Page 27 of The Duke Meets His Match

“Is that so hard to imagine?”

He shook his head. “I cannot have a wife.”

Something about his tone made the hair on her nape stand on end. He couldn’t have a wife or didn’t want a wife? The difference was subtle, but there nonetheless.

“What—”

“We do not need to marry to share pleasure. It will be our secret. No one will learn of it. Let me show you how good it can be between us.”

He stepped close and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. The strength and power of his will was as undeniable as the man himself. The glow from the lanterns highlighted his high cheekbones and the perfection of his lips. His gaze was intense and focused on her. Heat emanated from his body, and her skin tingled with awareness. The rakish fall of dark hair across his brow made her want to touch it. Despite her resolve to show no weakness and resist the pull between them, her breaths came short and fast.

His head lowered inch by inch until he hovered above her mouth. “I’m going to kiss you, Chloe Somerton.”

Yes. Oh yes.

The night was shattered with a loud boom.

Michael’s head snapped up. “What the hell—”

She glanced up to see a burst of color light the sky. Madame Saqui and her feathered headdress were illuminated in a spectacular sparkling shower of colorful light. Chloe’s heart leaped in her chest. “Fireworks!”

She turned back to Michael. He stood still, his expression frozen, dazed. His eyes were open, and he was looking at her, not the fireworks, but he didn’t appear to see a thing. A wheezing sound reverberated from his chest, and perspiration beaded on his brow. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“Your Grace?”

No response.

“Michael?”

Nothing. He was having some kind of episode. The skin around his eyes and mouth pulled tight, and his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. He looked fierce and more than a bit frightening, and for a pulse-pounding moment she could envision him on the battlefield just before he charged the enemy.

Her mind turned back to the time at Bullock’s Museum when she’d stepped out of the room housing Napoleon’s gilded carriage. He had the same look of panic and fierceness—the pupils dilated and perspiration collected on his brow as if he were reliving an awful memory or nightmare.

She knew all about bad memories that a person couldn’t shake and nightmares that made one dread going to bed and blowing out the candle to face the darkness on one’s own. A heaviness centered in her chest at his distress.

What was wrong with him? The urge—the desperate need—to somehow aid him and ease his torment was undeniable. Reaching up, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders and did the only thing that came to mind—she kissed him.

His lips were warm and soft beneath hers, but his breathing was still labored. She cradled his face in her hands and increased the pressure of her kiss.

In the distance, fireworks crackled in the sky and illuminated his chiseled features in myriad colors. Her heart beat along with the loud noise.

He stiffened but didn’t push her away. She pulled back an inch and felt his hot breath on her cheek. “It’s all right.”

“The cannons,” he murmured against her lips.

Cannons? As a soldier, he must have been exposed to repeated artillery fire. Was he reliving a battle?

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Everything is fine. There is no cannon fire. Only fireworks that are part of the show.” When he still didn’t respond, she caressed his face with trembling fingers. “Just fireworks,” she repeated against his lips. “I promise.”

He blinked and focused his gaze. “Fireworks?”

“Yes. Look up and see.”

He raised his head and slowly let out a deep breath. “Christ.” He swiped a hand across his face, then returned his attention to her. “Did I hurt you?”

Her brows lowered. “No. I’m fine.”

He was a large, powerful man, and he easily could have harmed her in his distressed state, but her gut had told her she was safe with him, and she couldn’t leave him alone to deal with his crisis.