His Sinful Heiress [Mature Read]

Chapter 16: The Hedonist

London, January 1885

Miss Moira Haggarty awoke with a profound headache, a pain so unnerving she feared her head might shatter into minuscule pieces on its own.

"Oh, good Lord," she murmured softly, yawning as she looked around.

She found herself in her own bed, at her home, with a man to her left and two women to her right. It was no surprise that she was stark naked, as the events of the previous night returned to her with full force. It was the New Year of Our Lord 1885, and Moira had celebrated it in her usual fashion—with copious amounts of spirits and debauchery on such a grand scale that Bacchus himself would blush with envy.

Though now nine-and-thirty, she had to admit that her capacity for drink was waning with age, while her prowess in bed remained her greatest ability to the date.

Moira slowly rose from the bed and made her way downstairs in search of fresh water to quench her thirst and soothe the burning sensation in her stomach. Before she could take a step toward the kitchen, a loud knock echoed through the house. Since she typically granted her servants the day off after they had catered to her guests during the New Year's bacchanalia, it fell to her to answer the door.

Scoffing, she opened the entrance door, shielding her eyes from the harsh morning light with a raised hand.

"Good morning, Moira. We need to talk," came a voice she knew all too well. "And for heaven's sake, could you not at least put on some clothing? Have you no shame in being seen nude by someone?!"

She stepped aside to allow her cranky guest to enter, scoffing once more. "Well, I live far from prying eyes, and if my memory serves me right, you have rather enjoyed seeing me in such a state, Your Grace."

Henry shook his head. "Not this time, Moira. And spare me the 'Your Grace' nonsense. I am Henry to you, and nothing more."

Moira closed the door behind her, then turned to Henry, motioning for him to follow. "There's a warm robe in my bathroom; allow me to take it as we pass by, and we proceed to the kitchen, shall we? Also, do tell me—I've heard your brother ceased to be and that you were coerced into marrying some American woman. I dismissed such gossip as mere idle chatter, for I could scarcely believe you were wed. But if Andrew is truly gone, that is another matter entirely..."

Henry let out a weary sigh, yet he began to recount the events of Andrew's death and how he came to be a married man. Moira listened closely as she busied herself preparing tea, her expression serious as she took in each word, then sat onto a chair beside him at the large kitchen table, nodding thoughtfully.

"You know how desperately I wished to avoid this fate," Henry murmured as his tale drew to a close.

"And yet I must agree with your uncle Giles—the more defiant you are towards your new station, the worse for everyone, yourself included. Which also leads me to another inquiry: what in the Lord's name are you doing here on this day? Should you not be fucking your dear wife, begetting heirs as your New Year's resolution?"

Henry's long, exasperated sigh betrayed the complexity of his situation, far beyond what he had initially shared.

Moira's eyebrows lifted in curiosity. "Is there something wrong with your wife?"

"Indeed," he responded, pressing his lips together under the weight of her questioning gaze. "She has... hips."

For a moment, Moira simply stared, before erupting into laughter. "It would be of far greater concern if she had none, would it not?"

"You misunderstand," Henry shook his head. "I cannot... last with that woman."

Moira's amusement softened into a knowing smile as she sipped her water. "And why, pray, do you find it so impossible to last with your wife, hm?"