Page 29 of The Duke Meets His Match

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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.