Free Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) by Kristen McLean

next morning and much more the strip of raw steak tenderized in the jaws of his best hounds. He had somehow managed to get the red out of his eyes and the stench of dead rodent from his mouth, but he had not been so successful with the pounding in his head or giant bruise on his side.
    Grey had left Matthews and Saint Brides and headed straight for White’s after receiving his new assignment. After downing nearly a full decanter of whisky during a heated debate over the virtues of abstinence—Grey remained straight-faced whilst facetiously arguing society ought to embrace public orgies for the good of mankind and scientific study, and swearing he would introduce such a plan to Parliament on the first opportunity—he had staggered down to Jackson’s sporting club. If he had not left then, several patrons not keen on his sense of humor would have tossed him out. No doubt, they would have rearranged his face a bit first to be sure he remembered the lesson when he was sober.
    At Jackson’s, Grey had sought a fight, which would be a bit fairer in his inebriated state. An utterly potted Grey against a professional bruiser ought to do the trick. He had somehow been able to convince someone he was sober, and when the punches had begun to fly, Grey had actually dodged a few. He had taken a lot more, landed a bit less, yet had still managed to win the bout, barely. He would have fought again had Nick not shown up and discerned Grey was barely able to stand, not merely because he had taken several severe blows, but because he was three sheets in the wind.
    Grey had nearly been thrown from the ring and half-carried home whilst Nick had mercilessly berated him. When he had stepped through the door to his bedchamber, he had barely had his boots off before spreading out across his bed in an alcoholic coma. Seventeen hours later, he had woken up in a puddle of drool with one leg hanging off the side of his bed and an arm numbly hugging his pillow to death.
    After three hours of scrubbing and grooming, Grey sat in his carriage, regretfully recounting the previous day. He had forced half a glass of whisky down his throat thirty minutes earlier to dull the pain, but the minty concoction his housekeeper had given him to mask the smell had made him immediately ill. He would rather have been achy than nauseous. Now he was both.
    The carriage rumbled to a stop in front of Grenville House with Grey scowling at the carriage door in dread. Something still tore at him. Sure, Matthews had put Kathryn in harm’s way, but Grey was supposed to be protecting her, and he had failed. Now, because of his reputation, he might leave her ruined. Alive, but ruined.
    Even if all went perfectly, one day soon, she would remember who she was. She would remember who he was. Then she would hate him even more than she already did, which he would happily suffer if it meant she were alive to hate him.
    However, depending on how this worked out, he might not have to suffer for long. Grenville would take care of that.
    When the carriage door was opened by the livery, he stepped out and stood on the sidewalk as the carriage was taken to the mews behind the house. The carriage was out of sight by the time Grey forced himself up the steps.
    A moment later, Grey was sitting comfortably in a light blue drawing room with hot tea and what looked like lemon cakes, one of his favorites. If only he could stomach the thought of them sliding down his throat. The most he could manage was a few small sips of tea.
    Not ten minutes passed whilst he sat there, glaring daggers at the lemon cakes on the tray in front of him. He did not want to be there. Still, when Kathryn walked through the doorway, Grey stood with a warm smile; one none would guess he could put on and take off at leisure.
    “Lady Kathryn, it’s a pleasure,” he said, bowing. It would be if she were anyone else or if she were ugly as sin and well behaved. Instead, she was lovely, a lovely pain in the arse.
    “Lord