In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,102

But the unpredictability of all this? I can’t be who you are asking me to be with Polite Society.”

“It is fine.” It wasn’t. A sheen of sweat rose on his skin, leaving his body clammy. For it would never be fine again. “I . . .” I’m going to be ill. Hugh fought his body’s tremble, for he couldn’t let her feel that weakness.

He couldn’t do this any longer, maintain this calm before her. She was far stronger than he was. He, whose legs trembled and were very near collapse.

Hugh abruptly set her from him, retreating three steps.

Did he imagine her stricken eyes?

“Hugh, there’s . . . one more thing.”

How can there be? His mind screamed and raged. “Yes?” And how was his voice so steady? Empty and hollow . . . but even.

She darted her tongue out, running it along the seam of her lips. “That wasn’t the only reason I told you.”

He froze. And for one macabre moment, he thought she knew. Knew that he was one of those soldiers who’d charged—

“I wanted you to understand why I sought you out when I asked you to teach me how to fight.” Oh, God. It was a prayer . . . a prayer to a God he’d never believed in, but Hugh was desperate enough, anguished enough, to make that appeal. Lila lifted her gaze to his. “I want to create a fight society not because I appreciate violence. But rather I appreciate what happens when one isn’t prepared for violence.”

He had to leave. He had to run.

And yet he couldn’t.

Mayhap this was his hell.

Satan had at last come to collect for Hugh, having sold his soul long ago in the name of survival, and this was to be the punishment expected of him.

Lila had been . . . at Peterloo.

It was an impossibility. Ladies weren’t supposed to have been there, and yet . . . that day? Everyone had.

Men, women . . . children. Little babes.

And her. Lila March had been there, too.

He felt her eyes on him. Sad eyes. The ones that were haunted, that had often glimmered with happiness but had also revealed fear . . . and pain.

Because that was what anyone and everyone who’d been on St. Peter’s Field had walked away with . . . if they’d been fortunate enough as to walk away.

I’m going to be ill . . .

This was where he was to say something. Where he should have said something moments ago. “I have to go,” he said hoarsely, and dropping an unsteady bow, Hugh rushed from the room, poltroon that he was.

Hugh didn’t know how he made it home. He recalled nothing of the ride from Lila’s Mayfair residence to his own. He only distantly registered handing over the reins of his mount to a waiting servant. But as he climbed the stairs and strode through the door, ignoring the butler’s deferential greeting, he was aware of nothing but the sickening thud of his pulse. It pounded away in his ears. Knocking away. Much as it had in the middle of a fight, or when he’d been running through the fields of Manchester in pursuit of people who’d not deserved to be chased.

Oh, God.

Hugh threw the door to his chambers wide and stumbled into the room.

His valet turned in surprise. “Your—?”

“Get out,” he rasped, and the liveried servant paled, then dashed past him.

The moment the young man had gone, Hugh slammed the door hard.

Panting, out of breath, he stumbled across the room to the pitcher of water set out before the mirror. Gripping hard the side of the washbasin, he stared at his whitened visage. His body was hot and cold. With his hands wildly shaking, he poured water into the basin and splashed it over his face. That trembling, however, made his movements sloppy, and he soaked the fabric of his jacket.

He was going soft. He’d always struggled with the memories of Peterloo, but at last he’d succumbed to them. Because of the comfortable life he’d turned himself over to.

He buried his head in the wide porcelain bowl and remained frozen there. Until his lungs screamed and strained. And even with the water making the sounds beyond a muted blur, her voice . . . her telling . . . echoed as clear as when she’d spoken it that morning.

When his chest felt on the verge of bursting, Hugh wrenched himself upright, sending water spraying over the mahogany floor.

He concentrated on breathing, locking his gaze on himself