But there was one question he dared to ask. One answer he needed to know. “Can you forgive me, Leonie?”
Her long lashes swept down, guarding her secrets, hiding everything from him for a beat. And then she glanced back up at him, the conflict within her evident in her expression. “I cannot make any promises, but I will try. In return, I ask one favor of you.”
He stiffened, anticipating her question before she even asked it. “The duel will carry on, Leonie. It must.”
Her face lost all its softness as she went rigid. “All I ask is that you reconsider crying off the duel. You do not have to promise me a thing.”
Morgan wanted to deny her outright. His every instinct demanded that he must. He had always been a man who believed in justice. Bringing Rayne to his knees was all that mattered. The thought of standing over the earl’s prone form, pistol in hand, victorious, had been carrying him through his days far longer than Leonie’s sweet kisses, creamy flower-scented skin, and tight cunny had.
He did not owe her the promise he would consider walking away from his only chance to right the wrongs which had been perpetrated against him. He did not even owe her a response.
But she was awaiting his answer now, her expression grave, and she looked so fragile and delicate, as if one wrong move from him would send her toppling like a felled tree. The haunted look in her eyes troubled him in turn. He had no wish to be the cause of this woman’s sadness, nor the source of any of her tears.
“I will reconsider,” he allowed grudgingly, for it was the only answer he could give her, even if it was not the one she deserved. “But I promise nothing.”
She smiled sadly. “That is no more and no less than you have always promised me, my lord.”
In defeated silence, the boulder of dread within him swelling to the tremendous burden of a mountain once more, he led his marchioness to dinner.
Chapter Sixteen
Leonora woke inthe night to a familiar sound.
Searle was suffering from nightmares again.
Her only instinct was to throw back the covers. Though she had not long been a resident of Linley House, she knew her way well enough to hesitantly step through the darkness of her chamber. His strangled scream of undeniable horror made a shiver slide down her spine.
Whatever had happened to him during his imprisonment, it was enough to terrorize him months later. He had alluded to the horrors earlier in the drawing room, sharing more with her than he ever had. She could not imagine, did not wish to imagine, the full extent.
She could only hope and pray that Freddy was right and that her plan would work. That the experience of his capture had left him so scarred and fraught it had created a beast within him, a beast which demanded Alessandro’s blood as forfeit and would accept nothing less. But Freddy had suggested if Leonora could give Searle comfort, show him he need not be alone, that working through his demons at her side would be far better than making new demons and ruining lives, the duel could be avoided, and Alessandro and Searle would both be saved.
Leonora could not help but to wonder as she blindly fumbled for the latch on the door adjoining her chamber to Searle’s if there was any hope at all. It seemed her husband’s scars ran too deep. His bitterness and rage and helplessness had all poured from him earlier in the drawing room, and it had been heartbreaking.
But not as heartbreaking as the sounds of agony being torn from him now. As she made her way inside his chamber, she heard his breath emerging in pants. Moving as swiftly as she could, she went to his side, mindful of the violence of his response the last time she had awakened him from a nightmare.
She groped through the murk of the night, finding the edge of his bed. “Morgan,” she said softly, pausing where she stood.
He stirred, groaning, then ground his teeth together with such force she shuddered at the sound. But still, he slept, trapped within the horrors of his mind, reliving the days of his imprisonment.
“Morgan.”
“No! Do not touch me!” he cried out with perfect, horrible clarity.
“Oh, Morgan,” she whispered, tears pricking her eyes.
She hated what he had done. She hated his intention of dueling with Alessandro. She hated that he had manipulated her and used her and made her believe theirs could be a true marriage rather than one founded in lies and his own need for revenge. But she could not hate him.
Not when she loved him so, and not when the undeniable sound of his agony over what he had endured echoed through the night.
She reached for him then, thankfully finding his hand in the bedclothes, and holding tight. “Morgan, it is Leonie,” she said again, this time with a firm voice. “You are safe. I am here. Wake up, my love.”
He jerked beneath her touch, and as her eyes adjusted to the filmy moonlight filtering past the window dressings, she discerned his silhouette as he sat up in bed, breathing harshly.
“Leonie?” His fingers tangled with hers, tightening. “Is that you?”
“Yes.” She squeezed back, telling herself she could not cry. She must not cry. Why, oh why, was she so easily overcome with emotions these last few days? It seemed as if she was forever on the verge of tears. But he would not appreciate her weeping all over him—his pride would not have it—and she knew it too well. “I am here, Morgan.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asked hoarsely.
