Chapter 22
T he fear rushing through Mercy had nothing to do with her physical body. No, it was a terror that she’d never experienced, and that was quite a thing. She had seen cannonballs race across the sky, land in the earth, and explode young men. She had seen the pierced flesh of lead ball wounds.
She had seen disease in camps, and she had seen the despair of the Continental Army before it finally turned to triumph. She had been abandoned by her parents. She had been harassed by Mr. Norris in New York City and been certain that if she did not escape, the man was going to try to force her into marriage.
And now? Now, the fear she felt was a very different thing. Indeed, it was far worse because she felt as if, at any moment, Leander might abandon her.
Something she had not believed possible once they’d married.
He had almost done it at Heron House. He had wanted to leave her, to rush away, to escape from her so she did not see whatever was in him.
No, he did not wish her to see, and that actually caused her more fear than anything else, but she would see. She was determined to see. After all, he was her husband. He had stood by her, and she would stand by him. How could she not?
But the fear.
The fear, dear God. What if he pushed her away now? What if whatever this thing was inside him made him abandon her? Oh, she did not think he would abandon their marriage. But what if he pulled away from her? What if he took away the love, the security, the happiness that he had given her? A chilly sweat traveled down her spine as they bounced along a country road. It was the most harrowing journey she’d ever experienced, and she had known many harrowing journeys.
She’d gladly risk a limb. But the loss of the love she’d only just found? That could not be borne.
The road was rough as far as she could tell. There were essentially no good roads in the English countryside, except for big ruts in the mud. And now her husband, the great Duke of Westleigh, who people both admired and were intimidated by, was sitting on the bench across from her, looking as if he was about to come out of his own skin.
There was an intensity to him she had never seen before. He’d always been more than other men. There’d always been a gleam in his eye which suggested he danced on the edge of life.
But now? His eyes were wild, as if he had an illness burning through his body. He could not sit still, and he kept talking. Dear God, he kept talking, going from one subject to the next without any hesitation or slowing. It wasn’t nonsensical. Everything he said was actually logical, but the way he traveled from one subject to the next—from politics, to religion, philosophy to theater—was quite something to behold.
She wished she could reach out and hold him, still him. But she instinctively knew that would not work.
His gaze landed on her, and he let out sharp breath. “Are you horrified?” he said.
“No,” she said firmly, sitting up straighter. “I am worried for you.”
“I can’t help this,” he said.
“I understand,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” he countered roughly, as if he hated himself for it. “It’s why I wanted you to stay at Heron House. So you didn’t have to witness—”
“But I wish to,” she broke in, leaning forward and closing the distance between them. “You’re my husband, and I love you and you love me.”
He held her gaze, but there was a fear there that mirrored her own. “That doesn’t mean that you won’t see me differently after this. Forgive me,” he rasped, his voice vibrating with intensity.
“Whatever for?” she asked, longing to soothe him.
He shook his head wildly and looked to the window as if he could not bear to look at her. “I should have explained this to you fully. I should have told you more. I—”
“Cease, Leander,” she commanded before she tentatively reached out and touched his shoulder. “I understand.”
He drew in a shuddering breath, even as he flexed and unflexed his big, beautiful hands. “You do?”
“This is not the end of the world.”
His eyes widened as he turned towards her again. “What?”
She licked her lips, determined to reach him. “You were afraid that I wouldn’t understand. But you didn’t lie to me. You didn’t keep a secret. You told me you had difficulties. You told me you had struggles.”
“Not like this,” he said. “Not like this. I should have—”
“Dear God, man,” she burst out, refusing to allow him to punish himself further. “My parents abandoned me as a traitor. This is nothing.”
“That’s what you say now,” he said softly.
“That’s what I will always say,” she said boldly. “We all have our difficulties, our struggles, and if yours is more than others, you do more good than others too. I should expect your struggles to be greater.”
He swallowed. “Do you mean that?”
“Indeed, I do.”
His brow furrowed. “Why are you frightened then? I can see it.”
She bit back her words.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say why you’re afraid.”
“Why were you so afraid to tell me the entirety of it?” she challenged, not ready to answer.
“I wanted to,” he said as if he also understood her. Understood that she could not confess her fears. “But then things moved so quickly. Perdita even told me that I should.”
“You did tell me,” she said softly, realizing he was beginning to obsess over his earlier fear. “And it was enough.”
He nodded slowly.
She licked her lips, daring to ask, “Why must you keep this such a secret? We’re racing from your house as if you’ve done some great crime.”
“Because,” he bit out, his face a mask of pain and shame, “it is all but a crime in our society to be different like this.”
She tilted her head to the side. “But you are a duke!”
His hands gripped each other. She could see his knuckles whiten.
“Look at what’s happening to the king right now,” he gritted. “And I am not prone to what he is.”
“Exactly,” she assured. “The king has lost his wits, they say. Your wits are still clearly very intact. You’re just very intense right now.”
“It’s true,” he agreed. “I’ve never lost my wits. I don’t think I ever shall. I’m not mad, but look at how the government is turning upon the king. Anyone who shows signs that they are not perfect in mind?” he bit out. “I will not be trusted, and then I can’t help people anymore. Do you understand? No one will take me seriously. People do not understand people like me. Oh, eccentrics? They are fine. But I go a step beyond.”
“So you hide this to help people?” she said.
He nodded tightly.
“And what about helping yourself, Leander?” she whispered.
“This is helping myself,” he gritted.
“Surely, it must be a great deal of pressure to—”
“This is what must be done,” he said tightly. “Please don’t argue.”
She nodded. She would not. How could she? He had been fighting with this all his life, and she was not about to tell him what to do.
But what if he was so afraid that he locked her out?
No, she would never let that happen. She couldn’t because it would utterly destroy her, heart and soul.
“I will help you,” she said.
“No one can help me,” he said. “All you can do is wait.”
“Then I shall wait,” she said, resolved.