Chapter Eighteen
Tristan existed in a fog of agony and blurry vision. Laudanum helped with the pain, and made him sleepy enough to escape the alternating anger and sadness that his friend had died in a curricle race he didn’t remember. But when the medicine wore off, the ache in his head and heart returned. One night, after an indeterminable number of days, Tristan lay still, resisting the urge to ring for help as Elizabeth had instructed. Instead, he let the pain come, let it punish him. He’d killed Appleton as surely as if he’d put a gun to his head.
No wonder Richard thought him a wastrel. The thrill of a race meant nothing compared to the life of a man. In fact, a great deal of his life up to that moment had been frivolous, stupid, risky. Gambling, racing, drinking, blithely permitting young widows to seduce him—for what? A few moments of pleasure. A few moments of forgetfulness. A few moments of feeling alive.
That wasn’t living. Living meant helping Leticia find happiness. Living included finding a cause, searching for ways to make a difference. He’d found purpose searching for the perfect man for Leticia, aiding her to raise money for the school, getting the school set up. Through most of his youth, he’d tried to feel alive in all the wrong ways.
In the middle of the night, a dark form matching Richard’s build padded in. Tristan pretended to be asleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to his brother. He didn’t want to hear the well-deserved accusation in Richard’s voice. Tristan already couldn’t escape the accusing voice in his own head.
Wastrel. Libertine. Rake.
All were true. And he hated them. Hated what he’d become.
As Richard’s soft footfalls neared, Tristan kept his breathing deep and steady. Richard laid a hand on his forehead as if testing for fever. After a heartbeat, his brother brushed a strand of hair from Tristan’s face, a shockingly affectionate gesture. A moment later, he left, closing the door behind him.
Richard loved him. No matter what, his brother always had his back. Sometimes his help felt suffocating, but Tristan had never doubted that Richard would always be there for him.
Tristan stared at the ceiling. Richard had always understood the purpose of his life. It was time Tristan found the purpose of his own. When he was well enough, he’d throw himself into helping others. He’d do more for the school. He’d announce his intention to run for the House of Commons so he could aid people on a larger scale. He’d stop having meaningless affairs.
He had raced his last.
By the time gray light slid into the room between the bedcurtains, the pain in his head expanded to sheer agony. He moaned and writhed, each moment of torture was penance for his life, for the disgrace he brought to the family name, the grief and despair he’d caused Richard, the men who lost fortunes to him because he was better at bluffing and counting than they, the life he took at the race. He considered all the hearts he might have broken when he’d deluded himself in his belief that they shared a mutually pleasurable moment. And worst, he relived the many ways he’d hurt and disappointed Leticia. Each throb of his head, each ache in his body, represented another stripe of punishment.
He fingered his signet ring, vowing to be a better Barrett, to live by a higher code of honor—if the pain in his head didn’t kill him first.
A fuzzy version of Elizabeth came into his room. “Oh, Tristan, why didn’t you ring for help?” She placed a cool hand on his head.
He moaned in reply. She poured a dose of laudanum and held his head so he could drink. Moments later, the pain dulled but the clouds in his vision remained.
Elizabeth sat in a chair next to his bed. “Does anything else hurt besides your head?”
“I feel like I was trampled by a herd of elephants and then beaten with a tree trunk.”
“Any place in particular?”
“It all hurts, especially my head.”
She folded her arms. “Well, you might want to complain more because Richard is ready to thrash you as soon as you’ve recovered.”
“I know.”
“You scared him. All of us.”
“Trust me, it won’t happen again. I’m done with racing. I guess I’ll…” He trailed off as a new thought struck him. “Were my horses injured?”
“I’m afraid neither of them survived.”
He blew out his breath in a long exhale. Perfectly matched, well-behaved horses who loved to win. Gone. He’d killed them, too.
A blurry Richard came in and leaned over him.
Before Richard could say anything, Tristan announced, “I’m never racing again. And I’ve decided to run for the House of Commons.”
Richard paused. “You must have hit your head worse than we thought.”
