Chapter 17 - Seventeen
The first rays of morning sunlight managed to slice through the narrow gaps in the heavy curtains, painting bright, dusty stripes across the wooden floor.
Delia stirred, a low groan escaping her lips as she snuggled deeper into the warmth surrounding her. She turned in her sleep, seeking comfort, but a dull, throbbing pain in her head began to pull her from the depths of her slumber. It was the familiar, unwelcome ache of a hangover. The evidence of her act last night.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the intrusion of light. The room was unfamiliar at first, a warm, woody space filled with the silent company of countless books. Her eyes gradually focused, and she realized she was lying on the long, plush chaise lounge she vaguely remembered from the night before.
Draped over her body like a heavy, comforting blanket was a man’s formal coat. It was dark, exquisitely tailored, and smelled faintly of expensive cologne, cigars, and something else—something that was uniquely him.
"Did I fall asleep?" she murmured to herself, her voice raspy. Memories from the previous night came back in disjointed flashes: the taste of wine, the warmth of the fire, her own unrestrained laughter, and then... a torrent of painful confessions. A hot flush of embarrassment washed over her.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, the Duke’s coat pooling in her lap. As she turned her head, her heart leaped into her throat. Eric was sitting on the floor beside the chaise lounge, fast asleep. His head was resting on the cushion near where her feet had been, supported by his folded arms. His usually perfect dark hair was slightly messy, and in sleep, his stern, handsome face looked younger and unguarded. He had stayed there, on the floor, all night.
A wave of panic, cold and sharp, seized her. She immediately, discreetly, checked herself. Her dress was still properly buttoned, her underthings were undisturbed, and her body felt sore only from sleeping in an awkward position, not from anything more sinister. She was in one piece. Nothing inappropriate had happened.
A long, shaky sigh of relief escaped her lips. She looked at him one last time, at the powerful Duke sleeping on the floor like a common guard dog to ensure her safety. It was a gesture so unexpected, so contrary to the reputation of powerful men, that it left her feeling confused and oddly touched.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slipped off the lounge. The wooden floor was cool beneath her stockinged feet. She took a moment to arrange her hopelessly wrinkled dress as best she could. Finding the blue ribbon he had used on the floor, she quickly gathered her messy hair and tied it back herself. She had to get out of here before he woke up, before they had to face the awkward morning-after conversation.
As she looked around the quiet, sun-dappled room, a more serious thought took hold, chasing away the last remnants of her hangover. She had made a deal, a bold and desperate pact. But what if it was all just a game to him? What if he woke up and changed his mind? If she went home now, back to the Baroness’s fury and Anne’s vengeful tears, she would be walking into a trap. Augusta would never let this insult go unpunished. Delia could vividly imagine the cruelty, the heightened starvation, the potential accusations that could ruin her completely, or worse.
" If I go home now with no guarantee," she thought, a chill running down her spine,"I am done for. I am going to die a second time. And I know there won’t be any more chances for me after this."