Page 104 of A Portrait of Love

Honey stood staring at the smooth mahogany, her mind a complete and utter blank.

***

Simon heard Peel and Honoria talking in hushed voices and knew he should invite her in, reassure her that everything would be fine, but it felt as though somebody was using the flat part of an ax on his scull again and again and again. Just opening his eyes a crack, in the dark, was causing his stomach to heave; he’d thrown up twice already.

He needed to be alone, where he could indulge in his pain without disgracing himself. He especially did not want to disgrace himself in front of a wife he’d begun to like and respect.

These blasted headaches were a dehumanizing orgy of torment that left him weak and feeling like a worm—even without an audience. He had no desire for her to see what she had married. Too much familiarity led to contempt—this would lead to worse: pity and disgust.

It had been over a year since his last headache—or migraine, as the doctors in Spain had called them. This was the first one he’d had since returning to England. For some reason, he had hoped it was a pain that would disappear along with the nightmares and night sweats—a suffering associated with the Continent and his life there. But here it was again.

They’d begun nine years ago, after his first serious injury. He’d been in the van of an assault and a company of French had appeared out of thin air. He’d been lucky enough to avoid sabers, but his horse had stumbled and must have broken its leg because both he and the animal went down hard. His had struck a rock or another horse clipped his skull, either way, he lost consciousness. When he came to, hours later, he had a ringing in his ears that persisted for weeks, until the giant goose egg went down. And then the migraine came.

He would have shot himself in the head if the doctors hadn’t taken away his pistols. For the second time in his life, he’d found himself lashed to a bed. This time they force fed him laudanum, which only made him vomit, which only made the pain worse.

Finally, a hand had shoved a pea-sized piece of something in his mouth and bliss had descended: Opium.

Although laudanum was an opium derivative, there was something about pure opium that didn’t make him sick and took away his pain. The doctor who gave it to him warned him about its power—its lure.

“Use only as much as you need. And use it only when you are afraid you might do yourself harm.”

Simon hadn’t told the man that he’d already had experience with the milk of the poppy—he’d been too concerned the physician wouldn’t have given it to him.

Besides, he knew what he faced and could control his actions because he was older and wiser.

At first, Simon had only taken a pea-sized piece when one of his headaches struck.

But the road to hell was paved with intentions every bit as good and better than his had been.

Three years after the head injury he was hospitalized for a bayonet wound through his thigh. It was then that his other problem was discovered.

They would have sent him home for good at that point, if he hadn’t threatened the doctor who was treating him.

“Send me back, and my death will be on your hands.”

The man had been horrified. “But I cannot treat here. You need some place safe, with the right care, and—”

“Do it here; break the chains of this thing.”

“You don’t understand,” the doctor kept saying. But Simon was accustomed to dealing with the Duke of Plimpton, everyone else in the world was mere clay in his hands after Wyndham.

Breaking his reliance on opium a second time made his migraines seem like a Wednesday at Almacks. If Simon had known how agonizing it would be, he never would have agreed to such torment.

The doctor had told him the next time he capitulated to opium, it would kill him, and Simon had believed it.

So here he was again, in the dark, with only a cool cloth on his forehead to soothe his pain, wanting to blow his brains out.

He knew Peel’s inner workings; on the off chance that Simon could actually get out of bed, he would never find his guns.

His mind careened from frustrated thoughts of guns to the information his brother had shared.

So, Bella was a widow and free to marry. He shook his head and then gasped as a wave of nausea rolled through him.

Blast!

Simon weathered the violent churning and pounding for a few moments before the pain stabilized into a steady, brutal throbbing.

He hated that the duke would think it was the news of Bella’s return that had launched this bout of sickness. The truth was, Simon had lost many of his memories of Bella along with all the others. The holes, gaps, and pure absences of days, weeks, and even months extended to her—the erstwhile love of his life.