“I’m in earnest,” Tristan said. “I’m finished with all the meaningless parties, women, games, racing. None of it matters. I want to make a difference like you do in Parliament, and like Elizabeth and Leticia do with their school.”
Richard’s fuzzy outline sat down hard. “I should have thrown you from a moving curricle years ago.”
Richard might have been smiling, but the clouds that surrounded everything made it impossible to see detail. Fatigue overcame Tristan again. He awoke to his valet, Bentley, rousing him to take care of physical needs and to bathe and shave him. Sitting up brought on waves of nausea and dizziness, so he did everything lying down. Though bruised from head to toe, nothing appeared to be broken.
After Bentley got him changed into a clean nightshirt and tucked back into bed, the doctor returned.
“I’m glad to see you awake.” He listened to Tristan’s breathing, checked his heart, and looked into his eyes. “Any dizziness or blurred vision?”
“Yes—especially blurred vision.”
“Memory loss?”
“I can’t remember the accident, or anything that happened in the hours leading up to it.”
“All normal. The dizziness and vision issues should pass in a few days. Stay in bed until it does.” The doctor felt his chest and stomach, as well as all his limbs but found nothing that pained him enough to be broken. “Extreme emotion is also a common side effect of a hard blow to the head. If that happens, know it’s normal and it, too, will pass soon.”
Tristan murmured, “A friend of mine died that day. I doubt that will pass soon.”
The doctor patted his shoulder but didn’t offer patronizing advice about how that, too, would fade. He changed the bandages on Tristan’s head and bade him a good day.
“If there’s any sign of fever, send for me at once,” he said to Richard and Elizabeth at the door.
A servant brought Tristan a cup of broth but he drank little more than half before he fell asleep.
When he woke, Leticia sat next to him holding his hand. With his blurred vision a halo surrounded her entire body and her face glowed with ethereal beauty. She smiled and squeezed his hand. Beams of afternoon sunlight streamed in between the draperies like sparkling stripes of gold.
He drew in a deep breath, inhaling her fragrance. “You smell good. That’s not your usual perfume.”
She let out her breath in an amused exhale. “No. Isabella and I picked out some new scents.”
“I like it. The violet undertones are very provocative.”
She laughed softly. “You find everything provocative.”
“Not true. Horse manure does nothing for me.”
She laughed again, the sound of it washing over him like sweet, cool water. “I mean, everything that involves a woman, silly.”
He entwined his fingers with hers. “You may be surprised to hear that I have refined taste in a great many things, especially women.”
She grew serious. “I know, Tristan. I do.”
She did know. In spite of her sometimes-snide comments about his debauchery, she understood him a great deal—better than anyone. While others assumed he seduced other men’s wives and preyed on the innocent and frequented brothels, Leticia knew somehow that he had always been selective. Little did she know he had recently become extremely selective. Could a man of his previous nature become celibate—at least temporarily? The thought left him wanting to gasp for air. But he was finished with meaningless affairs with meaningless women. The past year had almost fit the bill for celibacy, anyway, and he’d survived that.
She shifted but left her hand in his. “Can I get you anything—water or medicine?”
“Water.”
While she poured a glass, he rolled over onto his side and propped himself up with his elbow, grateful his valet had dressed him in a nightshirt so Leticia wouldn’t have to see more of his skin than she should. The compassion in her expression sent another bolt of guilt through him.
Softy she asked, “Are you in pain?”
“I think I’d rather have gotten shot in the shoulder again. That hurt in one place instead of my entire body.” He drank from the glass.
“You’re lucky you’re alive. A fall that bad should have broken every bone in your body.”
After handing her the glass, he lay back and closed his eyes. Had Appleton suffered or had he died in an instant? His family must be overwhelmed with grief.
“I know.” His throat tightened.
Leticia enfolded his hand in both of hers. He hung on to her as if she alone protected him from his demons. While she remained near, those demons stayed in the farthest shadows instead of surrounding and overwhelming him. He must do what he could to keep her untainted by his darkness.
