Page 49 of The Duke Meets His Match

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.”

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.