"Bloody, bloody headache from hell," he growled as he stood from his bed.
Coffee, he surmised, no... maybe tea. Concentrated tea and as black and bitter as it could get may rid him of this headache.
He had too much to drink the night before and although that bottle of fine scotch had successfully removed his devils from his mind, it was replaced by this horrendous pounding and throbbing that was proving to be a different kind of devil.
Hell and damnation.
Knock, knock.
"Enter," he rasped. Why did his voice sound so strangled?
Water, yes, he needed water before any bloody coffee or tea. The door opened slightly and he saw his valet peer cautiously behind it.
"Was there a reason why you knocked," he wondered aloud, as he pressed both thumbs on his temple. Sometimes being a bloody lord with hired help was a nuisance at best.
His valet had never knocked unless he was unsure of his employer's decision in receiving company. Lord Killsworth couldn't at all determine any person in their right mind who would think of calling on him this early in the morning.
That and well, Killsworth rather felt that he himself as an unsuitable company for whoever they were. It would be damned impossible to conduct a conversation with this splitting headache.
"Ah... my lord, you—you," he stammered and pulled the door against his face to work it as his shield.
What the hell was wrong with him?
"Spit it out, Linley."
"You have a guest." The words came out too quickly and all that Killsworth could make out of it was its last syllable... a quest?
His head started splitting in two. What in god's name was he talking about?
"What?"
"You have a guest, my lord," The small man repeated as half of his body pressed through the opening of the door to get a better view of the inebriated lord.
Lord Killsworth was aware that he had scared most of the servants in his home since his arrival from London. He had been most beastly, but as the master of the house, he hadn't put it on himself to explain to his servants what had gotten him so surly. They must accept that Lord Killsworth, Anthony Llevy-Dorth, the owner of Kinsmen Place, would just be incorrigible for the time being.
There should be no room to complain. They've been receiving more than fair wages for their employment in an empty house. It was time that they had a master and make their wages worth shelling out.
All the more, the servants knew that he was not receiving any guests. Never. They were almost secluded in Trowbridge, Wiltshire, and his home had been silent as a whisper before he arrived.
He would like to keep it that way.
That was also why he hadn't known what to think when the word "guest" had erupted from his valet's mouth. "What did you say?"
"Your guest is a lady, and she is waiting at the Seafoam parlor."
He blinked twice, thinking through a thick fog while his mind tried to process the words. He had not been in polite society for a year, and if his memory was accurate, a lady coming to visit him was highly improper. Had she come alone?
The valet crossed the room carrying a large glass of unsightly blackened brew and a packet of white powder.
Anthony took it gratefully, savoring the bitter taste of the brew and ingesting the powder quickly to ignore the way it dried his tongue.
"Who is she," he demanded, his voice wavering, as he sought for balance standing from the four-poster bed.
"I haven't a clue, my lord," his valet said dumbly and began preparing his clothes.
He very well cannot turn the guest away since she was too important that the butler had not refused her entry. So he hadn't any choice but to receive, of course.
"Fine. I will be receiving this lady." He downed the last of the contents of the bitter brew, the cook's leaves and seeds settling on the bottom of the cup.
His valet nodded in agreement, took his glass away, and prepared a fresh batch of shaving cream.
In the Seafoam parlor, Sarah Jane had begun to tap her fingers against her lap, as she waited in the brightly lit room. Trowbridge was far from the sea, but the room indeed felt as if they were near the beach.
The masters of the house had done an excellent job decorating this receiving room. She should like to receive her own guests in this room as well. But before the talk of the future...
At present, she was hungry. The ride from Thurstason had been a grudgingly long battle of wits and nerves, the constant shaking of the carriage had made her dizzy, exhausted, and in want of sustenance.
And right now, the jar of jam looked terribly appealing. It wouldn't take much for her to pry it off Mathilda's hands.
She was going to go insane if she had to wait another minute for the new Earl, who in all truth, even if he didn't want to receive them, had no right to treat them that way.
She was a lady. Heavens above, a lady! She should be properly treated like one!
Sarah Jane abruptly stood from her position and glanced around the room for something to inspect upon. At least, she mused, the Viscount had been managing the house well enough that the parlor had been kept neat and presentable.
The house seemed ancient, but the inside decors were kept pristine.
"I say, what are you doing," Mathilda scolded, as Sarah Jane stepped away from the couch.
Sarah Jane's lips automatically pursed for a ready response, but the door to the parlor had creaked open, and Mathilda scrambled to her feet to greet the new Earl.
When a small woman entered and bowed for a curtsy, they saw that it was just a maid in dark serviceable clothes. Upon seeing Sarah Jane's elegant dress, the maid's eyes became as wide as dinner plates, as if Sarah Jane had been a ghostly apparition.
With a little squeak, the maid immediately retreated and slammed the door behind her.
With an annoyed huff, Lady Sarah Jane turned around and began exploring the room.
"They haven't seen many guests here, I presume," she muttered and trailed a finger across the surface of an end table.
