Chapter Ten
Panic welled in Chloe’s chest. “I don’t want to be alone with you.” She couldn’t trust herself near Michael. The pull of attraction was too strong. Then there was the issue of Lady Willowby. He’d gone off in one of the private hedges with her alone. Did he think he could be with the voluptuous widow and then attempt to seduce Chloe as well?
He abruptly stopped to face her, and she nearly collided with his powerful body. “Did you kiss Henry?”
She bristled at his tone as much as his question. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Did you kiss him, dammit?” His tone was harsh, his expression like granite. A muscle ticked at his jaw.
“Did you kiss Lady Willowby?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“Do not flatter yourself, Your Grace.” She pushed away from him, widening the space between them.
“How long will you convince yourself that we aren’t meant to be together?” The hoarseness of his tone was like a hot caress across her skin.
“Your arrogance is astounding.” She spun around, intending to flee, but her slipper caught on a rock and she stumbled. He latched onto her wrist to steady her, and the simple touch nearly buckled her knees.
“It may be wrong, but I’m honest enough to acknowledge the attraction between us. Are you brave enough to acknowledge it as well, to admit the truth?” At her silence, satisfaction glinted in his coal eyes. “I’ve never forced a woman into my bed, and I won’t start now. Will you be my lover, Chloe?”
A tremor inside her heated her thighs and groin at his erotic offer. She wanted to yield to the burning sweetness that seemed captive within her. She fought it.
“It’s not possible.” Her voice sounded weak to her own ears.
“Why? You do not strike me as the type of woman who prefers flattery and false praise. You would tire of any man who spews poetry and writes sonnets about the shade of your lips or the blueness of your eyes.”
“You misunderstand. What I want is to be more than a man’s mistress.”
“I’ll give you everything.”
Everything but a wedding ring.
I refuse to spend a future worrying about money or security or if he’ll leave, she vowed. I’ll never allow myself to become a victim of a man’s abandonment again!
What she felt for Michael was desire. Lust. Nothing more could come of it. Certainly not a future. If she gave her innocence to him, she would lose the most valuable thing she possessed for her future husband. And after Michael tired of her, she’d be left behind with a few trinkets and a ruined reputation.
The man saw her only as a pickpocket. A thief. Someone out for Henry’s title and fortune. A woman who’d been with other men.
Regret seared her chest. No matter how hard she tried, she’d never be good enough, would she?
“You want a ring?” he asked.
“Is that so hard to imagine?”
He shook his head. “I cannot have a wife.”
Something about his tone made the hair on her nape stand on end. He couldn’t have a wife or didn’t want a wife? The difference was subtle, but there nonetheless.
“What—”
“We do not need to marry to share pleasure. It will be our secret. No one will learn of it. Let me show you how good it can be between us.”
He stepped close and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. The strength and power of his will was as undeniable as the man himself. The glow from the lanterns highlighted his high cheekbones and the perfection of his lips. His gaze was intense and focused on her. Heat emanated from his body, and her skin tingled with awareness. The rakish fall of dark hair across his brow made her want to touch it. Despite her resolve to show no weakness and resist the pull between them, her breaths came short and fast.
His head lowered inch by inch until he hovered above her mouth. “I’m going to kiss you, Chloe Somerton.”
Yes. Oh yes.
The night was shattered with a loud boom.
Michael’s head snapped up. “What the hell—”
She glanced up to see a burst of color light the sky. Madame Saqui and her feathered headdress were illuminated in a spectacular sparkling shower of colorful light. Chloe’s heart leaped in her chest. “Fireworks!”
She turned back to Michael. He stood still, his expression frozen, dazed. His eyes were open, and he was looking at her, not the fireworks, but he didn’t appear to see a thing. A wheezing sound reverberated from his chest, and perspiration beaded on his brow. Something was wrong, very wrong.
“Your Grace?”
No response.
“Michael?”
Nothing. He was having some kind of episode. The skin around his eyes and mouth pulled tight, and his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. He looked fierce and more than a bit frightening, and for a pulse-pounding moment she could envision him on the battlefield just before he charged the enemy.
Her mind turned back to the time at Bullock’s Museum when she’d stepped out of the room housing Napoleon’s gilded carriage. He had the same look of panic and fierceness—the pupils dilated and perspiration collected on his brow as if he were reliving an awful memory or nightmare.
She knew all about bad memories that a person couldn’t shake and nightmares that made one dread going to bed and blowing out the candle to face the darkness on one’s own. A heaviness centered in her chest at his distress.
What was wrong with him? The urge—the desperate need—to somehow aid him and ease his torment was undeniable. Reaching up, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders and did the only thing that came to mind—she kissed him.
His lips were warm and soft beneath hers, but his breathing was still labored. She cradled his face in her hands and increased the pressure of her kiss.
