Chapter Twenty-Four
“What on earth is going on with you?” Eliza asked.
Chloe squirmed beneath Eliza’s gaze. As soon as the last guest had departed, Chloe had fled to her bedchamber. But her relief was short-lived when both Eliza and Amelia had knocked on the door moments later. Chloe had anticipated their visit, and with Alice’s assistance, she’d cleansed the small cut at her temple and concealed it by removing the pins in her hair.
Eliza pinched the bridge of her nose. “First Lord Sefton abruptly up and leaves, then the duke soon afterward.”
“What makes you think I had something to do with it? Maybe the two of them had a disagreement?” Chloe wasn’t ready to confess the truth to her sisters. She didn’t think she could ever bring herself to talk about it.
Eliza rolled her eyes. “Don’t be daft. You left the drawing room and didn’t return for a long time. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
Amelia made a face. “Don’t forget that Lady Willowby complained all evening after the single men had departed.”
Chloe could only imagine the widow’s temperament. She’d been disagreeable after the duke had left Vauxhall Gardens unexpectedly and Lord Sefton was still present. With both eligible bachelors leaving early tonight, Chloe was surprised that Lady Willowby, also, hadn’t stormed out of the house.
Eliza crossed her arms and impatiently tapped her foot. “Well?”
She feared telling them about the duke. Heaven only knew if Eliza would go straight to Huntingdon and tell her husband everything. Huntingdon would demand that the duke act honorably and force him to the altar. No, that wasn’t what Chloe wanted at all. Michael would surely resent her.
But she owed her sisters an explanation about Henry.
“There’s something I must tell you both, but I’m uncertain how to say it,” Chloe admitted.
“Just tell us,” Amelia prodded.
Chloe took a deep breath. “I’m no longer interested in marrying Lord Sefton. I think of him only as a friend, and I’m certain we’d make each other unhappy if we were forced to wed.”
She was still reeling from the shock of his discovery. She’d never forget the look of betrayal on Henry’s face. She never wanted to hurt him, and her stomach was still in knots. Would he reveal the scandal? All it would take was one word, one whisper, and he’d have his revenge. It was a risk, but she did not believe Henry would go so far. He may have been surprised to find her in the duke’s arms, but he must have been even more stunned from Michael’s episode.
“I knew it,” Eliza said. “It’s Lord Fairchild, isn’t it? I saw you speaking to the red-haired man at Lady Webster’s garden party.”
Chloe was taken off guard by her sister’s unexpected statement. “I…did speak with Lord Fairchild then, but—”
“It’s not Lord Fairchild,” Amelia said in exasperation. “The Duke of Cameron looks at you the way Lord Vale looked at me when we first met. Completely infatuated and determined not to take no for an answer.”
Eliza’s spine stiffened, and she looked at Chloe in shock. “Why haven’t I noticed? I feel left out. Amelia has just returned, and she sees what must have been right under my nose. No wonder Lady Willowby had a sour expression all evening. Does everyone know?”
Chloe shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The duke has no wish to marry. I, on the other hand, have always wanted to find a suitable husband, remember?” Her words sounded hollow and shallow, and she couldn’t fathom pursuing that goal any longer. She cared naught about snaring a rich, titled man now. If she couldn’t have her duke, then how could she marry another?
So much had changed.
“She has a point,” Eliza said. “I can only hope that’s why I never noticed. I was focused on finding a husband for Chloe.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “The duke told you that he doesn’t wish to marry?”
“Yes,” Chloe replied.
“That’s ludicrous. He’s a duke. He has to marry. It must be because of our father. We’ll never be free of Jonathan Miller’s sins,” Amelia said bitterly.
“No. It’s not Father,” Chloe countered. “The duke suffers from aftereffects of the war.”
Eliza frowned. “He was wounded? I didn’t notice and I haven’t heard—”
“Not physically,” Chloe said. How best to explain Michael’s torments? “It’s more in his mind. He believes it unfair to subject a wife and child to his illness.”
“Hmm. There are plenty of young ladies who’d trade their soul to become a duchess, even if he does suffer mental effects from the war. And the duke is no hardship on the eyes,” Eliza said.
“I’m not convinced. Huntingdon wouldn’t give you up, would he?” Amelia looked at Eliza. “And I know Vale wouldn’t let me go. So if my instincts are right, I don’t think the duke would be able to sit back and watch you marry another man, Chloe.”
Chloe rubbed her forehead. “Well, your instincts are wrong in this case.” Terribly wrong.
It was all a bloody mess, and Chloe’s head began to pound. “I feel unwell. The stress of the evening has given me a headache.”
Eliza and Amelia looked at her in concern, and their overprotectiveness took over. In their eyes she was still their little sister.
“I’ll send for Alice,” Eliza said.
“I’ll tell her to fetch you a cup of warm milk,” Amelia said as both sisters left the room.
At long last, Chloe was alone. She sat at her dressing table and rested her head in her hands. She gulped and then finally yielded to the compulsive sobs that shook her. Sleep and warm milk wouldn’t help her tonight. Nothing would. There was no cure for a broken heart.
…
Michael sat in a chair before the hearth of his study, a decanter of scotch beside him. He raised the crystal decanter and filled his glass to the brim. He was well on his way to becoming drunk.
God, he hated what he’d done tonight. The wounded look in Chloe’s blue eyes would haunt him all his days. He reached for the glass, took a swallow, and watched the fire in the grate.
He didn’t have a choice. One glimpse of that dammed letter had sent him back in time to the battlefield. Only Chloe’s cry of pain had returned him to his senses. But by then, it was too late. She’d been hurt. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t delivered the blow. Her injury was a direct result of his actions.
It could have been worse. Much worse. His fingers curled around the glass. He should have dragged Henry from the library, out of Huntingdon’s house, and explained everything. Michael owed it to him, owed it to Henry’s father.
Henry had been right. He had no honor.
Michael threw his head back and downed the remaining contents in one swallow. The letter sat upon his desk. He dared a glimpse at it, and to his surprise his stomach didn’t sink. Instead, he envisioned Chloe on the desk, her passionate cries as she experienced pleasure. Memories of her were everywhere in this room. They’d made love on the carpet before the hearth. They’d talked—first about his past and then about hers. His maps, his history books, his globe…even that damned letter on the desk didn’t bother him now. Rather, he was filled with her presence.
He refilled his glass. No sense wanting what he could never have.
He cared for her too much to damn her to a life of hell. Only a selfish bastard could doom a woman like Chloe to a life of misery. If she was hurt tonight, then she risked far greater injury when he suffered another fit.
And he would.
It was as inevitable as the lowering of the sun each evening.
She should be happy, not constantly worried about him. For the first time, he’d done the right thing. The honorable thing.
Then why did it hurt so much?