Page 46 of Duke in Darkness

Sir Roger inclined his head. “Quite. But I must dispute a key fact. The French weren’t truly defeated, were they? Napoleon escaped Elba and has returned. His armies grow. His power grows. Army dukes like Exton and Wellington should be ashamed of their incompetence. At least Exton got what he deserved.”

The rage and humiliation inside him exploded. Gabriel threw down his champagne glass, gripped Sir Roger’s lapel, and ploughed his right fist into the man’s nose. Almost in perfect unison with an arc of bright red blood, pandemonium erupted around him. Ladies shrieked. Men shouted. A few cheered. Hands batted ineffectually at his arms, attempting to get Gabriel to loosen his hold on Sir Roger. He ignored the others, twisting around so they wouldn’t touch his back, and instead hit the dandy again, this time letting the man go so he flew backward and broke a flimsy-looking chair in half.

A part of him knew he couldn’t have done anything worse at this place, with these people around him. It would spread across London like wildfire within the next half hour, if not sooner. But he couldn’t stop himself. Every hurt, every fear, every nightmare he’d ever had, had rushed to the surface and burst free.

Gabriel loomed over the dandy, his fingers flexing and knuckles cracking, barely able to say the necessary words. “You impugn…my honor. And that…of my men. My superiors. I should…kill you. Get up.”

Sir Roger’s eyes bulged, he made a gurgling sound, then fainted.

“Enough, Your Grace,” said Castlereagh, yanking on his arm.

“Please, Exton,” Lilian whispered. “No more.”

Oddly, it was the soft sound of his wife’s voice that broke through his stormy haze, when he shouldn’t have heard her at all.

Gabriel couldn’t make himself turn his head to see Lilian’s mortification at his actions, or her disgust at his past. But to his right, Emily stared at him with stricken eyes. The string orchestra manfully continued to play in the corner, but everyone else in the ballroom had stopped what they were doing to watch and point and murmur. Castlereagh kept blustering that if insulted with such words he would have done the same, but nobody really believed him, and besides, he fought for a losing cause.

The Duke of Exton, formerly Colonel Jordan-Ives, had just disgraced himself and the British Army with a complete lack of discipline at a private ball. Had brought violence and chaos to a room instead of order. Had embarrassed his new wife and their esteemed hosts, hosts who had offered the hand of friendship.

As first public outings went, it couldn’t be more of a disaster.

Sucking in a huge breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm himself, Gabriel turned to the Castlereaghs. “My deepest apologies…for ruining your ball. I will…take my leave. Good evening.”

Shockingly, the viscount held out his hand to be shaken, and Emily dipped into a low curtsy. Even more shockingly, a familiar gloved hand settled on his sleeve.

“Good evening, all,” said Lilian graciously, as though there wasn’t an unconscious man on the ground with a rearranged nose, a chair in pieces, smashed glass, or the scent of spilt champagne and blood in the air.

Together they turned and moved toward the drawing room door, eyes resolutely forward, acknowledging no one, not the whisperers, not the gigglers, not those who leaped back to avoid being trampled on.

And thus ended the fourteenth Duke of Exton’s first and most probably last ball appearance.

CHAPTER 11

Her husband had been tortured by the French.

Lilian’s stomach churned and flipped, made worse by the movement of the carriage, and she pressed her fingers to her lips in an attempt to stop herself vomiting. Or screaming.

All this time she had believed Exton’s wounds were inflicted on the battlefield. That although they were the enemy, men with some degree of honor had managed to best him in a fair fight. But no. He’d been held captive, without a way to defend himself, at the mercy of those who hated him for no other reason than the color of his coat.

Cut. Burned. Kept in chains.

His strong aversion to touch now made perfect sense, although now, more than ever, she wanted desperately to wrap her arms around him and offer comfort. How long had he been imprisoned? Could that be why he also insisted on well-lit rooms?

Lilian closed her eyes as so many sections of a horrifying map seemed to fit together. How could any man endure what Exton had and still function? Still smile occasionally?

Well. Tomorrow she would order every beeswax candle in London and ensure the townhouse resembled Vauxhall Gardens. Exton deserved nothing less than the utmost respect, and the gentlest of care. And she would ensure he got it, even if she had to drag Xavier with her to every shop and home in England.

“Nothing to say, Lilian? Proper lady like you…must be desperate…to scold me.”

Jolted from her thoughts by Exton’s harsh tone, she tried not to flinch. Because although his words had been thickly coated in anger, he sat hunched over, right up against the window, the scarred side of his face turned away from her. His hands were clenched into fists as they rested on his thighs, so taut his bruised, raw knuckles were white. If the moon hadn’t chosen this evening to gleam so brightly, she might have missed these details in the inadequate light of the oil lamps. But tonight, her husband’s pain, and heartbreakingly, his shame, was plain to see.

“No,” she whispered. “I will send an apology note to Lady Castlereagh in the morning.”

Exton rubbed his jaw. “How very civilized. What a…good ton woman…you are.”

Lilian’s stomach roiled again. He often did that, but the action wasn’t like soothing a bruise. More hiding the evidence. How had the French inflicted that facial wound? Had several men held Exton down while another carved and gouged the flesh?

She whimpered at the hideous thought. “No. I’m not.”