“You shouldn’t be alone in my room, Tish.”
“You? Lecturing me on propriety?”
He opened his eyes and shot her a baleful glare. “As I seem to keep pointing out to you, I am aware of proper behavior.”
She smiled, her expression gentle. “The door is open. Besides, I doubt anyone considers you a threat in your condition.”
“I don’t want you to suffer any more because of me. I’ve been a great disappointment to you.” He gave up the struggle to keep his eyes open.
She laid a hand over his, so soft, so warm, so comforting. “That’s no way to talk. Right now, you concentrate on getting better. We can discuss your many sins later.”
Grimly, he said, “I don’t want to talk about them. I want to stop committing them. I’m doing things differently from now on.”
“Very well,” she soothed. “Hush now; don’t worry about it.”
She didn’t believe him; she was humoring him. He’d have to prove it to her. He had a great deal to prove to a great many people. He would change. He would show everyone he could be a better man.
Her voice sounded very near his ear. “Tristan, stop worrying. All will be well.”
He released a long exhale and kissed her hand. “I’m glad you’re here. You heal me.” Holding her hand next to his cheek, he relaxed. The pain eased with her touch.
She wiggled her fingers out of his. “I should go and let you rest.”
He gripped her hand. “Stay. Please stay.”
She huffed her amusement. “A moment ago, you said I shouldn’t be in your room.”
“You shouldn’t.” He kissed her hand again and pressed it against his face.
“I’ll check on you later this evening.” Her clothes rustled as she arose, and she leaned over to kiss his cheek.
He lifted his head and turned his face to allow her easier access but at the last second, she turned her head the opposite way than what he’d anticipated. Their lips touched—an accident, of course, but shockwaves from the kiss nearly knocked him out of bed.
She didn’t move away. He kissed her in earnest then. To his surprise, she responded. The softness of her lips, the gentleness, all wrapped up in her sweetness, filling him with a thrilling energy unlike any he’d experienced. He’d shared similar moments with scores of women, but none came close to the purity, the happiness, the safety of kissing Leticia. She embodied warmth and beauty and love. At last he’d found that missing piece of his life.
She gasped and drew back. He tried to focus on her face but the halo-like glow surrounding her blurred her expression. Was she shocked? Horrified? Repulsed?
He reached for her like a blind man reaches for a guide. “Leticia?”
She let out her breath hard, then laughed. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to do that.”
She was sorry. But she didn’t sound angry or repulsed. Encouraging, that. Her voice took on a faintly accusing tone. “Did you do that on purpose?”
“No. Well, not that first kiss. But I’m beginning to think I should have. A long time ago.” He grinned.
“Oh, no, that would have been a very bad idea.”
He hesitated, suddenly as terrified as a fifteen-year-old. “Did you like it?”
She let out a strangled laugh. “I’ve had better.”
He jerked back which sent a bolt of fiery pain through his head. Better? She’d had better? Whom had she kissed? Richard? Kensington? Lord Bradbury? He’d call out them all, one by one. Pistols at dawn.
He moistened lips that ached—craved—to kiss her again. “How much better? Who?”
She took a few steps back until all he could see was the glowing whiteness of her gown. “I’ll come visit you again tonight. Rest well.”
Pain closed in around him, sending jagged, dark spikes into his vision. Fear engulfed him. If she left, he would die. “Don’t leave.”
“I have to go…I’m…”
Panic and agony stabbed at him from every direction. His breathing turned to gasping. He had driven her away. She feared he would try it again and couldn’t stand to touch him. She personified purity and light, and he was filthiness. And they both knew it. But without her, he would drown.
“Tish!” Desperate, he gasped. “Don’t leave.”
“Here, drink this.” She slid a hand behind his head, careful not to touch the bump in back and pressed a cup to his lips.
He gulped down the laudanum and reached for her, blinded by pain. “Stay. Please stay.”
“Very well.” She sat at the edge of the bed and let him hold her hand.
He fell asleep with her cool, soft hand in his, and dreamed of holding her in his arms.