There were many end tables in this room. The windows were wide and open that had elegant white cornices with intricate detailing. It would be such a trouble to keep those crevices clean, she said to herself.
The curtains were a pale shade of sage that draped over lacy white and heavy damask. The ropes that gathered the rich textiles to the side were braided gold and adorned with golden roses as well. If she hadn't known who she was visiting, she would have expected the home to have belonged to a duke. Well, maybe a little impoverished duke due to the size of the drawing room, but an aristocratic lord who had a pocket as deep as a duke's.
"You know, Lord Killsworth must be quite old. His tastes are classical."
He should be old or married... or both, she surmised from the delicate furnishings. A young couple with unruly children would not have placed such easily damageable pieces on reachable places. The countess of the 10th Earl Rosenberg had hidden their most expensive jars and decorations when her twins became old enough to run about.
It was clear in her memory because the house had been in such a flurry to keep precious things before the twins could run. Maybe she would do that too if she became married with babes of her own.
"I haven't a clue," Mathilda replied brusquely and offered her disproval at Sarah Jane's wondering about.
The window sill had trinkets and the extended counter provided space to sit and brood. She looked at the details and deduced that they might be white pine, as most of the decors were in this room. Maybe it was also the Viscountess's favorite, such was also the late Earl's favorite.
The varnishing of wood gloss made it remarkably elegant for such a simple drawing room.
Lady Sarah Jane hoped that the Viscountess would be as kind as the Countess of the 10th Earl had been. Maybe she would even oblige them with a ball, and use this room to receive guests.
The main window sill had miniatures of beautiful women on gold-adorned plates—who could be determined from the expressions and clothing that they were the ladies of this house of many generations. Sarah Jane hadn't expected Killsworth to be an old title, but these miniatures were surely enough proof.
"Definitely old enough to be a grandfather," She said under her breath. Lady Sarah Jane decided that she would make the viscountess a very dear friend, one who would champion her and help her get a husband to save herself from ruination.
"You must not be walking about, dear child. The viscount might come in any minute now," Mathilda said as she craned her neck towards whatever Sarah Jane was holding.
She paid the matron no mind and she went to the next display of white porcelain adorned with tinges of pink, blue and yellow paint in the lady statutes' extravagant gowns.
Lady Sarah Jane grinned a satisfied smile. Maybe this Viscount Killsworth had chosen an elegant wife for himself, and she had decorated this room according to her tastes. Everything about the decors screamed delicate and delightful. Everything about it screamed old as well, and by that assumed that the new Earl must be in his sixties and loved to keep his country home bright and happy.
She grinned wider. She would like that, yes, she would like that very much.
The door started to creak open, and Lady Sarah Jane stilled in her position.
Mathilda also immediately stood and faced the door. But before anyone could see who peeked in, the door quickly shut close. Mathilda clucked her tongue and sat back down on the plush couch.
Looking at the closed door, Sarah Jane saw that there were chimes hanging from the small window to the left of the door. Quickly placing herself near the small window, she saw an astonishing view of the rose bushes outside, which were, in no surprise, trimmed to perfection.
She stepped back and allowed herself to take in the view of the room. It was breathtaking. The walls were adorned with a light shade of blue that spoke of calmness and serenity. The flowery prints curled in such a way that reminded Sarah Jane of the awful French-inspired sea creature dish she had to eat in Hampshire with the 12th Earl.
With another huff, Mathilda opened her mouth to speak, but when she saw that Sarah Jane had moved to the other end of the room, her expression turned exasperated.
"You must come back and sit here." Her pudgy palm rested on a soft cushion beside her. "I am sure, yet another nosy maid will steal a peek. I would make sure to instill propriety in the service as soon as we are settled in."
She heard nothing. Sarah Jane continued to the last table, near the double doors of the drawing room. On top of the carved wooden shelf was a collection of shells. The centerpiece colored the lightest of beige with stripes of gray and tinges of yellow and spots of ash. Sarah Jane thought that the seashell reminded her of her hair, the gentle swirls resembling her coiffure in a bun. Her hand crept up to her hair to touch the resemblance, and raised her eyes to a large framed looking glass on top of the counter and saw that indeed, the shells' color was the exact shade of her hair. Sarah Jane fancied herself being the kind of mistress that decorated her home in tribute to her vanity—only if she would become a mistress (at the rate she was going, she wasn't entirely sure), or if she had been vain in matters of her appearance, which she was most certainly not.
"Oh Mathilda, you must come to see this shell—"
Both of the doors burst open, and she jumped back tripping over the dark blue floor carpet.
Without any warning, a series of misfortunes began to shower upon her as she simultaneously tried to regain her balance. She lunged forward to put the shell back on the table, then hit the jutted portion of the end table with her hip.
Wincing from the pain, as a low hiss escaped from her lips, as her foot turned to move away but again got caught on the ends of the floor carpet, sending her flying back-first towards the man who had just entered the room.
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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you like it, kindly please consider giving it a vote, and as usual, I would appreciate any feedback you might offer me! Thank you so so much!