The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,3
that much was evident.
Muttered curses had her turning to see Charlie and Spargo half-carrying the earl from the carriage. Spargo was a strong fellow and her brother was no weakling, but they were struggling beneath his weight. In the dim light cast by the carriage lamps, Livvy got a glimpse of an arrogant profile, of the severe planes of a face that showed no trace of softness. He was barely conscious, a sheen of sweat on his skin, and she caught a furious glitter in his feverish gaze.
“Get off, get off you devils, let me be,” he protested, but weakly for such a big man, and Spargo and Charlie wrestled him up the stairs.
She followed them into the house as they hefted him to Harry’s bedchamber and all but threw him down on the mattress. He didn’t stir, limbs akimbo, one long leg hanging off the side of the bed.
“Dead?” Spargo asked, peering over the bed at him.
“Dead drunk,” Livvy said in disgust. She smelled it on him, a pungent mix of liquor and perfume and cigar smoke, of sweat and sickness. With a burst of fury, she turned on her brother. “Well, Charlie, he’s your guest, so you deal with him, for I shan’t. I wish you joy of him.”
With that, she stalked out and made sure to slam the door behind her. She was halfway down the corridor before Charlie caught up with her.
“Livvy, wait.”
Though the urge to keep walking and tell him to go to the devil was fierce, she forced herself to stop but didn’t turn back.
“Do you remember the time I got sent home from school, beaten black and blue? The worst time.” Charlie stood behind her still, his voice grave.
Livvy nodded, she could hardly forget. He’d been in a terrible state. Charlie had been sickly as a child, and had been a scrawny, weak boy until he was almost sixteen: an undeniable temptation for bullies. He’d been a magnet for them, but that second year at Eton had been bad.
“I remember.”
“That was the last time it happened.”
Livvy turned round to face him and saw pleading in her brother’s eyes.
“King saved me, Livvy. He beat the boys who made my life a misery and told them they’d get worse if anyone laid a finger on me again. We… We were never close friends. I don’t think King has close friends, but I owe him. He didn’t have to look after me—he was older, and so popular, and I was just a snivelling little runt—but he did. He looked out for me and made them stop. And now I shall look after him. Please, Livvy. I need your help.”
Livvy cursed inwardly. This was her brother all over. He was so bloody nice you couldn’t help but forgive him for making your life impossible. She let out a breath of exasperation and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Very well,” she said, and stalked back to Harry’s bedroom where they’d left the earl.
Chapter Two
Still the 28th November 1818, Stir It Up Sunday.
Damned devils, blasted boots, goblins, crows, and pigs…
King was dying.
He knew it, and the fact did not much surprise him. What was a little disconcerting was the realisation that he wasn’t ready to go. He’d made a bloody mess of everything, but all the same, he wanted to carry on with a desperation that startled him. His body did not seem to be in accord with his mind. King had little to recommend him to the Almighty, though, and was in no hurry to meet him just yet, which might come as a shock to those who knew King best. The Earl of Kingston had been on the road to perdition for as long as anyone, and certainly as long as he himself, could remember. Now that the pearly gates beckoned, King was damned if he was ready to go through. Assuming of course he wasn’t due to visit a location with a far warmer clime. It would hardly be an unreasonable supposition.
The problem with living was, it was so much bloody effort. Especially right now. Right now, he was sweating and trembling, and the room was spinning in an alarming fashion. More to the point, he hadn’t the faintest idea where this room was? A dim recollection of a friendly face and an interminable carriage ride made some sort of sense, but who? And where? And now some devil was manhandling him!
“Gerroff,” he mumbled, vaguely aware of his words slurring beyond recognition.