The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(43)

She reached the door and rapped on the wood. No response. She rapped again, louder this time. When there still was no reply, she opened the door and swept inside, bracing herself for the worst.

She halted midstep.

Sweet Lord. The room was ransacked. Unrolled maps of varying sizes lay on every inch of the Oriental carpet. Books were scattered across the floor in what appeared to be a haphazard pattern. Some were open, others closed. A large globe was removed from its stand and rested on the floor in the corner. Glasses from the sideboard littered the floor as well. At first she thought the books had been carelessly tossed onto the carpet from the bookshelves, but she realized they were strategically placed on the curled edges of the maps to prevent them from rolling. The globe and the glasses were also used to keep the papers flat. The longest map was splayed across the large mahogany desk.

Michael stood behind the desk, palms flat on the surface as he studied the map like a general before a major battle. He was dressed in shirtsleeves—his cravat, jacket, and waistcoat strewn across a chair. He looked up at her intrusion, his sharp, dark eyes assessing her in a way that made her nerves flutter in her stomach.

“Your butler told me I could find you here. Please don’t blame the man for not announcing me,” she said.

His mouth twisted wryly. “Ah, it seems you have charmed my staff. Why am I not surprised?”

“They are concerned,” she replied.

His eyes flashed in a familiar display of impatience. “Are they? Can’t a man seek some peace in his own home?”

“Quiet is one thing. Hours alone and threatening to dismiss your servants when they are genuinely worried for you is another thing entirely. They summoned Dr. Graves. He left a sedative.”

“I don’t need a damned sedative,” he said in a harsh, raw voice.

“They believe you are reliving the war,” she said softly. “Has something triggered another episode?” She feared he would force her to leave, but he raised his hand and pointed to the map before him.

“See for yourself.”

Every inch of him looked hard and merciless. Gathering her courage, she approached and looked down at the map spread across the massive desk. Light and dark pencil markings were drawn across the map along with handwritten notes in small, neat print. She leaned closer and read the names of two villages south of Brussels. “What is this?”

“It shows the battle plans that day,” he said.

She suspected the answer, but she asked anyway. “Which day?”

“Waterloo.”

She glanced up at his face, unsure if he was having an episode or not. She could see the day’s growth of stubble on his chin and cheekbones. His hair was ruffled like he’d repeatedly run his fingers through it in agitation. His shirt clung to his broad shoulders and the top two buttons were undone, revealing the muscles of his throat and a mat of crisp hair on his chest. Memories returned in a rush—the heat of his body coursing down the entire length of hers, her breasts crushed against the hardness of his chest, his tongue exploring the peaks of her breasts.

She looked at his wrinkled brow and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. How could this strong, virile man be tortured?

She pointed to some of the handwritten notes. “What do these mean?”

He sighed. “They are battle strategies I could have used to save Lord Sefton, Henry’s father. If only my men had been positioned here”—he pointed to a spot on the map below a large hill—“instead of here”—he pointed to another location close to a road—“Lord Sefton would still be alive.”

Her heart pounded as she looked at him. He was having an episode of sorts.

Guilt. He was suffering from overwhelming guilt for surviving a war when he believed he should have been killed instead of his friend.

She recognized the crippling emotion. She’d suffered from it all her life. Guilt for being sick. Guilt for not being able to help her sisters when they’d been abandoned, homeless, and hungry. Guilt for suffering from a lingering illness that prevented her from aiding with an equal share of the work at the print shop.

She studied his chiseled profile. “You cannot change the past, but you must look to the future. I know this more than anyone.”

He took a deep breath, his fingers curling around the edges of the desk. Although he wasn’t as bad off as when she’d awakened him from his nightmare, he was clearly suffering. In an instant, all the anxiety she’d felt about visiting him and aiding him vanished.

She watched him bent over his desk, his jaw clenched in torment, and her heart ached. Only a good man with a strong conscience would be staring at an old war map, trying to figure out how he could have saved his best friend’s life. How long would he suffer for his friend’s decision to sacrifice himself?

Years? A decade? Forever?

For the first time, she truly understood his dedication to protect Henry from harm.

Before she could stop herself, she touched his cheek. His skin was warm, and the scrape of whiskers on her palm sent a shiver down her spine.

He stiffened, but did not pull away from her touch. Rather, he placed a hand over hers and cradled it against his cheek. “I’m not having a full episode, not like during the fireworks. But the truth is that I live in fear of another trigger. At times, the unpredictability frightens me more than the actual event.”

The anguish and honesty behind his words touched a deep part of her soul. She fought hard against the tears she refused to let fall. He needed strength and faith. “You must learn to accept the past and live for the future. You are now a duke.”