Page 132 of Secluded with the Rogue

Seventeen

D rew sat at his desk and tried to focus on the words on the page. The contract was possibly the longest one he'd ever encountered, but then what else would one expect of the Crown?

The list of demands for any shipper working for Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, was not just long: it was infinite. He re-read a line of the contract for what seemed to be the hundredth time, but his focus was shot.

Bloody hell, this stuff had given him a headache.

Bleary-eyed, he looked at the clock in his study. One o'clock. Was that afternoon or morning? Standing up and opening the curtains in his study, the milky light of a winter afternoon filtered into the room, making him blink repeatedly.

Drew turned away from the window and stared at his desk. How could there be a pile of correspondence? Hadn't he cleared that out first thing when he'd returned home?

Walking over to it, he picked up the first letter on the stack, opened it, and tossed it aside. It was a letter from the parish vicar seeking a donation. He gave often, and in fact, had just donated. Perhaps it hadn’t arrived yet. Moving to the next item, he stood staring at the envelope as everything seemed to wobble around him. Had the room moved?

Polly came bustling in with a tray of food, though in an unusual turn of events she said nothing to him. She simply set the tray down on the table near the fireplace and picked up the untouched one he'd just noticed sitting there.

As she was about to leave the room, he called out to her. “Polly?”

She stopped, but did not turn around.

“Did the room just wobble?”

She snorted. “No, I would assume it was you, since you're near to collapse.”

Surprise flickered over Drew. He grabbed a hold of the desk and everything seemed to right itself. Huh? “Wh-What day is it?”

His housekeeper turned to face him, and glared as she shifted the tray she held to one hip so she could prop her other hand on the free hip. “What day is it? Thursday.”

He stopped and tried to think back. When had Charlie left him? What day was that? Sunday? He blinked. “What happened to the days?”

Polly pressed her lips together. Oh, she was angry. He knew that look of hers. “You drank them away as you pretended to work.”

Drew looked at his desk and spotted the empty scotch decanter sitting by his tipped over glass. A tipped over glass that was empty. He sighed and rubbed his face. “I see. I believe I shall eat whatever it is you have brought me and then I shall sleep.”

“Hallelujah!” Polly threw her one free hand up. “Maybe after that you'd like to think about going after the woman you let leave here.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm no good for her. Not what she needs.”

Polly huffed. “Lord, save me from stupid men.” Without another word she stomped from the room.

Drew moved around the desk and sat down on the settee where the tray was perched. He picked up the cutlery and cut into the cold meat on the plate, eating it ravenously. He couldn't say it tasted like anything in particular, but he felt confident that was no commentary on Polly's cooking. He grabbed a hunk of bread and a shave of cheese. Shoving those into his mouth, he continued to eat until everything was gone.

When he stood up to collapse into bed, the room stayed exactly as it should. That must be a good thing, he surmised as he headed toward his bedchamber. Exhaustion suddenly pulled at him. His legs felt like someone had tied an anchor to each one and his arms might as well have cannon balls attached. It took everything he had left inside him to make it upstairs. He was so bloody tired.

At some point, he awoke to loud cursing.

“Damn it Drew, you should have called for me.” It was Polly’s voice, and she was grumbling.

Then she was yelling for Billy and to his dismay, the pair of them were heaving him to his feet.

That was when Drew realized he was not in fact in his bed, but had laid down on the bottom of the stairs. Oh, hell.

With much grumbling and very little effort on his part, Drew finally found the soft embrace of his bed. When he rolled over his face hit the pillow Charlie had used and, though it was faint, her scent still lingered.

He sighed sadly and buried his face in the softness. “Charlie, I miss you.”

Behind him, he heard a soft sigh. “Then go to her, you foolish mule-headed man.”

Silence descended on the bedchamber and he was sure he was alone as he mumbled. “But she doesn't want me.”

His heart broke all over again. Sleep, he decided. He needed to sleep, then he'd feel better. Less sad about everything. At least, he hoped that would be true.

It took mere moments before he fell off the cliff of consciousness and let the darkness of his mind embrace him.