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Chapter Nine
He that is strucken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesightlost.
—Shakespeare,Romeo and Juliet
Nicholas stared downat the gardens. The rain gained momentum, pelting the glass. Perfect. Bloody perfect. It seemed the heavens concurred with his mood. He sipped brandy. Its cherry flavor was not as satisfying as the cognac in his father’s rooms, but it would do. When was the last time he’d partaken of a spirit so early in the morning? For that matter, when was the last time he had spent a night drinking?
After Badajoz. After the carnage. After witnessing the pillage. He’d drunk. He had tried to drown out the noise of death, of terror.
He tossed back the contents of his glass. Hadtriedto drown it out. He would forever hear the cries. Forever resent the overwhelming sense of helplessness both during the attack and in the aftermath.
He turned from the window and set his glass on the table. What was done was done. Then as now. He rolled his shoulders and stretched. He suspected this was not the last of long nights. Tonight she would be in his home. She would be his legally, but would she ever truly be his? Had she ever been?
What had possessed him to force the marriage? He ran a hand down his face. The question had haunted him throughout the night. Why? Why had he not accepted her absolution? After all, she’d betrayed him. His gut churned. She’d been prepared to marry his brother. For the role of countess? The Catherine he held in his heart did not worship society, did not covet a title. What the hell had happened?
“My lord?”
Nicholas bit back a curse. Would the man never stop creeping up on him? “Isaac?”
“Fredericks has instructed the coachmen. The carriage will leave shortly. Should we not be getting you ready for this day?” The damned coxcomb clapped his hands together twice, like Nicholas was some dog to command.
“Yes, I would thinkweshould,” Nicholas drawled, but the man seemed immune to sarcasm. He sighed. There was no need to take out his frustration on his brother’s valet. He pulled on his stockings and donned his trousers, and acknowledging the freshly laundered shirt as it slipped over his head, he tucked it into his waistband. Isaac’s efficiency at least allowed Nicholas to go to chapel in fresh linen.
“Sit, sit,” Isaac insisted. The valet’s arm, wrapped in a vivid apple-green jacket, flapped toward a chair.
Nicholas sat where directed, in front of the mirror, watching as Isaac dramatically folded a large white square of muslin, moving behind him and choking him with the cloth. When he tried to pull at it, the man actually had the audacity to tut-tut and slap his hand away. From a military campaign to chastisement from a popinjay? If he wasn’t so disheartened with the downward spiral of his life, he might actually laugh.
Endless minutes later, as the starched linen poked at his chin, the slight sense of amusement departed. He looked ridiculous.
“What the hell is this? This isn’t mine.” He pulled at its confinement.
“But it is all the rage. You need to wear it thus. Brummel says it is high fashion, and this is a special day. You should be fashionable.” The man fussed with Nicholas’s neck, making cooing sounds as he adjusted the cravat.
“It is a bloody stupid rage. Damnably uncomfortable thing. Besides, it isn’t bloody well mine.” He tugged it off, tossing it on the dressing table. The crushed linen lay there, oddly forlorn, an abject blossom curled upon itself. He stared at it.Damn.It was Daniel’s. Was he forever destined for his brother’s discards? He grabbed the cloth and threw it to the floor.
“Never bring me one of his items again.” He ignored the valet’s intake of breath as Nicholas stormed from the room.
He stopped at the sound of voices below and peered over the rail as Fredericks invited the guests into the drawing room. For the first time since hearing the news of Catherine’s deceit, his spirits lifted. He had sent word but had not thought Thornwood could make it in time, that he would even think the urgent request worthy of consideration. It had been years since they’d chummed at school.
Darting down the steps, Nicholas slowed as he entered the drawing room. Thornwood turned and smiled. Nicholas strode toward him.
“It is bloody good to see a familiar face,” he said as he pumped Thornwood’s hand.
Thornwood grinned, his long mop bouncing against his collar, looking much like he had when the two of them had run the halls of Eton. He grabbed Nicholas’s shoulder and squeezed. “You may have been among strangers these last years, but we have remembered you here. Tales of your exploits have been celebrated at home.”
Nicholas fought to keep his face placid, although he wanted to shout a response. Celebration? Of destruction? Death? Loneliness? War was a barren, soulless landscape, but those safe at home saw it as a bloody Benjamin West painting. “I am no Nelson at Trafalgar.”
“No,” Thornwood responded, dragging out the simple word as he eyed him. “Youare very much alive, despite your daring acts.”
He waved the statement away impatiently. “I have no doubt reports of my role in Spain are greatly exaggerated.” Movement by the front window caught his eye, and Thornwood followed his glance.
“Oh, yes, my wife.”
Their lack of comfort was palpable. Was it his request? Or was there something else at play? He rolled his shoulders again. What did it matter? No couple could be more awkward than him and Catherine.
“May I present Lady Thornwood?”
Dutifully, the woman joined them. Her smile seemed tentative, but her beauty and dignity shone superbly. Thornwood was a lucky man.
