The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(24)

His head lowered inch by inch until he hovered above her mouth. “I’m going to kiss you, Chloe Somerton.”

Yes. Oh yes.

The night was shattered with a loud boom.

Michael’s head snapped up. “What the hell—”

She glanced up to see a burst of color light the sky. Madame Saqui and her feathered headdress were illuminated in a spectacular sparkling shower of colorful light. Chloe’s heart leaped in her chest. “Fireworks!”

She turned back to Michael. He stood still, his expression frozen, dazed. His eyes were open, and he was looking at her, not the fireworks, but he didn’t appear to see a thing. A wheezing sound reverberated from his chest, and perspiration beaded on his brow. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“Your Grace?”

No response.

“Michael?”

Nothing. He was having some kind of episode. The skin around his eyes and mouth pulled tight, and his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. He looked fierce and more than a bit frightening, and for a pulse-pounding moment she could envision him on the battlefield just before he charged the enemy.

Her mind turned back to the time at Bullock’s Museum when she’d stepped out of the room housing Napoleon’s gilded carriage. He had the same look of panic and fierceness—the pupils dilated and perspiration collected on his brow as if he were reliving an awful memory or nightmare.

She knew all about bad memories that a person couldn’t shake and nightmares that made one dread going to bed and blowing out the candle to face the darkness on one’s own. A heaviness centered in her chest at his distress.

What was wrong with him? The urge—the desperate need—to somehow aid him and ease his torment was undeniable. Reaching up, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders and did the only thing that came to mind—she kissed him.

His lips were warm and soft beneath hers, but his breathing was still labored. She cradled his face in her hands and increased the pressure of her kiss.

In the distance, fireworks crackled in the sky and illuminated his chiseled features in myriad colors. Her heart beat along with the loud noise.

He stiffened but didn’t push her away. She pulled back an inch and felt his hot breath on her cheek. “It’s all right.”

“The cannons,” he murmured against her lips.

Cannons? As a soldier, he must have been exposed to repeated artillery fire. Was he reliving a battle?

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Everything is fine. There is no cannon fire. Only fireworks that are part of the show.” When he still didn’t respond, she caressed his face with trembling fingers. “Just fireworks,” she repeated against his lips. “I promise.”

He blinked and focused his gaze. “Fireworks?”

“Yes. Look up and see.”

He raised his head and slowly let out a deep breath. “Christ.” He swiped a hand across his face, then returned his attention to her. “Did I hurt you?”

Her brows lowered. “No. I’m fine.”

He was a large, powerful man, and he easily could have harmed her in his distressed state, but her gut had told her she was safe with him, and she couldn’t leave him alone to deal with his crisis.

“Tell me the truth,” he demanded.

“I am. You didn’t harm me in any way. It’s you I’m concerned about.”

He let out a long breath. “I need to leave.”

“It’s all right. It’s only me. No one else is here,” she said.

“You don’t understand. I need to leave this place. Now.” His tone was harsh.

She knew men disliked displaying weakness of any kind—especially a former army officer like the Duke of Cameron. “I’ll help you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No one must see.”

“No one will. I promise. I’ll tell Henry and the others you had to leave.” She took his arm, but he remained unmoving.

“You can trust me. Come.”

Several seconds passed and she thought he’d ignore her, but then he nodded. Together they began to make their way along the graveled path toward the pavilion.

She glanced at his profile. “If anyone is watching, it will appear as if you are taking me on a stroll through the gardens.”

He didn’t argue, and she sensed he was still coming out of his episode. What had he witnessed in battle to make him react so violently to the fireworks? Fellow soldiers wounded or dying? Or was he seeing the faces of the enemy soldiers he’d killed? Pity squeezed her heart.

By the pavilion, a thick crowd remained, all talking about Madame Saqui’s fascinating show. Many were drunk on the potent Vauxhall punch. No one paid them any notice. Chloe led Michael to where several boats waited. Thankfully, the docks were empty. All the revelers were still enjoying the gardens. She spotted the ferryman who had rowed them across the Thames, the soldier with the wooden leg.

“His Grace is unwell and needs to get back to his carriage quickly,” she instructed.

The ferryman took one look at the duke, then exchanged a knowing glance with her. Blessedly he understood. “Aye, miss.”

Michael halted beside the boat and turned to her.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said.

He raised her arm, but rather than kiss the top of her hand, he turned it over to place a warm kiss in the center of her palm. Her body responded instantly—warming and tingling all over. Her breath came short and fast. When he lifted his head, she saw a need so great in the dark depths of his eyes that she sucked in a breath.