Page 50 of The Duke Meets His Match

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.”

His hands started to shake, and he fisted them on the desk. Chloe began to rub his back with long smooth strokes of her slender fingers. He forced himself to keep breathing, in then out, and focus on her beside him—a lock of blond hair that had escaped her pins and curled around the shell of her ear, the porcelain smoothness of her cheek, the parting of her pink lips, the dark blue chips in her irises.

“When we finally started to charge, the clash of the battle was horrific—like nothing I’d ever heard before. Men cried out as they were shot or bayoneted, horses fell screaming, and the cannon fire…Christ…it was deafening.”

She stepped closer and kept stroking his back in calming motions. She touched his hand and his fingers curled around hers. The words came easier now, faster. “We were defeating the enemy forces, but not without suffering bad causalities. I quickly lost count of the number of men under my command who fell, as well as the bodies of enemy soldiers who littered the battlefield. The already damp earth grew slippery from mud and blood. What seemed like hours later, the battle slowed. I was exhausted, parched, and drenched in sweat when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.”

“Lord Sefton?”

“No, a French soldier. His pistol was raised and he was charging from behind. I reached for a knife in my boot, but in that instant, I knew I’d never withdraw the blade and throw it in time.” His eyes closed as the vivid image returned, hard and unmerciful. “I remember his face, pockmarked, a cheek smeared with blood, blond hair plastered to his scalp with sweat and grime. Sefton saw the solider and launched himself at me. I hit the ground hard just as a pistol exploded and struck Sefton in the chest.” Michael’s fingers tightened around hers, holding on like a lifeline.

“And then?” Her voice was low but steady.

“I didn’t stop to help my friend—my rage was so great. I went after the enemy, ran him down, ignored his pleas, and slit his throat. Not only did Sefton take a bullet for me, but I didn’t stop to comfort him and hold his hand while he took his last breath. I wasn’t there for him, dammit, after what he’d done for me.”

He gritted his teeth and tightened his shoulders. He felt a rising panic, but by sheer force of will kept it at bay.

“Look at me, Michael. Keep going,” she said.

He could do this. He would do this. “I went back and sat beside Sefton. Held him until a soldier under my command shook me and told me that I had to let my friend go. That was when I reached inside his blood-soaked officer’s coat and found his letter.”

“He asked you to look after Henry,” she said.