Christian gulped air into his tightening chest.
Yes, he’d drunk a lot last night. But he would have sworn he’d not taken laudanum. He had drunk enough to ignore the look of revulsion on his paid companion’s face. Before Waterloo, although brandy used to leave him slightly befuddled, he’d always remembered where he was and, most important, who he was with. The fight against Napoleon had ensured that he learned to keep his wits about him at all times. Then he’d been badly burned. Now he seldom remembered what day it was.
He ran a hand over his mouth. Think! He turned toward the two men and summoned to his face a calmness that his rollicking insides did not feel. “Gentlemen, I think there has been some kind of grievous mistake.”
“Mistake? Everyone saw my daughter leave the Duchess of Skye’s ball in your carriage!”
Real fear clawed at his chest, but he stayed calm. “Grayson Devlin, Viscount Blackwood, took my carriage last night. I walked and hailed a hackney.”
This was absurd. He had never even met young Harriet Penfold, the Duke’s only daughter. He did not attend balls any longer. A man whose face sent children running from the room was an object of pity and embarrassment at such events.
He tried to stand up, but the Duke pushed him back down. Christian repeated his denial, snapping, “I did not bring Lady Penfold here.”
“The state my daughter was in, I could get very little out of her except your name.”
“It was not me. She is mistaken.” Think, damn it. Why would a chit he’d never met accuse him of such a crime? She couldn’t possibly be trying to trap him into matrimony.
The cold spread and coated his skin. Could he have done this heinous act during one of his blackouts? Could she have gotten into his bed, and then, in the throes of one of his nightmares, had he . . .?
He shook his head. The dense fog on his brain would not clear.
Simon spoke, his voice razor sharp, slashing at Christian’s already fragile conscience. “Now she’s a liar too. I would never have thought a man of your honor could do such a thing.” He coughed. “But I know of your condition. If not for that, and the fact you saved my brother William’s life on the battlefield at Waterloo, you’d be dead by now.”
The Duke didn’t look as if that counted for anything. “Pah! Previous heroics be damned.” He spat on the floor. “His father’s blood flows in his veins. I’m going to see you ruined. If I didn’t have to save Harriet’s reputation, I’d have you hung, drawn, and quartered. My daughter is hysterical, covered in bruises and cuts where you beat her, and is so traumatized she cannot be left alone.” He was purple with rage. “Like father, like son.”
Christian flinched under the low blow. He was not like his cowardly father. He’d proved it on the battlefield. Blood was not thicker than water. He would never hit or hurt a woman. Or would he?
He thought of the French woman who’d so casually set fire to the cart he had been trapped under, happy to watch his skin burn, and he knew, to his horror, this was no longer true.
To survive, he would. He’d do anything.
But could he have done such a vile act now that he was safe and the war was over? His mouth dried even further. In one of his blackouts, perhaps he would.
Fear, stinking fear, slid over his nakedness.
It seemed illogical that he’d been set up. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why anyone would go to such elaborate lengths to discredit him. He was nothing, a nobody. His injuries had made him a recluse from society. He was the decorated war hero everyone pitied and no one wanted to look at. They admired his sacrifice for mother England, but they did not want the constant reminder of it.
His stomach churned. He hated the pity. The flinching when people saw his face he could take. He flinched at himself too, hence his aversion to mirrors. But pity . . .
Simon voiced the question swirling in Christian’s mind. “Would you have us believe someone has impersonated you? Why would this occur? Stop denying the changes in you since Waterloo, and do the honorable thing. Leave England, or I cannot say what my father will do to you.”
Simon was right. Christian had no enemies that he knew of, and prior to the war he’d been one of the popular, lovable group of rogues known as the Libertine Scholars.
He and five of his friends had attended Eton together, and they’d taken to books and learning, drawn together by a desire to use their brains for more than just sport and whoring—not that they hadn’t partaken of their fair share of those, and then some more. So much so, they’d earned the nickname of the Libertine Scholars, sin and learning being a wickedly exuberant combination.
Those happy and enjoyable days now seemed a distant memory.
Christian ran a hand through his hair and licked his cracked lips. “Could you pass me the water jug—please?” he asked, stalling for time so that he could try to make sense of what he was hearing.
“Bloody cheek,” said the Duke, but Simon passed him a glass of water.
“I’d never do this.” He stared hard into Simon’s eyes and saw a shadow of doubt flickering in their uneasy depths. “I’d never hurt your sister. I abhorred my father’s behavior. I am nothing like him.”
“Perhaps you committed this terrible atrocity because of everything you’ve suffered. Perhaps it has unhinged your mind.” Simon could not hold his gaze. “I think it best if you leave England. And don’t ever come back.”
“I’m not running. I did not—I could not have done this.” But his voice lacked conviction.
“You know you have not been yourself since Waterloo. Grayson—Lord Blackwood—tells me the blackouts have been getting worse. Can you honestly tell me you remember everything about last night?”
Grayson. Grayson was the only reason Christian was still alive.
Damaged, but alive. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He shook his head. “No. On my honor, I cannot categorically state I remember everything about last evening. But surely the ladies of the house will vouch for me.”
“We cannot find a woman among them who shared your bed last night. The madam didn’t even know you were here.”
