Chapter Fourteen #2
For long moments, he pinned Michael with his gaze. “Talk to her. Explain to her what brought you to this pass, why you are like this, and what you will do once your final mission is complete.”
He frowned. “What if she can’t stomach the man I am?” It was a terrifying endeavor.
“Then she won’t.” Steppingford shrugged. “Not every woman will, but you might be surprised at how much strength, how much resolve, she’ll show you.”
“That is a huge risk.” At least he had her now. But was it enough?
“Indeed, it is. What are you afraid of, Darkemore?”
A huff escaped him. “What makes you think I’m afraid?”
“I know you.” Steppingford leaned back in the chair, resting an ankle on a knee. “Right now, you’re sitting there frightened like a child in a storm. Is it because of change? Everyone’s life changes. No getting around it.”
“I don’t know.” Oh, but he did. “What if she accepts me, if we fall in love, and then I lose her? I’ll be worse off than I was before. Or if something happens to me, she’ll mourn.”
“Pain is the payment for love. We all give and take it. You must decide if that price is too high for what you’ll get in return.”
“Perhaps.” There were no easy answers just now.
“Promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said. In the meantime, join my wife and me at the opera in two days. You can share my box and impress your wife.”
“Thank you. I will.” If she hadn’t thrown something heavy at his head and rendered him unconscious by then.
Later that evening
God, I can’t do this.
For the space of a few heartbeats, Michael stood at the door to Evangeline’s suite, staring at the wooden panel, hoping the floor would somehow swallow him up.
Buck up, Darkemore. At least by the end of the conversation, you’ll have your answer.
With a nod, he lifted his good hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. When bid, he entered the suite then closed the panel softly behind him.
His wife came into the bedchamber from the adjoining dressing room, and her eyes lit upon seeing him. “Michael! I thought you’d retired for the night. You said at dinner you needed laudanum and rest.”
Why the fuck did she have to wear a nightdress of pale green silk lined with soft lace? A garment that showed her every curve and the hardened outlines of her nipples. The temptation she made was very real as was the fear that played his spine with icy fingers.
“Uh…” Tugging at the knot of his cravat, he came further into the room. “I did say that, and I fully intended to do that.” A glance about the immediate area showed far too many small objects she could use as impromptu weapons.
A look of confusion flitted over her face. “Why didn’t you? Is something wrong? Are you ill?”
“That is debatable.” Feeling much like a man who was being led to a guillotine, Michael drew her toward the bed then encouraged her to sit upon the edge. “I wish to talk to you.”
She held a hand to her throat. “You are scaring me. Is all well?”
“Not at all.” As much as he wanted to sit next to her, he couldn’t let himself be distracted. Kissing her wouldn’t help him to reach any of his goals. “Do you remember when I told you that I was grievously injured during my last mission for the Crown?”
“Yes, of course.” She peered up at him and searched his face with her gaze. “What of it?”
“Well, I was in France. Paris, to be exact. I’d tracked my quarry there. It was midnight. I knew that would be our final meeting, for either I would kill him or he would kill me. The cat and mouse game between us had been going on for months.”
“That must have taken a toll on your patience.”
“A bit.” This would prove a disaster. Too damn bad he couldn’t blindfold her, for then he wouldn’t need to see the betrayal and disappointment in her eyes.
“Anyway, I’d cornered the man near Notre Dame cathedral.
Unfortunately, I temporarily lost sight of him, and when I went around a corner, he jumped out at me from some shrubberies. ”
“Who was it?”
“Viscount Echerson.” When she gasped and gaped at him, he nodded.
“Oh, yes. He is one of England’s most wanted enemies.
” Tightening his fingers on the head of his cane, he rushed onward.
“Though I had a pistol, he had the drop on me. When he attacked, I lost my weapon. He drew a dagger. There was no choice but to engage in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Did he stab you?” Her eyes were wide, and the delicate cords in her neck worked with a hard swallow.
“Yes, multiple times. Some of his deeper slashes were what really left the more heinous of wounds.” Just speaking about them made the muscles throb. “Suffice it to say, though I got off a decent number of punches, he left me bleeding and close to death.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“He’s a French sympathizer. As he stared down at me, with my own blood dripping from the tip of his dagger, he said he wanted me to suffer before I died.
He said his loyalties had always been with Napoleon.
Didn’t matter that the war was over, he was raising funds to put together a new army.
Declared that England was too weak and needed to be ruled by a dictator. ”
“Good heavens.” Evvie shook her head. Doubt reflected in her hazel eyes. “Echerson has always been polite to me.”
Another stab went through his chest. “It’s a facade; he’s a spy and therefore, a liar.” Which would lead nicely into his next statement.
A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “But you were—are—a spy too…”
“I know. That is the nature of the position. We lie. To everyone. We keep our real selves buried.” A shuddering breath left his lungs.
His knees wobbled, but he locked them, for he couldn’t show weakness in front of her.
“My wounds went deep, the muscles torn up, veins destroyed. Somehow, he missed vital arteries by mere millimeters.” He swore he could smell the metallic blood in his nose.
“Thankfully, bystanders rushed to my aid once Echerson left. I told them I was attached to England’s remaining forces.
Somehow, they got me to the nearest field hospital. ”
“At least they were decent; they could have left you there.”
“I am well aware of that.” The remembered pain pressed in on him.
“When next I woke, I was in a hospital Portsmouth. I’d been near death for a week, but eventually I turned a corner.
” He swallowed to force moisture into his suddenly dry throat.
“Once I was stable, I was moved to London, to a clinic specializing in returning soldiers who needed convalescing.”
“How long?” she asked in a graveled whisper.
He shrugged. “At least three months. The pain was agonizing. I’d lost copious amounts of blood and was weak. That delayed healing. Eventually, the surgeon there told me there was nothing else that could be done for me.”
“What did you do then?”
“Went home. My father died while I was fighting for my life, so I was a newly minted duke. I struggled to pick up the pieces of my life, both professionally and personally. It only grew worse when king and country turned their back on me even though I was a damned duke.”
A fucking duke who’d been blackballed in society, regardless of the sacrifices he’d made.