The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(26)
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.
Never before had he wanted a woman so badly. But he wanted her to acknowledge her own passion, to come to him willingly. If he weren’t careful, she’d become an obsession.
He raised his glass to his lips. The alcohol eased his frayed nerves and dulled the exploding sound of fireworks that continued to echo in his brain.
He welcomed the numbing oblivion.
Chapter Eleven
The following afternoon, Chloe slipped out of the house. She knew Eliza would assume she was going to the orphanage to visit Emily, but Chloe had another destination in mind. She walked a block, then hired a hackney and gave the driver directions to the Duke of Cameron’s residence.
She pulled the hood of her cloak down to shield her face as she took the steps to the front door. The risk that someone was watching and might recognize her in the bright afternoon sunlight was real, but her need to see Michael outweighed the risks.
She reached for the brass knocker. The door swung open and the duke’s butler glared down at her—the same servant who’d thought she was a woman of loose morals who’d visited his master in the middle of the night little more than a week ago.
Before Chloe could speak a word, the butler said in a curt voice, “His Grace is not receiving visitors today.”
Chloe refused to be waylaid. “It’s a matter of utmost importance.”
His lips thinned with irritation. “Perhaps miss did not hear me—”
Chloe pushed past him and stepped into the vestibule.
“Miss!” He shut the door and reached for her arm.
Evading his grasp, she whirled to face him. “I was with the duke last night at Vauxhall Gardens. I know.”
The butler hesitated, and a flicker of uncertainty crossed his rigid features.
Just then a heavyset woman of about fifty, carrying a stack of clean and folded linens, turned a corner and entered the vestibule. From the look of her black dress, with its starched white collar and cuffs, and the thick ring of keys at her waist, Chloe surmised she was the housekeeper.
The woman halted and took one look at Chloe before turning to address the butler. “Is anything amiss, Hodges?”
“Yes, Mrs. Smith. This lady”—a bright mockery invaded the butler’s stare as he emphasized the false title—“insists on seeing His Grace. She claims she was with him at Vauxhall last night.”
Mrs. Smith’s gaze snapped back to Chloe. “Is that so?”
Chloe cleared her throat and raised her chin. “I witnessed two of the duke’s episodes. One at Bullock’s Museum and one last night during the fireworks. I helped him return home, and I assure you that I’m here today out of concern, not curiosity.”
Chloe held her breath as the housekeeper measured her with a keenly observant eye before her expression eased and she nodded once as if making an important decision. Mrs. Smith handed the stack of linens to the butler and took Chloe’s arm. “We are all concerned. His Grace usually has trouble sleeping, sometimes has bouts of melancholy and drinks too much, but he was very bad last night. Even Hodges thought so. Isn’t that right?” She glanced at the butler, who stood frozen, his arms full of snowy linens.
“Where is the duke now?” Chloe asked.