Read Online Night of Pleasure by Delilah Marvelle - Free Book Online Page B

man shoving aside all etiquette by not including his own bride in any of the formalities involved? A bride who wasn’t even going to be at the wedding. Gad. It was a mess. She still didn’t know how she was going to tell her father about it.
    Waving away the flame to extinguish the match, her father tossed the burnt stick into an ash pan attached to the seat and dragged in a long breath before letting smoke out through his nostrils and mouth. “Whilst I don’t doubt Banfield invited a jolly bunch, maybe we ought to have the footmen deliver invitations to random doors throughout London and see who shows up. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
    Her father’s idea of fun had always been the opposite of her own. “Yes, and why not invite the Zoological Society, including the animals themselves? At least that way we would know what to expect from all of our guests when they arrive.”
    He wagged the cheroot at her. “Stop nagging. Can’t the father of the bride have ideas?”
    “When they belong to you, I worry.”
    “Yes, yes, and I love you, too. I’m certainly not going to miss all of your spoilsport nagging. Banfield can have it.”
    She tightened her hold on her reticule. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Grey , but my nagging kept your hands out of the sideboard all these years.”
    He grunted. “Men drink, Tine. It’s what we do.”
    “No. It’s what you do. Because rational men don’t drink four decanters of cognac in the middle of the day then stumble around looking for more. You may think me to be naïve, but I’m not that naïve. I was the one who pulled every drink from your hand since I was ten. Every drink. And you know it.”
    Her father said nothing. He rolled the cheroot in his hand, staring down at it.
    It was like seeing the broken man she grew up with. She softened her voice. “You are doing infinitely better.”
    He shrugged. “I’m trying.”
    She reached out across the distance between them and touched his knee to acknowledge his pain. She wasn’t one to give affection, even to her own father, but whenever he needed it (like he clearly did now), she delivered. “I know you’re trying, Papa. And I’m very proud of you for that. You haven’t faltered in over eighteen weeks.”
    He cleared his throat. “About that. I uh…I drank some cognac with Banfield yesterday. More than I should have. He offered it during contract negotiations. I felt awkward saying no.”
    She groaned. “Papa. You didn’t have to drink it just because he offered it.”
    He winced. “I know. I…” He puffed out a breath, deflating both cheeks. “Fortunately, I didn’t let it get out of hand. I stopped myself right after I emptied a full decanter.”
    Which, sadly, was light drinking for her father. She sighed. “So now I have to worry about you again? Is that what you’re telling me?”
    “No. I’m fine. My valet knows to keep all the decanters filled with water and I already paid off everyone in the hotel to ensure they don’t service me anything stronger than tea.”
    That was something.
    The carriage rolled to a halt, causing her to sway against the movement. The torrential rush of rain drowned out all sound. She paused and glanced toward a looming four-story aged limestone home bordered with iron black gates bearing a crest of a sword placed over a sprig of heather. Footmen holding umbrellas scurried to open the gates.
    The carriage rolled through, drawing closer to the massive limestone home beyond.
    She leaned toward the window, her lips parting. Ivy, living and dead, covered most of the limestone and fingered the very sills of each narrow window. It made the house look old. Not at all what she remembered. Set against a thick, dark sky heavy with rain, the structure had no welcoming light glowing through any of the countless windows. It was like visiting a cemetery. “This isn’t Banfield’s house, is it?” She tried not to sound appalled.
    “Yes. It’s his London residence. Don’t you remember? We