Marquess Terrance woke with a pounding headache and a tight knot of dread curled in his chest.
The golden morning light streamed into his lavish bedroom, but it brought him no comfort. His mouth was dry, his body clammy, and his thoughts a mess.
What happened last night?
The last clear memory he had was of collapsing during dinner, the pressure of Kyle Armstrong's presence too much for his frayed nerves.
He had retreated, intending to recover and return, but now the morning had arrived and he had no recollection of anything else.
A deep sense of unease gnawed at him.
'Did something happen between Kyle and my advisors? Did they offend him?'
Grimacing, he sat up and rubbed his temples.
"I need to apologize…And make it clear that I had no part in whatever they did."
He muttered, swinging his legs out of bed.
He would also have to reprimand his advisors—publicly, if necessary—to distance himself from any poor behavior. Yes, that was the plan.
