Jack had already fallen asleep sitting at the table, his face resting on his plate. Nick was still awake, but barely. Their carriage, unable to continue the journey, had stopped here to wait out the storm. The men had amended to drink themselves into a stupor to pass the time until they could continue on their journey. Nick’s head slumped forward, falling on the table with a decided thump. Dash chuckled and pushed Nick’s shoulder. “You’re a marquess for Christ’s sake, you should be able to hold your liquor better than that.”
Nick mumbled an incoherent response and then let out a decided snore, making Dash chuckle and he poked his friend again. He missed the man’s shoulder, his finger landing in Nick’s ear. The man didn’t stir.
Clutching at his stomach, Dash laughed all the more and then grabbed a slice of bread from his near-empty plate of meat pie and beans, pulling a crust off and tossing it at Jack. While he’d been aiming for Jack’s mouth, the bread lodged firmly in the man’s hair.
The sight was so hilarious, a fit of laughter overtook Dash again, and he snorted, tears leaking from his eyes as he pounded the table with his fist. Then he sobered, attempting to sit up straighter. He only ever giggled like this when he was ape-faced drunk.
Which was a distinct possibility.
Focusing all his concentration on the task, he pushed back from the table, his chair scraping the floor. He started to stand but wobbled and held the edge tighter in search of his balance. Head spinning in a sickening manner, he puffed out his cheeks when bile rose in his throat. Bloody bullocks, he really had done a fine job of getting pissed.
Inching up from his semi crouched position, he managed to stand, the room turning about in the strangest way.
Fresh air. That’s what he needed. “I’m going outside, boys,” he called to his sleeping friends, pointing his finger toward the window. Unfortunately, he’d chosen the wrong hand and rather pointed to the stairs that surely led to his room. For a moment he considered that plan instead. Head up the stairs and collapse into his bed.
Dash scratched his head and then felt in his pocket for a key. What room was he in anyhow? What floor? He scrubbed his face. Perhaps getting drunk hadn’t been the best plan after all.
Nothing to do for it now but take a walk in the fresh, cold winter air and clear his muddled head. That widow who waited at the end of their trip was a buxom sort with lots of supple curves. Some might say she ran a bit heavy but a man needed that sort of warmth in this kind of weather. He wished he’d arrived at his destination and was in that bed right now rather than here. In fact, he might rather be anywhere else.
With a loud sigh, he shuffled across the floor and as he opened the door he was forced to grip the handle for dear life. The blast of cold air did clear his thoughts a bit and so he stepped out into the cool night inhaling deeply.
His Hessians came up near to his knees but as he stepped into a drift of snow the damn fluffy stuff came up over the tops, making his knees wet and packing down on the insides of his boots.
Dash bent over to try and clear them out. Even in his drunken state the snow bit at his bare skin. He jerked them back, tucking them close to his body.
Unfortunately, the sudden movement threw off his already precarious balance and as he straightened, his arms flailed wildly in the air. For all his effort, he spun about, putting more of his weight upon one leg and then the other, before toppling over, and landing in a giant pile of snow.
“Bloody hell,” he yelled as the cold, white crusts of hell smashed under his jacket, down his breeches and melted in his boots. His arms lay out by his sides, his feet wide apart as though he’d lain down to create a snow angel.
When he lifted his head to sit up, a wave of dizziness crashed over him like he’d never experienced in his life. Resigned now, he grimaced at the inky black sky, snow falling into his eyes and mouth. He was going to die in the snow, in a sleepy little village a week before Christmastide. Couldn’t he have been shot in a duel? Or better still, perished in some woman’s bed? This…this was below his station and utterly ridiculous.
Noelle nibbled at the gingerbread she’d saved from dinner and stared out into the dark night and watched the swirling snow. She hadn’t been able to fall asleep again and had donned her coat and scarf to sit at the window thinking. If only thinking brought her the answers she sought.
She raised the spicy bread to her lips for another bite and closed her eyes so that she didn’t miss a single flavor. It was her favorite and despite everything else that was wrong in her life just then, she would enjoy every mouthwatering bite.
It’s what her mother would have wanted her to do. Her mother would have told her to be grateful that she had a warm bed to sleep in along with delicious and filling food in her belly when others lived in lack.
And Noelle was grateful for all she was provided.
But she missed her life before—before her mother died, before her father had fallen into despair and given up on all of them. Noelle swallowed the bite of her cookie that had suddenly lodged in her throat. Because in that moment, although they were just a few feet away, each in their own chambers, Noelle missed her sisters too. Perhaps most of all, she longed to laugh with them, argue
