The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(44)

He laughed bitterly. “I know my ducal responsibilities. But how can I marry and have children when I live day to day, not knowing what or when something will cause me to react irrationally? I’m a volcano on the verge of erupting. Christ, what if I turn violent? How could I take such a risk? How could I condemn another to such a fate?”

“I don’t believe that.” She’d never feared physical harm from him. She feared losing her heart instead.

She may not be able to change his mind, but she may be able to help him. She took a step closer. Warmth radiated from his tightly coiled body. “I spoke with someone who had similar experiences as you. There is a treatment. It’s not a cure, but it may ease your symptoms.”

He veered back to look at her, his eyes sharp and assessing. “You talked to a soldier? About me?”

She met his gaze. “There’s no need to get upset. I never mentioned your name.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that no one has ever thought to do that for me. Not my staff, not Dr. Graves, not Henry. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you care, Chloe Somerton.”

She held her breath. How much to admit? She’d never lied to herself in the past and she wouldn’t start now. If this were going to work, there had to be truthfulness between them. “Yes. I do care. You are not alone.”

He reached for her hand, turned it palm up, and placed a warm kiss to the center. Breathing lightly between parted lips, she trembled from the contact.

He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “I was wrong about you from the very beginning. You are no charlatan, Chloe. You are the most honest woman I know.”

Honest.

She had never been completely honest with anyone. Not her sisters. Not him.

At a point when he should be emotionally exposed, she found that she was the most vulnerable. A frightening realization washed over her. She was in love with him. Deeply in love. From the beginning, she’d been drawn to him. She loved his height, his strength, and his masculinity. She loved his intelligence and his loyalty to his deceased best friend. She even admired his strong moral code to look after Henry.

She could turn and run and ponder her frightening feelings or she could stay and attempt to help him. She watched him lift his arm and brush his fingers against her cheek. The tenderness of his touch made her decision easy.

She took a breath. “I think you should try something.”

He lowered his hand. “I cannot. I’ve heard of others and what the army does to them. Straps. Bloodletting. Asylums with horrible, filthy conditions that drive men to hang themselves from the rafters. In essence, torture. I know as a duke I wouldn’t be sent to an asylum and treated the same, but they would mark me as mad. The physicians would descend upon the house with their bloodletting knives or jars of leeches and tinctures of laudanum.”

She swallowed hard. “No. That’s not what I meant. The solider I spoke with is the husband of Huntingdon’s cook. He did not go to the army for treatment but used a different method and had a measure of success.”

“How?”

“You must face your greatest fear.”

He turned away. “The battle is long over.”

“You misunderstand. You must talk about that day. Relive it. All of it.”

“To whom?”

She propped a hip on the desk and faced him. “To me. Talk to me. Tell me everything,” she implored.

A look of discomfort crossed his face. “I don’t know if I’m able. It’s my weakness, my curse to bear.”

“I don’t see it that way. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You are a man who experienced tragedy and who feels a great amount of guilt for things you couldn’t control. I don’t see you as weak at all. I see you as human.”

“Chloe, I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Reaching up, she cradled his face until he saw the determination in her eyes. “It’s safe. I won’t repeat a word you utter in this room. Trust me.”





Chapter Eighteen


Trust me. Michael had uttered the same words to Chloe not long ago. Was he able to do what she asked? Was he able to relive that day? He’d shut out the past for so many different reasons. The triggers, when they occurred, were bad enough. His mind would travel without his will until he was a sweating, quivering, mass of nerves. He hated the weakness. The nauseating sickness. Could he intentionally bring it on, let alone in front of her?

“Go on,” she urged.

He hesitated. If there were any chance this could help, shouldn’t he try? He took a breath, held it in, let it out slowly as he counted to ten. “It rained all the night before and well into the morning. As a result, the ground was sodden. Napoleon had decided to hold off on his attack because he was worried about moving his artillery and men. It was a decision that led to his defeat.”

The horrible weather conditions and the events of the battle had been reported in the papers for months after the war. Stories about how Napoleon’s hesitation had aided the Anglo-led allied army, under the command of the Duke of Wellington, by allowing the Prussian army to arrive in time were well known.

“My men were stationed by the road here,” he said, pointing to a row of small Xs on the map. “I was to keep them there until I received orders. Sefton was in my regiment and my second-in-command. It was damp and humid. Our officers’ coats were wool, and our rain-sodden uniforms added ten pounds of weight. Sweat rolled down our brows, our backs, and into our eyes. We waited in the morning mist for hours until the battle began.”