The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,4

been on one hell of a bender.

“Sit him up or we’ll never get his coat off.”

The voice was feminine, tart as citrus and sharp as a knife. It cut through his tender brain and made explosions go off on the way through. Hands mauled at his person, an indignity he never would have suffered if he’d been in any state to protest. He tried again anyway, mumbling words that were incoherent even to him as the room swayed and pitched. His stomach roiled and burned, and he let out a perfectly audible “Oh God,” before he cast up his accounts on a pair of dainty blue slippers.

“Son of a—”

“Livvy!”

Charlie snapped her name, censure glinting in his blue eyes. His disapproval was evident and Livvy knew well enough that he was frustrated by her, but then the feeling was mutual. They were siblings, and they loved each other dearly, but they were as alike as snow and sand.

“He’s ruined my slippers,” Livvy replied, impressed with the restraint she showed in not simply walking out the door and leaving them to it…except then the blasted earl took their attention by passing out cold.

Charlie sent Spargo to clear get the necessary to clear up the mess whilst they dealt with the earl. By the time they’d wrestled him out of his coat, waistcoat, and boots so splendid the cost of them could have kept the family fed for an entire year, Livvy was breathless.

“Help me with this,” Charlie said, cursing as he tugged up the fine linen shirt that was now rumpled and stained with sweat and vomit.

Livvy blinked and then let out a huff of laughter. This was Charlie all over. He would scold her for not being more ladylike and for swearing like a navvy, and then expect her to help him undress one of his friends without batting an eyelid. Sometimes he forgot she was a young, unmarried woman…well, unmarried, anyway. Then he’d remember that her marrying a rich man would solve all their problems and remind her to watch her mouth, make more effort with her hair, and not to ride astride, even if no one was looking. Not that he would sell her to the highest bidder—as if such a thing existed—for he loved her too well for that, but he’d get a wistful look in his eyes that made her stomach roil.

Livvy kicked off her soiled slippers and stepped gingerly around the revolting mess on the polished floorboards. At least he’d missed the rug. Charlie had gotten both of the earl’s arms free of the shirt but was struggling to get it over his head. With a bit of careful tugging and shifting, they got it free and then Livvy found herself staring down at a chest of such magnificent proportions she could only blink. Lord, but the man was big. Big and muscular and hairy. None of the Boscawen men were built like this fellow. When they all went sea bathing in the summer, Livvy had noted a scattering of golden hair on her brother’s chest, but….

A low groan rumbled through the object of her attention and she realised he was trembling hard, almost panting, his breath coming in hard little gasps. His skin was grey, with dark circles beneath his wild, feverish, rolling eyes.

“No, get away, get away….” He swiped an uncoordinated hand out towards some unseen object, and Livvy jumped back out of the way. “Devils, you’ll not have me, not yet, not today. N-Not ready to die.”

Livvy shot an uncertain glance at her brother, who gave a tight smile.

“When a man has drunk as much and for as long as King… well, when a fellow finally stops, he… he sees things that are not there, as the alcohol leaves his body. He’ll be wretched for a good few days, but little by little he’ll come about. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known.”

“He’s a foul creature, Charlie, can’t you see that?” Livvy said, shaking her head at the wreck of a man before them. “You must have read the scandals, seen the print shop caricatures. He’s a libertine, a hell-born babe, and this man will be here, among your family, for Christmas.”

“Ah, Livvy, where’s your sense of charity? Goodwill to all men, remember?”

Livvy snorted and looked her brother in the eyes. “I remember, and I’ll remember to tell Harry the same when you admit you can’t afford to send him to university, and Susan when she realises there will be no come out