The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(25)

“Thank you,” he murmured, then turned and stepped into the boat.

Chloe waited until the craft took off down the Thames before her pounding heart settled to a normal beat. She closed her fingers, as if she could capture and hold his kiss in her palm. They’d shared an experience tonight that had brought them closer. It wasn’t just physical, but a deeper connection that she would find hard to forget.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he experienced the trauma of the war often. It wasn’t as if fireworks were a daily form of entertainment in London. But still, what if he’d been alone? Who would have helped him? She ached with an inner pain at the thought of such a strong, powerful man alone and tormented.

Her thoughts were interrupted when an amorous couple wandered onto the docks, seeking a ferryman to take them across the Thames to their waiting carriage.

Chloe returned to the gardens and wove through the boisterous crowd. As soon as she stepped into the supper box, Lady Willowby was upon her. “Where’s His Grace?”

Chloe looked the woman straight in the eye. “I saw him on the way to the entrance. He said he had to leave.”

“Leave?” The widow’s lips puckered with annoyance.

“He mentioned meeting a former soldier he hadn’t seen in years.” It was the best lie Chloe could concoct on short notice.

Henry waved a hand. “It’s understandable. The duke is a war hero, after all. But I say we should enjoy our remaining time in the gardens together.” He plucked a glass of arrack punch from a server’s tray and offered it to Lady Willowby.

Lady Willowby took the glass, then eyed Henry with renewed interest. A coy smile curled the corners of her painted lips. “A splendid idea, Lord Sefton.”

Eliza took Chloe’s arm and pulled her aside to whisper in her ear. “Lady Willowby has been in a sour mood ever since the duke disappeared. I suspect she is unaccustomed to being ignored, and she will be out for her next prey. Watch Lord Sefton, my dear. Now that the duke is gone, I fear she will attempt to charm your earl.”

Chloe’s throat seemed to close up. The notion of Henry with Lady Willowby should bother her, but her thoughts were not where they should be. Rather, she couldn’t stop thinking of the troubled duke who would undoubtedly suffer alone for the rest of the evening.

…

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.