After slamming his napkin on the table, he stormed out of the room at the highest speed his leg allowed.
Was it so hard to understand he wanted to be left alone? And he was supposed to going into the trouble of fixing the house for a damn ball? Not bloody likely. Hellfire, he couldn’t even dance.
He sped up along the corridor and headed towards the back door. Startled maids and bowing footmen streamed past him, but he paid them no attention. His leg burned by the time he arrived at the gravel path that winded its way through tall trees and bushes. He pushed deeper into the wild garden until the vegetation swallowed him and the house was no longer visible. In the cool shadow of the trees after the rain, even the noises of passing carriages were muffled. Everything was still and silent aside from the hard pounding of his heart.
Alone, surrounded by the emerald leaves of the plants, he inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. His pulse slowed down, and the humming in his temples diminished.
He wasn’t sure why he’d reacted so wildly, but why did Benedict always organise events behind his back? The sensation of not being in control of his own life choked him. Just like when he’d been in battle under the bombs and the fire of the enemy. Surviving had been a matter of sheer, dumb luck. Training and physical strength had nothing to do with surviving stray bullets. Luck dominated men’s fate, and he didn’t like luck.
Men at his sides had fallen like broken trees. If he’d been standing a few inches to the right or to the left, he’d be buried in the family crypt now—or worse, in a common grave in Afghanistan.
He’d hated the feeling of not being able to avoid death, of waiting for the bombs to stop before advancing and counting the dead. His hands trembled as the hissing of the artillery rang in his ears. The screams of the wounded. The war cries. Metal against metal. Metal against flesh.
Light footsteps padded closer. Twigs snapped, and dead leaves crackled as a person approached. Damned Benedict, surely.
Christopher clenched his jaw, his heartbeat increasing again. “What the hell have you come here for?” He spun and froze.
It wasn’t Benedict.
Dressed in layers of pale blue silk, Amelia stood in the middle of the path, fiddling with her hands.
He should apologise, tell her he’d mistaken her for Benedict, but nothing came out of his mouth.
As if he hadn’t been rude to her, she curtsied. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
Great. She ended up being the one who apologised.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to shout. I thought you were Benedict.”
“He didn’t even try to follow you. Mrs Armstrong sent everyone to their rooms, as if we were naughty children, but from a window, I saw you running here and thought that maybe you wanted to talk.”
Doubt and distrust towards other humans were jealous friends. Once they settled into a man’s heart, they couldn’t be wiped out easily.
“Why are you concerned about me?” It came out harsher than he meant.
She frowned, but kept advancing. “You seemed truly upset. Benedict asked me to have a word with you.”
There. She hadn’t come because she wanted to.
His disappointment had to be clearly displayed on his face because she shook her head.
“I would’ve come, anyway,” she whispered, seemingly reading his mind.
If he said her words didn’t lift a weight from his chest, he’d be lying. “I’m not used to having ladies around the house.”
“This is your mansion. You should do as you please.”
“Benedict doesn’t seem to agree.”
“Benedict was upset, too, by the way,” she said.
He chuckled. “Benedict is never upset unless he can’t find a waistcoat that matches his jacket.”
A laugh burst out of her mouth, and the tension left his shoulders with the happy sound.
“It sounds like him.” She flashed a smile that chased away the clouds in his heart.
“We grew up together. I know him well. Although I chose a military career, and he chose . . . no career at all.”