This was getting ridiculous. Christian ran a hand over his face. God, he was tired. Since Waterloo he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a proper night’s sleep. His nightmares made sleeping next to impossible.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the searing heat melting his skin and the horrifying smell of his impending death. The unbearable pain . . .
He sucked a steadying breath deep into his lungs.
The madam did know he was here. Christian was the Honey Pot’s most consistent customer. What woman in her right mind would want to touch him unless paid to do so?
Christian stood and began pulling on his breeches. “I paid for a woman to come to my bed—I do remember that. Something is amiss. I remember that the woman seemed very cheap. Usually I have to pay over the odds.”
Simon had the gall to look at him with pity. “You don’t remember bringing Harriet here?”
“God damn it, I did not bring your sister here. I walked here. I remember because I noticed the chill.” Christian suddenly halted in his dressing. “Maybe this has something to do with Harriet. Maybe someone is trying to discredit her, not me.” He swallowed. “If that is the case and I have been used as a tool for vengeance, then I will of course do the honorable thing and offer my hand in marriage to save her reputation.”
The room fell silent, and the Duke’s fists clenched by his side, his face flaring red with rage.
Holy hell, he’d said the wrong thing.
“So that’s what this has been about. You can’t get any gently bred woman to marry you, so you resort to dishonor in order to trap my only daughter.” The sword was back at his throat. “I should slit your throat from ear to ear.”
Christian looked toward Simon for understanding, but the coldness had returned to Simon’s eyes.
“You think I’d let Harriet marry you now? She’s so tra
umatized she can’t even say your name without shuddering. You marry her? Why, I’d sooner marry her to a leper.” The sword pressed into Christian’s neck. “No. I have a more fitting punishment in mind for you. With you out of the way, this incident never occurred. I’ll protect my daughter from disgrace and ensure Harriet marries a man befitting her station.”
Christian’s muscles tensed; the Duke wanted him dead. But he hadn’t survived months of agony to die at the end of a sword held by one of his own countrymen. Through lowered eyelids he appraised his chances of making it to the door. He’d learned that when the odds were stacked against him, it was far wiser to retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.
He assessed the room, and a plan began to emerge in his mind. If Simon would just move away from the door, toward the windows, he could make it past the Duke. He might be scarred, but he was healthy and strong, something that many of his contemporaries overlooked.
He feigned a move toward the window, and Simon, seeing that his father’s sword had the door covered, moved to block that avenue of escape—perfect!
Christian made for the door before the Duke even had time to blink, although the Duke’s sword sliced Christian’s neck on the way past.
Hell, what was one more scar?
His bare feet hardly touched the floor as he ran for the back stairs. For once, he didn’t care that his twisted and marked body was on display.
He’d only just taken a couple of steps down when he scented danger in the form of floor polish—but it was too late. His feet slid out from under him, and he went down headfirst, tumbling down the narrow staircase. Tucking himself into a ball, he tried to protect his head.
He thought for one moment he might survive the fall unscathed, but when the iron doorstop came into view at the bottom of the stairs, dread set in. He knew he was going to hit it. He desperately clawed at thin air, trying to ensure he found the open doorway, but his actions were in vain.
I hate it when I’m right, was his last thought before his head collided with the iron doorstop. Then pain seared through his brain until, mercifully, everything went dark.
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About Bron
USA Today bestselling author, Bronwen Evans grew up loving books. She writes both historical and contemporary sexy romances for the modern woman who likes intelligent, spirited heroines, and compassionate alpha heroes. Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award. She lives in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand with her dogs Brandy and Duke.
You can keep up with Bronwen’s news by visiting her website
www.bronwenevans.com
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Bron’s Book Club
Also by Bronwen Evans
Bron’s Book List
Historical Romances
Wicked Wagers
To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield – book #1
To Wager the Marquis of Wolverstone – book #2
To Challenge the Earl of Cravenswood - book #3
Wicked Wagers, The Complete Trilogy Boxed Set
The Disgraced Lords
A Kiss of Lies – Jan 2014
A Promise of More – April 2014
A Touch of Passion – April 2015
A Whisper of Desire – Dec 2015
A Taste of Seduction – August 2016
A Night of Forever – October 2016
A Love To Remember – August 2017
A Dream Of Redemption – February 2018
Invitation To Series
Invitation to Ruin
(Winner of RomCon Best Historical 2012, RT Best First Historical 2012 Nominee)
Invitation to Scandal
(TRR Best Historical Nominee 2012)
Invitation to Passion
July 2014
(Winner of RomCon Best Historical 2015)
Invitation To Pleasure
Novella February 2020
Imperfect Lords Series
Addicted to the Duke – March 2018
Drawn To the Marquess – September 2018
Attracted To The Earl – February 2019
Contemporaries
The Reluctant Wife
(Winner of RomCon Best Short Contemporary 2014)
Coopers Creek
Love Me – book #1
Heal Me – Book #2
Want Me – book #3
Need Me – book #4
Other Books
Dukes By The Dozen Anthology Boxed Set
Christmas In Kilts Anthology Boxed Set
Winter Wishes: A Regency Holiday Boxed Set
Highland Wishes And Dreams
Highland Wishes And Dreams: Scottish Regency Novella Page 6