Chapter Twenty-Three
Henry’s wide eyes focused on them. “Christ!”
Chloe’s heart thundered. “I’m so sorry…I wanted to tell you—”
“What? That you’ve been having an affair with the duke?” A sudden thin chill hung on the edge of his words.
“Henry,” Michael said, his voice low but carrying a distinct warning.
“It isn’t what it seems,” Chloe blurted out.
Henry laughed, a high-pitched cackle that caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms. “What else could it be?”
How could she explain? She wasn’t having an affair with the duke. Rather, she’d fallen in love with Michael. Madly in love.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Michael raised a hand. “We shall talk about this later, Henry. Right now, we need to leave before anyone else finds us.”
Henry didn’t seem to hear. His gaze was focused on her. “You behave the harlot for the duke.”
Her stomach tilted. Her legs felt weak, and she would have fallen if her back wasn’t pressed against the wall for support.
“That’s enough,” Michael said tersely, his voice cold and clipped, and she saw a flash of the military commander in the harsh set of his jaw and the menacing look in his eyes. “Let’s go, Henry.”
“No, why should I? Perhaps I should call for Lady Huntingdon and enlighten her as to her sister’s wanton behavior.”
Michael’s jaw tensed. “Listen to me, Henry. Chloe and I are to be married.”
Astonishment crossed Henry’s features. “Married?”
“I didn’t want you to learn of it this way. I am truly story for not telling you sooner, but yes, we have decided to wed,” Michael said.
Henry’s shock yielded quickly to fury, and he glared at Chloe. “This is what you wanted all along, wasn’t it? You’d be a duchess, far better than a countess as my wife.”
“No!” she cried out. “I never meant to hurt you. I planned on telling you in the gardens tonight and explaining everything.”
Henry’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “I don’t believe you or any of this.” His lips thinned with anger. “Need I remind you, Your Grace, of the past?” He reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a piece of parchment. From a distance, it appeared stained with dark ink.
“You gave this to me when you returned from Waterloo, and I carry it with me everywhere I go. You recognize it, don’t you?”
A strange look crossed Michael’s face. His mouth opened and closed, but he seemed to struggle to form a response.
“You must recognize the bloodstain. It was because of you,” Henry said tersely, “that my father lies in a cold grave.”
With pulse-pounding awareness, Chloe realized that the parchment was a letter—the letter Lord Sefton had carried on his person when he was killed saving Michael’s life. The stain wasn’t ink but dried blood.
A strange rasping sound echoed in the library. With rising dismay, Chloe realized it was coming from the duke, and she watched as his breathing grew labored.
“Stop it, Henry,” she said. “Put that away. You must see what it’s doing to him.”
“I see, but I don’t care. He owes me.” Clenching the letter in his fist, Henry took a step forward and glared at the duke with burning, reproachful eyes. “Shall I read it out loud, Your Grace, or will you?”
A chill seemed to envelope the room. Michael’s gaze lowered to the bloodstained parchment, and he stiffened. His eyes dilated. His jaw hardened like granite. His expression darkened with a fierce, faraway look. One that Chloe recognized all too well.
Chloe’s heart pounded in dread. “Henry, stop,” she demanded.
But Henry didn’t notice the signs or heed her warning. He unfolded the letter and began to read in a clipped, tense voice, “To my closest friend, Lord Michael Keswick. If I shall perish in battle, then my last wish is for you to look after my son and sole heir—”
“Stop!” she repeated.
Henry’s face was a glowering mask of rage. “You’ve never spoke of that day, Your Grace, and I demand the truth. Did my father cry out in pain when the bullet tore into his chest? Did he beg you to help him? Did you try to stop the bleeding yourself or call out for the army surgeon? Did you stay by my father’s side as he took his last breath?”
Michael’s chest heaved. His fists clenched at his sides, but he held still and seemed incapable of speech.
“Did you promise a dying man that you’d look after his only son, knowing you were lying? Did you?” At Michael’s continued silence, Henry’s temper flared. Clenching his teeth, he stepped forward and shoved the duke in the chest.
Michael still didn’t respond. His attention was focused on the letter in Henry’s hand.
“Answer me!” Henry shoved him again, this time with more force.
Again, no response.
“Coward!” Henry slammed the letter against Michael’s chest. “You have no honor. Take this so that you never forget my father’s sacrifice.”
Michael flinched as if the parchment burned him through the layers of broadcloth and linen. He came to life then and tried to push the letter away, tried to evade Henry’s grasp. But Henry was relentless.
A low menacing growl came from Michael’s throat that caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms.
Oh no. She recognized that frightening sound. In his mind, he was on the battlefield. Just as when he saw Napoleon’s carriage. Just as when the fireworks exploded in the gardens. But now, a physical reminder of that terrifying day had been thrust before him, was touching him.
It all happened swiftly. Michael’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he wrapped his hands around Henry’s throat. Henry’s eyes bulged in shock.
Chloe lurched forward. “Michael! Stop!”
