“I’ll do what I can,” she assured him. He would be a pleasure to visit. She was already more intrigued than she dared admit.
He stared at her for a long moment. “Whoareyou?”
“Virginia,” she answered, and whisked Duke out of the bedchamber and away from temptation.
Chapter 3
The following afternoon, Theo unwound his bandages. He turned to face the looking-glass with determination. The ragged welts crisscrossing half his face glared back at him.
Was he a monster? Perhaps. But he was not a monster on the brink of death, and for that he was grateful. His wounds looked raw and swollen, but not gangrenous. His face would scar. His side would heal. His knee… Well, at least Theo got to keep his leg.
Gently, he reapplied fresh bandages. Not so much to protect the new skin, as to hide the unsightly mess from view.
The damage was not as severe as he had at first feared when he’d regained consciousness in the middle of a bloody battlefield. He would need to take care not to reopen the freshly healed wounds as he worked on regaining his strength.
A footman entered the guest chamber with a portable writing desk under one arm. “Where shall I place this, sir?”
“I’ll take it.” Theo rolled forward and held out a hand.
By necessity, he had arrived with little. Only the possessions he’d had with him in France. Toiletries, regimentals, a book of poetry, Lady Beatrice’s letter.
He had not yet written a response. Indeed, until this letter, he and Lady Beatrice had never corresponded at all.
Perhaps it was unromantic of him to have tossed his future wife’s first communiqué into the fire.
Not that she had written a love letter. In addition to demanding he present himself at once in order to increase her popularity by making her a “war hero’s” intended bride, Lady Beatrice had presumed to dictate where, when, and how.
Apparently, the fête of the Season was to take place in two months’ time. Everyone of importance would be there, and that number needed to include Theo. Lady Beatrice expected him to stand up with her in a dance not once, not twice, but thrice. Eyebrows would raise. People would whisper. And then they would announce the betrothal to gasps and applause so that Lady Beatrice would see her name in the Society papers, linked to his.
Of course, he would not submit to such machinations. He had no wish to be gossiped about, and even less intention of allowing his future bride to preside over him like a puppet-master. Theo obeyed no one’s orders but his superior officers and his own.
He opened the lid of the writing desk to examine its contents. Quills, ink, foolscap, a small cloth, a bit of sand. Everything one might require, if one had a message to dispatch. Unfortunately, he had no good news to impart, such as when his legs would walk again.
Theo removed the writing table from his lap and placed it on the tea table. There was no sense penning unnecessary correspondence. He would write Lady Beatrice as soon as he could estimate a date for his return to London. For now, it was better for her to continue to imagine her “dashing war hero” off slaying enemies in France than rolling himself about in a wheeled chair because he was not strong enough to do aught else.
He glanced down at his leg. As soon as it could support him again, he would return to London and make a formal offer. Not in a ballroom, but to Lady Beatrice’s father. She would be appeased, and more importantly, so would Theo’s sire.
Theo’s lips twisted. Wedding the woman Father had chosen for him could be the missing piece to finally earn the marquess’s approval.
Or at least a modicum of recognition.
He slid a glance over at the writing desk. Theo supposed if he sent word to anyone, it ought to be his parents. His stomach tightened. He could already imagine Father’s familiar disappointment in his sole offspring. He had been furious when Theo went off to war. That he got himself injured would only serve to enrage the marquess further.
For Father, oppressed, impoverished, or terror-stricken people were irrelevant. Especially those in foreign lands. All that mattered was the title. Which meant marrying well, bearing sons, and avoiding risking one’s neck in battle if one was the heir apparent to a marquessate. Did Theowantthe title to go to some beggarly cousin? Where were his priorities?
To some degree, Theo had wanted to get his hands on the marquessate his entire life. Not as a sudden inheritance after his father’s death, but as an opportunity to manage at least some small part of it side-by-side with his father while the marquess still lived.
Theo had studied every journal of accounts endless times. Visited every inch of property they owned. Interviewed every tenant, every member of staff, to understand their roles and needs and abilities. Researched areas to improve, places to invest, opportunities for growth. By now, Theo knew the marquessate even better than the worn book of poetry that never left his side.
None of it mattered.
Father had never once inquired Theo’s opinion about any matter. He certainly had no interest in sharing an inch of control. It was perhaps one of the reasons Theo had gone off to war despite the risks. At home, he had no duties. He was useless.
Theo wished to beuseful. To be needed. To matter.
Not decades hence, when he inherited the title and its accompanying position in the House of Lords. But today. Now. While he was young and strong and capable. Or had been.
He was still young, at least, Theo reminded himself as his swollen knee throbbed and the fresh scars beneath his bandages hurt like the devil. He might not be strong or useful at this precise moment, but he would not rest until his body fully recovered.
