Hell and damnation—Georgina. Rage, fueled by betrayal, swamped him. She’d lied. Repeatedly. She was no more his wife than was Lady Catherine, who wasnotDrake’s intended. Drake could barely stomach the woman. In truth, neither could he, after a time.
But his father hadn’t cared a jot. She was his choice for the Ainsworth title. A blue blood with impeccable lineage, one who didn’t lower herself to mix with theirregularsandgrubsand the so-calledencroaching mushroomsTeddy rubbed elbows with in pursuit of his so-called art—art which he’d finally been forbidden to practice.
If he needed a hobby, by God he could pursue manly, respectable pastimes like horsemanship and politics, and above all, he would do the title proud.
If his father only knew of the books he’d read, books Georgina would likely have approved, likeThe Disdain,and an old favorite,The Social Contract,he’d have keeled over of an apoplexy.
As it was, that last fight with his father had nearly brought one on—and had been the impetus behind his decision to join the war effort. His father had somehow learned of Teddy’s practice of frequenting a studio of artists, despite the earl’s edict against any such thing.
You shame me with every blunder—need I remind you, you are my heir?
When Teddy had come home with his officer’s commission, his father had demanded and then pleaded with him to sell the thing. When Teddy refused, his parting words had been along the line of,Who are you to lead? You’ll get men killed.
And he had.Drake. His best mate. Drake had followed him—to keep an eye on him, he’d said. To keep him out of trouble, he’d said.
“We’ll come home heroes, and who knows, maybe you’ll exorcise some of those demons and see in yourself what I do.”
The only one of his friends who’d known what his father wasreallylike. And he’d gotten him killed. Because his father had been right. What had he known of leading? It was his intelligence that got Drake killed.
He heard a loud, keening moan, the sound half-animal, and only dimly realized it came from him. At some point he’d risen from behind the desk. Now, he charged the sofa across from him. Reaching it, he bent, scooped his arms under its frame and hurled it onto its back and nearly into the glass paned doors. It crashed to the floor, rattling the panes in their frames, as papers swirled from the desk and candles tipped in their holders.
His father was right. Who was he to lead? Hewasan irregular, a disgrace, a namby-pamby pretender.
He hadn’t any recollection of sinking to his knees, or any real awareness of the tears coursing down his cheeks, or the shouts spilling from his lips until Mr. Danvers arrived. The man kneeled beside him, grabbed him, and gave a little shake, which snapped Teddy from his near-fugue state.
He stared at Danvers. Breaths shuddering in and out of his lungs. “I remember,” he choked in a hoarse voice.
“I know, son. Now the healing can begin.”
“I don’t deserve it. I should have been the one to die. Not those men. Not Drake, Georgina’s brother. He was the best man I knew and I got him killed.”
Danvers shook his head. “The war did that.”
“Georgina.”Her name was an anguished cry. He wasn’t even sure what he meant by it. The fact he’d caused her loss. The fact she’d lied, and the love he thought she’d given so freely was not his to claim. Damn her, eyes. And damn his.
“It’s going to be all right.” Danvers wrapped Teddy in his embrace, and held him while he continued to cry like a bloody baby.
Show no chink.
Stand tall, or be trampled.
You are myheir.
He grabbed onto the words like a lifeline until his tears ceased and the place in his chest, housing his heart, ceased aching. If it felt, simultaneously, as if he’d swallowed a block of ice, so be it. His armsfell away from Danvers, his jaw hardened, his spine straightened.
Danvers seemed to recognize the dam erupting inside of Teddy’s had emptied. He released him, and the two men rose to their feet.
“Well, Major. Now what?”
Teddy surveyed the chamber. The overturned sofa and broken table—he hadn’t recalled smashing that. He’d have to replace it. At least now he could. He would have access to his accounts. Tugging his cuffs straight, he replied in a cool tone. “Now I’m to London to deal with my family—and her.”
Danvers slanted him a warning look. “Your wife, you mean? Lady Arlington?”
Pain, sharp and poignant, sliced through him, momentarily slipping past the ice encasing his chest. With an effort of will, he banished the useless emotion and issued a humorless laugh.
Seeing no point in replying, he crouched to collect pieces of the splintered wood.
Without a word, Mr. Danvers set about helping him.
