CHAPTER 21
Graham slouched in his father’s chair, the heavy leather creaking under his weight as he swirled the remnants of whiskey in his glass. The study reeked of alcohol and regret, the dim light casting long shadows over the walls lined with books. On the polished desk in front of him sat a nearly empty bottle of whiskey, a silent testament to his determination to drown out the chaos in his mind.
He poured another drink, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim, and tipped it back without hesitation. The burn in his throat was a fleeting distraction from the turmoil within. Without pause, he reached for the bottle again, his unsteady hand spilling a few drops onto the desk as he poured himself yet another glass.
“Mr. Lancaster?”
The voice cut through the haze like a shard of glass, and for a fleeting moment, his heart lurched. Isla? The hope flared briefly before it was extinguished by the realization that whoever it was had called him Mr. Lancaster. Isla never called him that. It was probably Maggie or one of the other staff, dutifully checking in.
He grimaced, tossing back the drink in one rough motion. His eyes narrowed as Maggie stepped into the doorway, her expression a mix of concern and disapproval.
The older woman didn’t wait for an invitation. She crossed the threshold with an air of authority, clucking her tongue as she took in the sight of Graham and the nearly depleted whiskey bottle. “Oh dear,” she muttered, shaking her head. “This isn’t good.”
Graham rolled his eyes and poured himself another drink, the liquid hitting the glass with a sharp clink. “We’ll postpone the lecture until tomorrow morning, Maggie, if it’s all the same to you.” His voice was laced with irritation, though the slur in his words betrayed just how deep he was into the bottle.
Maggie’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “I think not,”
“What?” Graham squinted against the bright light streaming through the doorway, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on the woman standing there. Maggie, her frame solid and maternal, with an air of authority that belied her role, stepped inside the room.
“I said,” she repeated firmly, her tone brooking no argument, “I think we should have that talk right now, Master Graham.”
He could see it now, the disapproval in her sharp gaze, cutting through the fog of his inebriation. She looked every bit the stern matron, hands on her hips and lips pressed into a thin line. Graham sighed, the weight of her silent judgment pressing down on him.
“Well, isn’t this just delightful,” he muttered under his breath, leaning back in his father’s chair. “What exactly is it now, Maggie? Come to scold me for enjoying a drink in my own home?”
Maggie didn’t flinch. “Do you really think your father would approve of this, Master Graham?” she asked, her voice pointed and deliberate.
Graham groaned, rolling his eyes. “Ah, there it is,” he said with a bitter smirk. “The classic emotional appeal. Typical.”
The older woman’s expression didn’t waver, and her silence was more damning than any words she could have said.
“If my drinking offends you so much, Maggie,” he continued, his voice dipping into a cutting drawl, “why don’t you do us both a favor and leave? Lock the door on your way out, hmm? Then we can both be comfortable.”
The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, and even in his drunken haze, he winced inwardly. One of his friends had once told him he was a mean drunk, and now he was proving them right.
“I wasn’t talking about the drinking, Master Graham,” Maggie said, her voice laced with a quiet intensity that cut through his stupor. “I was talking about what you were doing with poor Isla.”
In a split second, Graham felt as though all the alcohol in his system had evaporated. His mind snapped into clarity with a force that left him more alert than any night guard in a high-security facility. He set the glass he’d been holding down carefully, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Did she… Did Isla say something to you?” His voice was measured, though a flicker of unease betrayed him.
Maggie’s sharp eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “No, she didn’t have to,” she said firmly. “I saw it myself. I saw you kissing her at the dinner table before the poor girl ran off like a frightened little animal, scarred half to death.”
Graham winced, guilt tightening like a vice in his chest.
“And now,” Maggie continued, stepping closer to the desk, “I want to know—no, I demand to know—what your intentions are regarding that girl.”
Graham stared at her, unable to look away from the fierce determination in her expression. She stood there like a mother hen ready to defend her chick, her sturdy arms planted firmly on her hips, her demeanor unyielding.
Maggie stood in the study, her arms crossed, her demeanor unyielding but tinged with the affection of someone who cared deeply. She had always seen Isla as more than a ward of the Lancaster estate. To her, Isla was like a daughter, and this moment felt like a reckoning.
“Sit down, Maggie,” Graham said at last, gesturing to the chair across from him. He reached for the whiskey bottle, pouring another glass and sliding it toward her.
Maggie glanced at the offered drink, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “You know I don’t touch that stuff,” she said, waving it away with a flick of her hand.
“Fine,” Graham muttered, taking a long sip himself. The amber liquid burned down his throat, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil in his chest. He set the glass down, the dull thud echoing between them. “You want to know my plans for Isla? Want to know whether my father would approve?” He met her eyes, his expression weary but resolute. “Maybe you can tell me, Maggie. I asked her to marry me.”