But for now, Morgan was the one suffering as the room continued to spin. His gut protested. His stomach clenched. Remembrance crashed down on him, the sound of the whip cracking upon his flesh, the searing pain. Being forced to his knees, bound and gagged. One of the French soldiers, a grim-faced little fellow with an ugly scar marring his right cheek, had taken excessive pleasure in his torture. The scent of his own flesh burning would never leave him, and it returned now, as if it were real, making him gag with a violence he could not suppress.
“Chamber pot?” Whitley asked grimly.
A fresh, crashing wave of sickness overtook him. He forced the bile back down his throat. He could persevere. He always had. “Perhaps I just require a rest. A wink of sleep.”
The duke guided him to the neatly made bed, watching with ill-concealed disgust as Morgan fell back upon it. “You need to sleep this off, Searle. When you wake, go home to your marchioness. It is where you belong now, at her side. Whatever lies in your past, you must look to the future.Sheis your future. Let the past die. Let it go, or it may well kill you.”
“Go to hell,” he muttered weakly, passing a weary hand over his face.
Whitley did not know what he had endured. Whitley had been in London, finding a wife, making himself happy, transforming himself into the forbidding sot who cast judgment upon a man clearly in need of consuming a bottle of whisky. He was about to say as much when he glanced about him and realized the chamber was empty.
The duke had gone.
Heaving a sigh of self-loathing, Morgan lay on his back on the bed, staring up at the orgy depicted on the ceiling’s fresco. None of the ladies could hold a candle to his sweet Leonie. His eyes were heavy, his stomach a sea of sick.
Perhaps he could rest, just for a bit.
When he slept, he dreamt of his wife. And when he woke at last, he was covered in sweat, stomach protesting, mouth dry and tasting as if he had licked the floorboards of the public rooms.
He rose, found the chamber pot not a moment too soon, and dropped to his knees. It was, he thought, a fitting end to the day.
Chapter Ten
Searle had failedto join her for dinner that evening, as had become their customary routine. Nor had he sent word of a delay or when she might expect him. Leonora had waited, postponing dinner and agitating Monsieur Talleyrand before finally relenting and dining in silence. The courses had been customarily exquisite, but they may as well have been crafted of ash for all Leonora tasted them.
After dinner, she had withdrawn to the drawing room where she sat in miserable silence, contemplating the pastoral oil scenes depicted upon the walls and stabbing her needlework more viciously than necessary as her ire climbed. Even poor little Caesar, who had cuddled up next to her, whined every few minutes, staring at her askance with his chocolate eyes, as if to ask where Searle was.
Finally, she had retreated to her chamber, requesting a bath to soothe her troubles away. It had proved a pleasant enough diversion but hardly restorative, and now, she was pacing the floor, dressed for bed but unable to rest for even a moment as her dudgeon increased with each tick of the mantle clock. Her hair was unbound, falling in heavy waves down her back, completely dry now, and still, her husband had yet to return.
Where had he gone?
And why had he not come back?
She completed what seemed her eightieth circumnavigation of the chamber, heedless of the ache in her leg, and at long last, she heard it, the soft closing of a chamber door.Hischamber door, to be precise. Then footfalls, familiar in their cadence.
Her husband was home. Relief swelled within her, for in truth, she had begun to worry. But left with no knowledge of his whereabouts, she had precious little recourse. Not to mention her sudden, frenzied need for him to return to her side, coupled with the troubling realization she had made during her call to Freddy, had left her in an odd state of bemusement. She had not been certain if her apprehension sprang from her overzealous emotions where he was concerned or from a true need.
But now he had returned at last, her disquiet over his absence dashed, and in its place, the monster of her inner misery grew like a weed in a summer garden. Questions swirled, ones she almost dared not ask. Questions, perhaps, she did not have the right to ask.
Questions she could withhold no longer.
She knocked at the door joining their chambers, and when the familiar, deep rasp of his voice bid her to enter, she did, crossing the threshold into his domain. It occurred to her then that for the last week, he had been coming to her chamber rather than bringing her to his. Each night, he made love to her before returning to his own bed. A customary habit, she had reassured herself. No need to fret.
She stopped when she saw him, icy tendrils of dread curling around her heart and squeezing. He was the picture of the dissolute rakehell, wavy, dark hair mussed, his cravat hastily tied, as if by his own hand rather than a valet’s, his coat rumpled.
“Madam,” he greeted her, a chill in his voice she did not like. “You are yet awake. What is the hour?”
“I do not know,” she lied, for somehow, her religious study of the time seemed a detail she ought to keep to herself. “Where have you been, my lord? I expected you at dinner.”
His lips tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”
A horrid thought occurred to her then. What if he had beenoccupiedwith another woman? He had told her he did not have a mistress, but that had been a fortnight ago. He could have changed. She had never demanded fidelity of him, foolishly not thinking it a necessity.
“Occupied in what manner?” she asked, dread burning a destructive path through her.
“Does it truly matter? I am tired, and I would like nothing more than to call for my valet and go to bed. So, unless you wish to quarrel with me, or unless you want to play valet for me, I suggest you return to your chamber.” His tone was flat, emotionless.
The man standing before her little resembled the bold lover who had wooed her for the last week. He seemed, instead, incredibly weary. Had the demons of his days at war returned to haunt him? She had not heard him crying out in the night, but she was a sound sleeper, and with him in another chamber, it was possible she would not hear him.
