Page 62 of Courting the Country Miss

Tristan’s eyes widened and narrowed and filled with horror. “I killed Appleton?”

Leticia brushed his hair back from his face. “No, Tristan. He lost control and tipped his curricle. It crashed into yours and you all went down. It wasn’t your fault.”

Tristan’s throat worked. “I shouldn’t have raced him. He was inexperienced.” He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

He undoubtedly needed to be alone to work out his grief. Though she longed to hold him, comfort him, he would rather grieve alone.

Leticia pressed her lips to his brow. “I’m glad you’re awake. You frightened me.”

He looked up at her, his eyes shiny with unshed tears and his face lined with anguish. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you down in so many ways.”

“Nonsense. Rest and get well.” She almost added, ‘and no more racing,’ but thought better of it. He’d lost a friend today, and nearly his own life.

Tristan’s eyes fluttered closed and his chest rose and fell in sleep.

Leticia stood. “Perhaps I should go home now.”

Richard stood. “I’ll call the carriage to take you.”

Leticia moved to the doorway, then turned back to watch him a moment longer. Tristan lived. She hadn’t lost him. She could not have borne it if he’d died.

Chapter Eighteen

Tristan existed in a fog of agony and blurry vision. Laudanum helped with the pain, and made him sleepy enough to escape the alternating anger and sadness that his friend had died in a curricle race he didn’t remember. But when the medicine wore off, the ache in his head and heart returned. One night, after an indeterminable number of days, Tristan lay still, resisting the urge to ring for help as Elizabeth had instructed. Instead, he let the pain come, let it punish him. He’d killed Appleton as surely as if he’d put a gun to his head.

No wonder Richard thought him a wastrel. The thrill of a race meant nothing compared to the life of a man. In fact, a great deal of his life up to that moment had been frivolous, stupid, risky. Gambling, racing, drinking, blithely permitting young widows to seduce him—for what? A few moments of pleasure. A few moments of forgetfulness. A few moments of feeling alive.

That wasn’t living. Living meant helping Leticia find happiness. Living included finding a cause, searching for ways to make a difference. He’d found purpose searching for the perfect man for Leticia, aiding her to raise money for the school, getting the school set up. Through most of his youth, he’d tried to feel alive in all the wrong ways.

In the middle of the night, a dark form matching Richard’s build padded in. Tristan pretended to be asleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to his brother. He didn’t want to hear the well-deserved accusation in Richard’s voice. Tristan already couldn’t escape the accusing voice in his own head.

Wastrel. Libertine. Rake.

All were true. And he hated them. Hated what he’d become.

As Richard’s soft footfalls neared, Tristan kept his breathing deep and steady. Richard laid a hand on his forehead as if testing for fever. After a heartbeat, his brother brushed a strand of hair from Tristan’s face, a shockingly affectionate gesture. A moment later, he left, closing the door behind him.

Richard loved him. No matter what, his brother always had his back. Sometimes his help felt suffocating, but Tristan had never doubted that Richard would always be there for him.

Tristan stared at the ceiling. Richard had always understood the purpose of his life. It was time Tristan found the purpose of his own. When he was well enough, he’d throw himself into helping others. He’d do more for the school. He’d announce his intention to run for the House of Commons so he could aid people on a larger scale. He’d stop having meaningless affairs.

He had raced his last.

By the time gray light slid into the room between the bedcurtains, the pain in his head expanded to sheer agony. He moaned and writhed, each moment of torture was penance for his life, for the disgrace he brought to the family name, the grief and despair he’d caused Richard, the men who lost fortunes to him because he was better at bluffing and counting than they, the life he took at the race. He considered all the hearts he might have broken when he’d deluded himself in his belief that they shared a mutually pleasurable moment. And worst, he relived the many ways he’d hurt and disappointed Leticia. Each throb of his head, each ache in his body, represented another stripe of punishment.

He fingered his signet ring, vowing to be a better Barrett, to live by a higher code of honor—if the pain in his head didn’t kill him first.

A fuzzy version of Elizabeth came into his room. “Oh, Tristan, why didn’t you ring for help?” She placed a cool hand on his head.

He moaned in reply. She poured a dose of laudanum and held his head so he could drink. Moments later, the pain dulled but the clouds in his vision remained.

Elizabeth sat in a chair next to his bed. “Does anything else hurt besides your head?”

“I feel like I was trampled by a herd of elephants and then beaten with a tree trunk.”

“Any place in particular?”

“It all hurts, especially my head.”