The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(53)

Her stomach tilted. Her legs felt weak, and she would have fallen if her back wasn’t pressed against the wall for support.

“That’s enough,” Michael said tersely, his voice cold and clipped, and she saw a flash of the military commander in the harsh set of his jaw and the menacing look in his eyes. “Let’s go, Henry.”

“No, why should I? Perhaps I should call for Lady Huntingdon and enlighten her as to her sister’s wanton behavior.”

Michael’s jaw tensed. “Listen to me, Henry. Chloe and I are to be married.”

Astonishment crossed Henry’s features. “Married?”

“I didn’t want you to learn of it this way. I am truly story for not telling you sooner, but yes, we have decided to wed,” Michael said.

Henry’s shock yielded quickly to fury, and he glared at Chloe. “This is what you wanted all along, wasn’t it? You’d be a duchess, far better than a countess as my wife.”

“No!” she cried out. “I never meant to hurt you. I planned on telling you in the gardens tonight and explaining everything.”

Henry’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “I don’t believe you or any of this.” His lips thinned with anger. “Need I remind you, Your Grace, of the past?” He reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a piece of parchment. From a distance, it appeared stained with dark ink.

“You gave this to me when you returned from Waterloo, and I carry it with me everywhere I go. You recognize it, don’t you?”

A strange look crossed Michael’s face. His mouth opened and closed, but he seemed to struggle to form a response.

“You must recognize the bloodstain. It was because of you,” Henry said tersely, “that my father lies in a cold grave.”

With pulse-pounding awareness, Chloe realized that the parchment was a letter—the letter Lord Sefton had carried on his person when he was killed saving Michael’s life. The stain wasn’t ink but dried blood.

A strange rasping sound echoed in the library. With rising dismay, Chloe realized it was coming from the duke, and she watched as his breathing grew labored.

“Stop it, Henry,” she said. “Put that away. You must see what it’s doing to him.”

“I see, but I don’t care. He owes me.” Clenching the letter in his fist, Henry took a step forward and glared at the duke with burning, reproachful eyes. “Shall I read it out loud, Your Grace, or will you?”

A chill seemed to envelope the room. Michael’s gaze lowered to the bloodstained parchment, and he stiffened. His eyes dilated. His jaw hardened like granite. His expression darkened with a fierce, faraway look. One that Chloe recognized all too well.

Chloe’s heart pounded in dread. “Henry, stop,” she demanded.

But Henry didn’t notice the signs or heed her warning. He unfolded the letter and began to read in a clipped, tense voice, “To my closest friend, Lord Michael Keswick. If I shall perish in battle, then my last wish is for you to look after my son and sole heir—”

“Stop!” she repeated.

Henry’s face was a glowering mask of rage. “You’ve never spoke of that day, Your Grace, and I demand the truth. Did my father cry out in pain when the bullet tore into his chest? Did he beg you to help him? Did you try to stop the bleeding yourself or call out for the army surgeon? Did you stay by my father’s side as he took his last breath?”

Michael’s chest heaved. His fists clenched at his sides, but he held still and seemed incapable of speech.

“Did you promise a dying man that you’d look after his only son, knowing you were lying? Did you?” At Michael’s continued silence, Henry’s temper flared. Clenching his teeth, he stepped forward and shoved the duke in the chest.

Michael still didn’t respond. His attention was focused on the letter in Henry’s hand.

“Answer me!” Henry shoved him again, this time with more force.

Again, no response.

“Coward!” Henry slammed the letter against Michael’s chest. “You have no honor. Take this so that you never forget my father’s sacrifice.”

Michael flinched as if the parchment burned him through the layers of broadcloth and linen. He came to life then and tried to push the letter away, tried to evade Henry’s grasp. But Henry was relentless.

A low menacing growl came from Michael’s throat that caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

Oh no. She recognized that frightening sound. In his mind, he was on the battlefield. Just as when he saw Napoleon’s carriage. Just as when the fireworks exploded in the gardens. But now, a physical reminder of that terrifying day had been thrust before him, was touching him.

It all happened swiftly. Michael’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he wrapped his hands around Henry’s throat. Henry’s eyes bulged in shock.

Chloe lurched forward. “Michael! Stop!”

But Michael didn’t look at her, his face twisted in anger. He was in the thick of battle, his blood running hot and fierce in a struggle for survival. He didn’t know what he was doing or that it was Henry he was attacking. In his mind, it could be the French soldier who had shot and killed his best friend.

Chloe tried to pry Michael’s hands loose, but she couldn’t move him an inch. Henry wheezed.

Oh God.