In the distance, fireworks crackled in the sky and illuminated his chiseled features in myriad colors. Her heart beat along with the loud noise.
He stiffened but didn’t push her away. She pulled back an inch and felt his hot breath on her cheek. “It’s all right.”
“The cannons,” he murmured against her lips.
Cannons? As a soldier, he must have been exposed to repeated artillery fire. Was he reliving a battle?
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Everything is fine. There is no cannon fire. Only fireworks that are part of the show.” When he still didn’t respond, she caressed his face with trembling fingers. “Just fireworks,” she repeated against his lips. “I promise.”
He blinked and focused his gaze. “Fireworks?”
“Yes. Look up and see.”
He raised his head and slowly let out a deep breath. “Christ.” He swiped a hand across his face, then returned his attention to her. “Did I hurt you?”
Her brows lowered. “No. I’m fine.”
He was a large, powerful man, and he easily could have harmed her in his distressed state, but her gut had told her she was safe with him, and she couldn’t leave him alone to deal with his crisis.
“Tell me the truth,” he demanded.
“I am. You didn’t harm me in any way. It’s you I’m concerned about.”
He let out a long breath. “I need to leave.”
“It’s all right. It’s only me. No one else is here,” she said.
“You don’t understand. I need to leave this place. Now.” His tone was harsh.
She knew men disliked displaying weakness of any kind—especially a former army officer like the Duke of Cameron. “I’ll help you.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No one must see.”
“No one will. I promise. I’ll tell Henry and the others you had to leave.” She took his arm, but he remained unmoving.
“You can trust me. Come.”
Several seconds passed and she thought he’d ignore her, but then he nodded. Together they began to make their way along the graveled path toward the pavilion.
She glanced at his profile. “If anyone is watching, it will appear as if you are taking me on a stroll through the gardens.”
He didn’t argue, and she sensed he was still coming out of his episode. What had he witnessed in battle to make him react so violently to the fireworks? Fellow soldiers wounded or dying? Or was he seeing the faces of the enemy soldiers he’d killed? Pity squeezed her heart.
By the pavilion, a thick crowd remained, all talking about Madame Saqui’s fascinating show. Many were drunk on the potent Vauxhall punch. No one paid them any notice. Chloe led Michael to where several boats waited. Thankfully, the docks were empty. All the revelers were still enjoying the gardens. She spotted the ferryman who had rowed them across the Thames, the soldier with the wooden leg.
“His Grace is unwell and needs to get back to his carriage quickly,” she instructed.
The ferryman took one look at the duke, then exchanged a knowing glance with her. Blessedly he understood. “Aye, miss.”
Michael halted beside the boat and turned to her.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said.
He raised her arm, but rather than kiss the top of her hand, he turned it over to place a warm kiss in the center of her palm. Her body responded instantly—warming and tingling all over. Her breath came short and fast. When he lifted his head, she saw a need so great in the dark depths of his eyes that she sucked in a breath.
“Thank you,” he murmured, then turned and stepped into the boat.
Chloe waited until the craft took off down the Thames before her pounding heart settled to a normal beat. She closed her fingers, as if she could capture and hold his kiss in her palm. They’d shared an experience tonight that had brought them closer. It wasn’t just physical, but a deeper connection that she would find hard to forget.
She couldn’t help but wonder if he experienced the trauma of the war often. It wasn’t as if fireworks were a daily form of entertainment in London. But still, what if he’d been alone? Who would have helped him? She ached with an inner pain at the thought of such a strong, powerful man alone and tormented.
Her thoughts were interrupted when an amorous couple wandered onto the docks, seeking a ferryman to take them across the Thames to their waiting carriage.
Chloe returned to the gardens and wove through the boisterous crowd. As soon as she stepped into the supper box, Lady Willowby was upon her. “Where’s His Grace?”
Chloe looked the woman straight in the eye. “I saw him on the way to the entrance. He said he had to leave.”
“Leave?” The widow’s lips puckered with annoyance.
“He mentioned meeting a former soldier he hadn’t seen in years.” It was the best lie Chloe could concoct on short notice.
Henry waved a hand. “It’s understandable. The duke is a war hero, after all. But I say we should enjoy our remaining time in the gardens together.” He plucked a glass of arrack punch from a server’s tray and offered it to Lady Willowby.
Lady Willowby took the glass, then eyed Henry with renewed interest. A coy smile curled the corners of her painted lips. “A splendid idea, Lord Sefton.”
Eliza took Chloe’s arm and pulled her aside to whisper in her ear. “Lady Willowby has been in a sour mood ever since the duke disappeared. I suspect she is unaccustomed to being ignored, and she will be out for her next prey. Watch Lord Sefton, my dear. Now that the duke is gone, I fear she will attempt to charm your earl.”