But Michael didn’t look at her, his face twisted in anger. He was in the thick of battle, his blood running hot and fierce in a struggle for survival. He didn’t know what he was doing or that it was Henry he was attacking. In his mind, it could be the French soldier who had shot and killed his best friend.
Chloe tried to pry Michael’s hands loose, but she couldn’t move him an inch. Henry wheezed.
Oh God.
The younger man didn’t stand a chance against Michael’s superior strength. Henry began batting furiously at Michael’s hands.
She needed to reach him, to bring him back to safety. “Michael, it’s me! It’s Chloe. You need to stop.” She felt the slightest hesitation in him. “Let him go,” she pleaded.
Just then, Henry flailed out in a desperate attempt to escape and struck her head. She cried out as a sharp pain pierced her temple. She stumbled back and reached out to grasp a chair, but missed. Her shoe snagged in the Oriental carpet, and she tripped and landed hard on the floor.
It was enough to make Michael halt. He reared back and dropped his hands from Henry’s throat, then he looked down to where she lay sprawled and stunned on the library floor.
A flicker of emotion flashed in his eyes. Recognition? Confusion? He blinked and focused on her face. “Chloe?”
She reached for him, desperate to ensure he had returned. “Yes…yes… It’s me.”
He dropped to his knees beside her on the carpet.
At last, he let out a long breath and leaned back on his knees. His brows slashed downward, and he touched her temple. Pulling back, he stared at the blood on his finger. “Jesus. You’re hurt.”
She hadn’t even realized she was bleeding. She touched herself and felt a cut on her hairline, and she suspected what had caused the injury. Henry’s signet ring must have cut her when he’d flailed out. “I’m fine. It’s not deep.”
Henry stood behind them, his expression stark as he touched his throat. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I never meant for you to be harmed.”
Michael didn’t pay Henry attention. He helped her to her feet, his gaze traveling her from head to toe, then back to her face. He inhaled sharply. “You could have been gravely injured. Because of me.”
“No, no. It wasn’t your fault, and it’s a small wound.” Her heart hammered in her chest. Instinct told her that she needed to quickly put his mind at ease.
He shook his head. “You could have hit your head and been taken from me,” he said in a harsh, raw voice.
“No. It’s nothing,” she insisted. “Just an accident.”
Henry remained still. “I should have heeded your warning to cease, Chloe. I never suspected it would go this far.”
She felt Michael shudder as he drew in a sharp breath. “Go now, Henry. We’ll talk about this later.”
Henry hesitated for a heartbeat, long enough for Chloe to worry that he’d refuse to go once again. But then he nodded and crossed the room. He closed the door quietly on his way out.
Michael’s complexion was ashen, and a look of tired sadness passed over his handsome features. “Christ. I should have known it was too good to last.”
A warning voice whispered in her head. “What do you mean?”
He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I was selfish to think I could have you forever. I cannot risk your safety. What happened here tonight proves I’m unfit for—”
She became more uneasy as her dismay grew. “As I said, you mustn’t blame yourself. The letter was a physical reminder of that tragic day, and Henry should never have used it as he did. You didn’t harm me, and I’m fine.”
“No. Listen to me, Chloe. You need a man, one who is stable and competent. One who is in charge of his mind and body.”
“I have one.”
He shook his head. “I was a fool to think all would be well and that there was hope.”
“There is always hope.”
“Tonight proved that’s false. What if this happens again? What if I go back to that dark place?”
“Then we will handle it together.”
His jaw tensed. “No, we won’t. I will handle it. Alone. I cannot marry you. I will not marry anyone.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She swallowed hard, trying to manage a feeble answer. “Michael, please. You must not say such things.”
“I’m truly sorry for what I have put you through, but I am not the man for you. Live your life, Chloe Somerton. Marry and have children. Forget me.”
She grew desperate and reached for him, but he evaded her gasp. Her throat ached with anguish. “Michael—”
“Wait ten minutes, then return to the group.”
“Wait! Don’t leave me.”
He glanced back. “I cannot…I will not change my mind.” Then he turned and strode out the door.
Chloe stared at the closed door in shock and dismay. Then, slowly, she sagged and slid down the wall until she was curled in a ball on the Oriental carpet. Her fingers trembled as she touched her lips. They were still swollen from the duke’s passionate kisses.
How had things turned so quickly? Happiness had been within reach. Her future had never been brighter. One minute she was in his arms, passion overriding reason, the next had been a nightmare. She’d finally found a man who cared naught for her past and wanted to marry her, only to lose him so quickly.
She loved him with all her heart, and he’d rejected her.
Her misery was a steel weight, and she felt the nauseating sickness of despair grip her. Life was truly cruel. How would she survive the evening? How would she survive at all? Her heart ached at the loss, and she wanted to flee—to shut herself in her bedchamber and succumb to wracking, soul-drenching sobs.
Only she could not. No one must suspect the truth. Instead, she wiped her eyes and returned to the party.