deserve it, you miserable bugger. Yelling at servants. This was who he’d become, then.

The doors exploded open with a force that sent bile into Luke’s throat. “I can give you at the very least three reasons why you should rise this day.”

That booming and all-too-familiar voice confirmed one truth—the good Lord hated him, after all.

The Earl of Maldavers shoved the door shut with a thunderous boom that merely confirmed that, in addition to God, his own father despised him, too. And why wouldn’t he? Luke was a miserable, starchy chap.

“Father,” he returned. The greeting, muffled by his blankets, was a rote form of politeness that had come from years of being the dutiful son. Reluctantly, he reached for the curtains.

He needn’t have bothered with those exertions.

His father ripped the fabric out of Luke’s hands and threw them wide, then stormed across the room.

“Don’t,” Luke croaked.

That plea didn’t so much as put a halt in the earl’s forward strides. He yanked open the drapes. Sunlight poured through, made all the more blindingly bright by the recent snowfall.

It was too much.

Retching, Luke fished around for the chamber pot and emptied the contents of his stomach into the nauseatingly cheerful porcelain piece.

“There, that is a good deal better, my boy.”

His father dangled a kerchief over the other side of the pot.

Wiping at his mouth, Luke collapsed onto