Page 9 of How to Start a Scandal

Though he gave the praise flippantly, he felt the words in his bones. Or at least some part of him that was below his waist. He’d very much enjoyed dancing with her in those earlier years. Her eyes had a way of sparkling at him every time they came together and some of the more vigorous steps in the dance had made her breasts give an enticing bounce.

‘I’m sorry, I...’ She shook her head even as her gaze found the dance floor, her expression longing.

False bravado indeed. Why wouldn’t she give in to her desire to dance?

He was certain it had something to do with how she’d nestled herself among the wallflowers. A brilliant violet standing out boldly in the garden no one paid mind to.

‘Perhaps the next set, then?’ he offered in an attempt to give her time to yield to her own desires.

A drum was struck in the orchestra, a deep resonating tone that thwacked him dead in the chest.

All at once, he was marching towards the enemy at Waterloo, heart hammering in time with the pulse of that bloody drum, energy and anticipation crackling all around him.

Sweat prickled at his brow.

This. This was what he had dreaded the most in striking up a conversation with Lady Violet. He curled his hand into a fist and squeezed in an attempt to gain control of his thoughts.

When the devil had they started incorporating drums into the orchestra at a ball? Or was it for this victory celebration commemorating the defeat at Waterloo?

It didn’t matter. All that concerned him was how his mind had flickered back to things best left forgotten and how his skin suddenly prickled with sweat.

Lady Violet’s mouth moved, but he didn’t possess the wherewithal to understand a single word emerging from her lips.

The drum sounded again and echoed in his brain.

The first shot. The shouts that followed. The cannons. God, the cannons.

He gritted his teeth.

The drum pulsed again. Its rhythm echoed in his temples and drowned everything out except memories he could not push away. Being shoved by Brent and how it had sent Seth sprawling. The cannonball that would have ended Seth’s life if Brent hadn’t so bravely saved him.

That cannonball.

Bile rose in Seth’s throat. His cravat was too damnably tight. He wanted to dig his fingers into the bound silk and rip it from his neck.

Except he was in a ballroom where etiquette prevailed. Where men were men and not cowards whose minds were plagued with the horrors of war.

Lady Violet regarded him, as though expecting him to speak.

He shook his head. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I can’t...’ He backed up and bumped into someone.

It was all he could do to mutter an apology, to keep from letting the breath escape his chest in heaving gasps. He was a man, damn it. A soldier. He was no coward to fall prey to these memories that haunted him during the day. Especially not at a simple ball.

He managed to keep his gait slow as he made his escape to the door leading out to the veranda. The cool night air was a balm against his blazing skin and the darkness eased his aching head.

The reprieve did not last long.

What kind of a man was he to buckle under thoughts? They were only memories, after all. He’d spent years in battle. Years.

But none had been like Waterloo.

A shiver raked over his skin.

Waterloo had been bloody. He’d lost more men in that one battle than in the whole of his career. Men exposed to fighting for too long did not always fare well in the long of it. He’d seen them himself. Soldiers with hollowed eyes and gaunt expressions, their minds shattered by memories.

Was he becoming such a man?

He leaned against the stone railing overlooking the garden and dropped his head forward. Perhaps it was a good thing he had been forced to sell his commission. As much as he’d dreaded facing the unfamiliar obligations of an earl, they might be the very things needed to save his sanity.