Page 29

Surprise flickered on the butler’s unperturbed features for a moment. Then he bowed and left the room.

Chapter Ten

Tyrone reached out his arm in search of his trusty bottle of whisky, and instead, patted the soft mattress.

He was in bed.

Was he in his wife’s bed again?

He peeked through his heavy-lidded eyes only to realize he was in his own chamber. He turned onto his stomach and surveyed the floor.

Where was his drink? Usually, he had at least three bottles of whisky in the vicinity—now there were none.

He wanted to lift himself up. Instead, he tumbled down, hitting his head in the process. Tyrone sat up, seeing stars before his eyes. He waited for his vision to return before getting up and swaying toward the servants’ bell. He pulled it and in the meantime went to perform his morning ablutions. He was surprised to feel a considerable growth on his face. How long had he been out drinking? And why in the hell was he back home?

His valet stepped into the room. “Would you like a warm bath, sir? Or shall I attend to your morning shave? I could offer you a refreshing cup of steaming coffee to help you start the day invigorated.”

He was rambling. Why was he rambling? Tyrone narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Bring me a glass of whisky. Actually, bring me the entire bottle.” He turned away, then paused and looked back at his valet as he didn’t move a muscle.

“Did you not hear what I said?” Tyrone raised a brow.

The valet straightened, his eyes running around the room as he wrung his hands. “Unfortunately, there is no whisky in the house.”

“Then bring me brandy. Or gin. Or rum. Whatever we have will do.” Tyrone waved a careless hand.

Bergen shuffled from one foot to another before mumbling under his breath, “There’s none of that either.”

“What?” Tyrone roared. He immediately flinched from a sharp pang in his temples. “What did you say?”

The valet stepped back. “Th-there is no liquor of any kind in the house, sir.”

Tyrone stepped toward him, his hands fisted at his sides. “How come?” he asked silkily, with a deceptive calmness.

“The d-duchess ordered us to get rid of it all this morning. There is not a drop left.”

Tyrone narrowed his eyes, then turned on his heel, and stalked to the adjoining room door. He flew into his wife’s chamber, almost fuming from anger.

Luckily, the subject of his rage was calmly standing before the mirror, arranging her hair. Tyrone stomped toward her and growled close to her face, “Where is my whisky, duchess?”

His wife turned to him with infuriating calm. “I ordered the servants to pour it all away.”

Tyrone rocked back on his heels. He’d expected her to stutter like a simpering fool. Yet she observed him with a cool demeanor, her eyes glinting with challenge. She wasn’t afraid of him at all. Then perhaps she was a fool. “I truly hope you’re joking.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. Ah, finally a defensive gesture. “I am not.”

“Well, then, you’re going to go out and buy me some.”

She raised her chin and repeated with a stubborn precision, “I am not.”

“You think you actually matter, do you?” he seethed. “You think you’re here to run the estate, to make the decisions?”

She didn’t even flinch. The imp had grown into her role as a duchess overnight. “Someone has to.”

Tyrone’s lip twitched. That cut. Deeper than he’d thought it would. “I run this dukedom the way it deserves,” Tyrone crooned. “I have been doing it for months.”

“Truly?” she scoffed. “Because this townhouse is falling apart. The servants have been left to their own devices. There is barely any food in the cupboards. And if the way you treat this townhouse is any indication, I would say that your estates have not been taken care of since you became the duke while all you do is drink yourself into oblivion!”

“That is exactly what this dukedom deserves!” Tyrone gritted through his teeth then turned away and stalked toward the adjoining room door.