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“As am I,” Felton uttered while trying and failing to hold back a grimace, “This Duke of Ayles; what sort of man is he?”
Retaking her seat, Lady Dorothea’s lips down-turned, “He is a sensible young man, Felton, well, I had believed so up until now,” her slim shoulders shrugged, “But he is a Duke, Felton. He has the pick of all the beautiful debutantes and any lady who tickles his fancy.”
“He’s arakehell,” Felton’s eyes narrowed.
“No, no,” his mother replied. “He is not a despoiler of women, but by his status, he does not lack willing admirers.”
“Be that as it may,” Felton growled, “He had no right to insult Catherine so shamefully.”
“I know,” his mother sighed. “And what is worse is that Catherine has bragged about her pending nuptials all summer. Now that the engagement is broken, she will never show her face in the ton’s assemblies again. And then there is that despicable Miss Jane Hill, the scandalmonger amongst us. If she gets knowledge of it, she will take this embarrassment and make it insufferable.”
Concerns about this Miss Jane Hill aside, Felton’s focus landed sorely on this Duke.
“I cannot fathom how he would do this to a lady who he knows is ready for marriage,” Lady Dorothea mourned. “He has a sister of marriageable age himself.”
“The only way I can see us escaping this scandal is if we show that it was Catherine who broke the engagement,” his mother said. “If the news comes from him, she will become shunned and the laughingstock of the class.”
Rubbing his forehead, Felton asked, “I assume we can do so by appearing at the next ball and sowing the seed there.”
“Would you take her?” Lady Dorothea stood and went to hold his hands. Worry marked his mother’s face with a grim line around her mouth and tight set to her eyes. “I know she is weak and unsure about herself,and you can be strong enough of her. And with you returning from war as a hero, the attention will be on you.”
I doubt that. Catherine is and always will be the socialite. At her weakest, she is still going to outshine all others.
“Do we have a ball in mind, Mother?” he asked.
She nodded, “Lady Ashford’s ball. It is reputed to be the highlight of the season. If you attend and arrive before His Grace, you will have the advantage to shift the attention from her.”
“When is this ball?”
“Tomorrow night,” Lady Dorothea said, smiling, “Don’t worry about the details; I am sure we can get you a lovely suit to wear.”
Felton had hoped for a few restful days, as his body was still tense and aching from months on a stiff ship bed and days battling on land when the infantry was low. He bore visible scars on his body, and his mind carried memories of atrocities no one should ever have to have seen.
But, again, he was being called to help—and he would never reject his sister.
“I should retire, Mother,” he said. “But we will straighten this out on the morrow.”
“Thank you, Felton,” his mother replied. “I know you have to rest, but tonight, we will have that hero’s welcome you deserve.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Felton embraced her briefly, “Send up a bath, would you.”
***
His mouth clamped down on his tortured cry before he woke the whole house with his shout of horror. He swiped a hand over cold sweat bathing his brow as he tried to dispel the shatter of a cannonball snapping the main mast in half and the flash of a sword nearly missing his throat.
The nightmares would never leave him—he knew that. Just as he knew that no lady would suffer him in a marriage bed, having night terrors every time he closed his eyes.
Chucking the sheets off himself, Felton stood and padded to the window to fling the panes open. The rush of cold air soothed the flushed skin of his bare chest a little as he rested his forehead on the cold sill. From the position of the moon, it was most likely past midnight and heading to dawn.
His eyes dropped to the large scar on his belly, a wound that had nearly claimed his life if the medics had not sealed it shut with a hot iron. Felton flinched at the visceral memory of the heat scalding his skin and the rigours of pain he had shuddered through, nights after.
The scar was still puckered and was a sight he hated; it was as much a reminder of the war as his memories were. He gazed out into the night while forcing himself to focus on this Duke of Ayles. If it were not for the plan to rescue his sister’s reputation the next day, he would have found this coward and forced him to explain himself—but Catherine’s situation needed urgent action.
Bracing his hands on the windowsill, he knew he would not get any more sleep that night, but he still went back to bed. Folding his arms under his head, Felton thought of his sister.
She had barely been seventeen when he had left, a young, wide-eyed, naïve, and superficial girl growing into a woman’s body. He did not know how she was now, but even if she still prized cosmetics over books, he was duty-bound to help her—and since at least one of them in his family had the chance to marry, Catherine should take it.
***
