she had likewise been thinking about him. She was undoubtedly getting impatient waiting for him.
Staggering to his feet, he tried to remember where he had put her. The corridor outside his room was dark, but it never occurred to him to light a candle. Although his path was somewhat erratic, his search was systematic. He opened every bedroom door along the corridor, cheerfully convinced that sooner or later he would find her waiting in bed for him.
To his delight, it was sooner rather than later, and she was indeed waiting for him. Opening the door to her room, he found her sitting up in bed reading a book. Perhaps he should apologize for being so late? No, better just to get on with it.
* * * *
“What the deuce are you doing in my bedroom?” Anne was astounded at the intrusion into her privacy. That Trussell was drunk was obvious from the careful way he was moving, as if balanced on a very narrow ledge.
“S-s-s-.” He was having difficulties getting his tongue to work properly. Under other circumstances Anne might have found it amusing. But not late in the evening in her bedroom.
“S-s-sorry, my dear,” he finally managed to get out, before smiling at her like an idiot.
Strangely enough, she felt herself to be at a disadvantage. She had never had much experience dealing with drunks, although somewhere she had heard that one should humor them.
Humor them? Before she realized his intentions, Trussell had taken off his robe and was folding it carefully. All he wore under it was a nightshirt, which exposed his bony knees and skimpy calves.
Distracted for a moment by the realization that his valet must use sawdust to fill out his stockings, Anne was caught off guard when the drunken lecher pounced, landing directly on top of her, the fumes of his breath making her nauseated and his hands—
How dare he!
With a bellow that Aunt Sidonia had once likened to that of a wounded bull moose, Anne tried to throw him onto the floor. With one hand trapped beneath the covers, she was somewhat handicapped. Unfortunately, those same covers provided her little protection from Trussell’s groping hands.
One-handed she could not quite best him, even in his drunken state. But she brought up her knee sharply, heard his grunt of pain, then managed to shift his dead weight enough to liberate her other arm, and after that there was no contest.
In less than a minute, he was lying face down and she was straddling his legs. She had both of his arms twisted behind his back.
“Do you think she means to smother him?” A young voice spoke beside the bed.
“Probably,” his brother replied with obvious relish.
Still feeling the effects of the strong emotion of the last few moments, Anne turned her head and saw the twins standing by her bed watching with detached interest.
“Why are you two out of bed?”
“We heard a noise. A loud noise,” Anthony clarified.
“Do you need any help?” Andrew asked. “We know a place where you could hide the body.”
“And no one would ever find it, not in a hundred years,” his brother said.
Her attention thus being called to the fact that Trussell’s squirms were becoming more feeble, she eased up on the pressure enough that he was able to turn his head and take great gasping breaths.
“You boys can go back to bed. I can handle your uncle quite well.”
They dawdled on the way out, giving her ample opportunity to call them back if she changed her mind, but she did not. Once they were gone, she climbed off Trussell’s back without releasing his arms, then pulled him off the bed, only to discover his legs would no longer support him. She was not sure if it was from the effects of the brandy or from being half smothered, but it mattered not. In either case, there was nothing for her to do but drag him bodily back down the corridor to his own room.
Men! Aunt Sidonia was right—they were nothing but unnecessary encumbrances. She heaved her present encumbrance through the door of his room
Staggering to his feet, he tried to remember where he had put her. The corridor outside his room was dark, but it never occurred to him to light a candle. Although his path was somewhat erratic, his search was systematic. He opened every bedroom door along the corridor, cheerfully convinced that sooner or later he would find her waiting in bed for him.
To his delight, it was sooner rather than later, and she was indeed waiting for him. Opening the door to her room, he found her sitting up in bed reading a book. Perhaps he should apologize for being so late? No, better just to get on with it.
* * * *
“What the deuce are you doing in my bedroom?” Anne was astounded at the intrusion into her privacy. That Trussell was drunk was obvious from the careful way he was moving, as if balanced on a very narrow ledge.
“S-s-s-.” He was having difficulties getting his tongue to work properly. Under other circumstances Anne might have found it amusing. But not late in the evening in her bedroom.
“S-s-sorry, my dear,” he finally managed to get out, before smiling at her like an idiot.
Strangely enough, she felt herself to be at a disadvantage. She had never had much experience dealing with drunks, although somewhere she had heard that one should humor them.
Humor them? Before she realized his intentions, Trussell had taken off his robe and was folding it carefully. All he wore under it was a nightshirt, which exposed his bony knees and skimpy calves.
Distracted for a moment by the realization that his valet must use sawdust to fill out his stockings, Anne was caught off guard when the drunken lecher pounced, landing directly on top of her, the fumes of his breath making her nauseated and his hands—
How dare he!
With a bellow that Aunt Sidonia had once likened to that of a wounded bull moose, Anne tried to throw him onto the floor. With one hand trapped beneath the covers, she was somewhat handicapped. Unfortunately, those same covers provided her little protection from Trussell’s groping hands.
One-handed she could not quite best him, even in his drunken state. But she brought up her knee sharply, heard his grunt of pain, then managed to shift his dead weight enough to liberate her other arm, and after that there was no contest.
In less than a minute, he was lying face down and she was straddling his legs. She had both of his arms twisted behind his back.
“Do you think she means to smother him?” A young voice spoke beside the bed.
“Probably,” his brother replied with obvious relish.
Still feeling the effects of the strong emotion of the last few moments, Anne turned her head and saw the twins standing by her bed watching with detached interest.
“Why are you two out of bed?”
“We heard a noise. A loud noise,” Anthony clarified.
“Do you need any help?” Andrew asked. “We know a place where you could hide the body.”
“And no one would ever find it, not in a hundred years,” his brother said.
Her attention thus being called to the fact that Trussell’s squirms were becoming more feeble, she eased up on the pressure enough that he was able to turn his head and take great gasping breaths.
“You boys can go back to bed. I can handle your uncle quite well.”
They dawdled on the way out, giving her ample opportunity to call them back if she changed her mind, but she did not. Once they were gone, she climbed off Trussell’s back without releasing his arms, then pulled him off the bed, only to discover his legs would no longer support him. She was not sure if it was from the effects of the brandy or from being half smothered, but it mattered not. In either case, there was nothing for her to do but drag him bodily back down the corridor to his own room.
Men! Aunt Sidonia was right—they were nothing but unnecessary encumbrances. She heaved her present encumbrance through the door of his room
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