Chloe’s throat seemed to close up. The notion of Henry with Lady Willowby should bother her, but her thoughts were not where they should be. Rather, she couldn’t stop thinking of the troubled duke who would undoubtedly suffer alone for the rest of the evening.
…
By the time Michael reached his carriage, his breathing had almost returned to normal and his hands had ceased shaking. He still hadn’t fully recovered, but he had enough of his faculties to realize he had made a mess of things tonight.
God, how the hell could he face her after such a humiliating episode?
It had been fireworks.
Just fireworks.
She’d seen him at his weakest, not once, but twice. He’d been recovering from his fit at Bullock’s Museum when she’d literally run into him. But tonight she’d witnessed the entire event.
Damn. He hated the weakness, the vulnerability.
The carriage hit a rut in the road and it felt like a gavel struck his temple. The episodes left him weak with a pounding headache. He lifted the tasseled shade of the carriage and breathed in the outside air.
At last the conveyance stopped at his residence. Not bothering to wait for his driver to open the door, Michael climbed out of the carriage and ascended the steps. Before he could knock, the door opened and his father’s trusted butler, Hodges, stood there.
“A bottle of whisky. Upstairs. As soon as possible.” Michael’s voice was curt.
Instead of snapping to attention, the servant’s brow furrowed.
“Perhaps Your Grace requires Dr. Grave’s services.”
“No.” Michael’s voice was stern at the mention of his family’s physician. “Bring whisky.” The last thing he needed was a physician. They were all butchers who would try to bleed him or bring out jars of bloodsucking leeches. Neither would do him any good.
“Very well, Your Grace,” Hodges said.
Michael made his way up the grand staircase, into the master’s chambers, and shut the door. Humiliation and guilt washed over him. It was bad enough that his father’s faithful servants remained in the house, but they’d witnessed his debilitating fits.
If Hodges hadn’t worked for his father and brother for years before their deaths, Michael doubted he’d remain in service now. Not for the first time, Michael was grateful his family was not alive to witness his descent into madness.
He knew of soldiers who suffered similar conditions after Waterloo. War sickness, they’d called it. He also knew the result. They were deemed mad, unfit for military service, and ended up in prisons or asylums. Most committed suicide rather than face a lifetime in the harrowing institutions.
God forbid.
He considered opening the door and apologizing to Hodges, then changed his mind. Why bother? The staff had witnessed Michael at his worst and feared him. He could just imagine their whisperings behind his back.
Beware. Here comes the crazed duke.
He tore off his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, and tossed them heedlessly onto a chair. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin. He pulled it off along with his trousers and collapsed on the bed. His valet knew to stay away at these times.
A bottle of whisky and a glass were quietly delivered by a young servant. The lad had probably drawn the shortest straw among the staff, and he slipped out as silently as he’d entered.
Leaning back on the pillows, Michael poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Weariness enveloped him as he tried to concentrate on the evening’s events. In the military, he would meet with his fellow officers at the end of the day. Maps would be spread out across tables and they would analyze and strategize regarding battles they’d fought and those that were planned. How many lives were lost so far? Could anything have been done differently to reduce the casualties? If so, how?
Such painstaking dissection had been ingrained in him from the military. He may no longer be in the army, but old habits were hard to break. After one of his episodes, he’d tried his best to determine what trigger had sent him back to that bloody battlefield, a dark, desperate place that haunted him despite all his efforts.
It was easy to identify tonight’s trigger. The fireworks. The blast of cannon fire was not something any soldier could easily forget. Ear deafening and deadly, it resulted in mass casualties and tore limbs from bodies like a ragdoll in a rabid dog’s jaws.
If he’d been alone, he had no idea how he’d react, or heaven forbid, if he’d become violent and attack an unsuspecting passerby. He only knew he’d been aided by the most unlikely savior.
Chloe’s voice—sweet and calming—had called out to him from the end of a long dark tunnel. He stumbled forward, guided by the melodic voice murmuring words of comfort. Her feather-like touch grazed his cheek and swept his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. Then the lightest brush of soft lips against his own was like a soothing balm to his tortured soul. He’d forced his eyes to focus and saw understanding in the heart-wrenching tenderness of her gaze.
He gulped the whisky and rested his head against the headboard. Impossible. How could she know his demons?
Then, just as quickly, he’d felt something other than comfort. He’d felt desire. Raw and aching, he’d trembled with the need to take and dominate. To pleasure and possess.
He was supposed to dissuade her from Henry. He knew deep in his bones that she wasn’t for the young earl. Michael had always found Chloe Somerton beautiful and desirable—what man wouldn’t? But he never expected this consuming need.
Never before had he wanted a woman so badly. But he wanted her to acknowledge her own passion, to come to him willingly. If he weren’t careful, she’d become an obsession.
He raised his glass to his lips. The alcohol eased his frayed nerves and dulled the exploding sound of fireworks that continued to echo in his brain.
He welcomed the numbing oblivion.