It must have been a slip of the hand. A misprint. And yet…Why did he suddenly have the sense he should not read another word? He swallowed, as nausea rose up in him.
Further reading didn’t reveal more than the menu Georgina had settled on for the day. Deviled ham with pickles, fresh strawberries, butter biscuits, fresh bread and butter—of course.
At once, he could see it. Could see the plate of food—which she’d prepared for him—plain as day. He closed his eyes. A memory crashed over him, as tangible as a wave on the ocean.
“I’ll write to you every day. You and Drake,” Georgina assured him, breathless and intent, calming his own frayed nerves as a result of his and his father’s argument that morning.
“What would you know of war, and leading others?” His father had demanded of him. “Sell that commission, boy. You’ll only get yourself and your friend killed, mark my words. You’re a future earl, no general.”
“Really, pet, even knowing I’m the reason your beloved brother opted to join?”
Slapping his shoulder, Drake spoke up in vehement denial. “Don’t listen to him, George. I always meant to do my duty. The blackguard talked me out of it every time I made up my mind to go, and then thought to sneak off without me.”
He skipped several pages ahead. Read of Georgina’s loneliness, how bereft she felt absent both Drake and himself, and of how many letters she’d written to both of them.
I confessed my love to Teddy. Poured out my heart, then tossed the letter in the grate. Too late I realized I could’ve used them inA Daring Design,my current novel whereby Lady Celine admits her feelings to Lord Terrence.
Despite his confusion, his sense that something was amiss, he chuckled aloud and flipped several more pages.
My worst fears have been realized. The letter arrived today informing us Drake has been declared dead. They say he died a hero. I shall never recover. Now I live in terror that the same fate will befall my beloved Teddy. I pray that he shall return to England soon, as he promised, to keep me from succumbing to my misery. I cannot even share my grief with my parents, who seem more lost than even I am.
Drake.
Good God. He remembered.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Teddy struggled todraw a breath. Spots danced before his eyes and the room seemed to spin around him. Memories and images crashed through him, a lifetime’s worth.
Drake. He had volunteered his battalion for that fateful advance after learning that Teddy and his men had orders—contingent upon intelligence Teddy’s spies had gleaned—to intercept a French column pressing deep into rural Spain toward a crossroads vital for keeping supply lines open.
Teddy had tried to argue Drake out of the mission. It was overkill, he’d said, his battalion could handle the militia of its rumored size, and, if not, could stage a safe retreat, whereas Drake’s position might leave him and his men susceptible to a route as a notable bottleneck existed from the southern approach.
But once the plans were drawn, neither Drake, nor his and Ted’s superiors, would be swayed.
At dawn, Teddy’s battalion reached a hamlet near an olive grove, approaching carefully through thick morning mist—and found the encampment eerily deserted.
Meanwhile, Drake’s battalion was skirting a ravine, approachingthe same French troops from the south. As they ascended a low ridge, and bypassed that damned bottleneck of which Ted had warned Drake, they were ambushed by Frenchvoltigeurs.The enemy infantry, evidently forewarned of the impending attack, awaited the redcoats from their hiding places among the rocks and trees, slaughtering Drake and his men as they came into view.
By the time Teddy and his men reached the French soldiers and took them out, it was too late. Not one man in Drake’s battalion survived.
But then, there was more.
He remembered his sweet mother—on her death bed, when Teddy was only seven years of age. His father’s stern admonition not to grieve her in his sight.
His father, the earl. Respected by all. Charming, indefatigable, unflappable, and hard as nails to those under his charge. If Teddy wasn’t perfect—and when was he?—he disgraced the title, and paid for it, enduring his father’s cutting remarks, frequent in-room incarcerations and deprivations, and, if the earl was particularly in his altitudes when his temper ignited, a well-placed fist where no bruise would show, of course.
Show no chink.
Cry in view again, and I’ll give you cause for your weak tears.
Stand tall, boy, or be trampled by those with spine.
If that foolish baronet’s whelp bests you, you’ll envy the stable boys their gruel.
Hold your tongue or I will see you have cause to bite it. A gentleman does not snivel; he conquers or is ruined.
Then later, when Teddy grew too large to bully physically, he used other means to control him and every last aspect of his life. The earl chose Teddy’s field of study, his hobbies—The Royal Academy of Art? You’re joking. No son of mine dabbles in art like some namby-pamby. You’re a future earl.He even chose his future wife—or attempted to. And it hadn’t been Georgina.
