Chapter One #2
“Aye, and what harm has it done you?” Montague retorted, the old flames of bad temper soaring. “I hear you’ve picked up a few pretty patients about the place. Patients you could keep perhaps, once I return to London. You’ve not lost out.”
It was perhaps not the politest thing he had ever said, but Montague had never been one to tiptoe around people, and he saw no reason to now.
The doctor nodded sagely. “Yes, I suppose so. Well, if that is all, Your Grace—”
“When will I be able to walk without the cane?”
Montague’s heart was doing something uncomfortable in his chest. It was beating irregularly, causing spurts of tension to spark with every sore beat.
Doctor Walsingham hesitated. “I am not able to predict the future—”
“You’re a doctor, man, what else am I paying you for?” Montague snapped. “Come now, out with it. I wish to fight; I wish to be the man I was before. How long will I have to wait until such a thing occurs?”
For some reason, the doctor would not entirely meet his eye.
Montague’s stomach churned. Dear God, as long as that. Months? Surely not a whole year; he was not sure if he could bear to wait that long.
As though his body was mocking him, a twinge of pain scorched his leg. Montague’s hand unconsciously moved toward it, clutching it as though that would cease the agony.
Christ, would he have to live like this much longer? How would he bear it?
“As you have pointed out, you have paid me well to leave London for Oxford—”
“Yes, yes,” Montague said impatiently, waving a hand as though to hurry the doctor’s thoughts along. “We know all that!”
“—and goodness knows, you have paid well—”
“Out with it, Doctor!”
Doctor Walsingham took in a deep breath, as though preparing himself for something unpleasant. Montague’s stomach dropped out of his chest, past his knees, and into the floor.
“I think you will have to accept, Your Grace—”
“No,” Montague said sternly.
The doctor blinked. “You do not even know what I am going to say!”
Montague tried hard not to laugh. It would be a bitter, mocking laugh, and he had no wish to pay the doctor that sort of disrespect. Mostly.
Not today, anyway. He had already been rude enough.
“Any doctor who uses the phrase ‘have to accept’ is going to say something I have absolutely no wish to hear, man,” he said instead.
Doctor Walsingham nodded weakly. “I suppose you are right there. But consider, Your Grace. You have your life. You have your health—more than one could have expected, at least. You are still able to fence—”
“Barely,” snapped Montague.
And that was the rub, wasn’t it? His one obsession outside of returning to France was fencing, the sport he adored. Even that was difficult now.
Oh, his foil work was still respectable, but his footwork? He almost snorted. One could not call it footwork if his feet were not moving.
Doctor Walsingham swallowed. “You are still teaching, I believe.”
Montague nodded, words failing him. Teaching. Ye gods, reduced to this!
And yet, before he had gone to France, he had rather enjoyed helping his friends improve their stance, teaching them the medley of positions and moves that would help them to win their next fencing match.
The joy he had experienced seeing old Dulverton actually score a touch had been heady. Even if the fool had lost the match spectacularly.
But to be naught but a teacher, a duke in reduced circumstances which must remain a secret…oh, it was shameful.
Montague looked up and caught the look before the doctor could smooth his face. His stomach lurched. Pity. Dear God, anything but pity.
He frowned. “My question remains and you have not answered me. Will I fight again? Will I return to the war?”
Catching the doctor’s gaze, Montague attempted to put into his own all the ferocity that a duke could command.
Because he had to go back. He could not leave his honor, his France, his respectability, his duty incomplete. There were people out there relying on him, fighting the battles he should.
Montague tried to slow his breathing. He could not smell smoke…
Doctor Walsingham sighed as his gaze fell. “Probably not.”
For a moment, it was as though Montague had been hit by a bullet once more. His chest rocked, the sudden truth zipping into him.
Not…not return? Not ever?
What would his life be? How would he ever hold up his head if he was not able to complete what he had set out to do—to serve his country? Would he become the cripple duke, the one everyone looked at with pity?
Would he ever fence again? Would all the pleasures of life be stripped from him as swiftly as that bullet had ripped through his leg?
Bitterness swelled in his heart, overpowering all-over emotions. “Get out.”
Doctor Walsingham blinked. “I beg your—”
“I said, get out!” Montague roared.
Finally, all the emotions he had battled to keep inside spilled over. His shout echoed around the room, his rudeness complete.
The doctor made no mention of this, however, as he rose and bowed. “Your servant.”
“Yes, yes,” Montague snapped, waving away the man who had given him the news he had already known deep inside.
How could it be anything else? My leg has not healed, he thought darkly as the doctor stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him with a snap.
He would have to face it. Montague dropped his head into his hands, able now that he was alone to express the despair he felt.
He would never—
A knock at the door.
Montague’s head snapped up. “Go away, Doctor, I have no need of you!”
The effrontery of the man! He had only just been sent away; it was not as though Montague could have been more clear.
His gaze flickered across the room. It was not possible that the doctor had left something here, was it? No, there was naught here but his own possessions, few as they were. Most of the duke’s items had remained at Caelfall Place, where they belonged. Where he belonged.
Montague’s gaze settled once more on the mahogany cane with the gold top leaning against the door. A dark smile crept across his face. Well, if he was going to be forced to carry the damned thing, at least it should look the part. Why, he’d gone to the finest—
Knock knock!
His eyes snapped to the door. “Blast you to hell, leave me in peace!”
It was not perhaps the most polite thing he had ever said, but Montague was sure the servants at Wessex College were accustomed to his foibles by now.
He leaned back in his chair. Well, he had the whole day empty, not that he could do much with it. Even walking a few hundred yards—
Ratta-tat-tat!
Montague narrowed his eyes as though that would make the inconsiderate knocker depart in peace. “For the last time, I said—”
The door opened.
It was quite the opposite of what he wished, of course, but the moment the knocker became visible, all the rudeness that had crept to his tongue melted in his mouth.
How could he say them now?
Before him stood not Doctor Walsingham, some helpful guidance ready to be offered. It was not a footman bringing him his luncheon, more’s the pity, or a maid to stoke the fire.
It was not even the provost, come to remind him he had promised to teach any students who wished to learn fencing over the summer. A promise Montague had made willingly, for the income gained would more than cover his expenses while living at the college.
No. Montague’s mouth fell open.
It was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.