Page 33 of Her Unsuitable Match

His shame remained his own. He hadn’t had a night terror such as that in a long time. And he knew, should he sleep again that night, his mind would present it to him again. That was always the way with the worst of his dreams. When he went to bed, Myles prayed for dreamless nights. Those were the only good nights.

He pushed himself up from the floor, and the room spun. He went to the basin of water, cold now from his evening ablutions, and splashed his face with water. Fumbling about in the dark, he managed to light candles and stir the fire to life before collapsing in a chair.

The mirror above his dresser had tilted with his frenzied movement, and from where he sat he could clearly see the spectacle he’d become. He wore only a long white shirt, loose from his throat to halfway down his chest. His eyepatch waited for him on the mantel, leaving the scarred seal of his other eye to reflect back at him through the shadows.

Not all soldiers who lived through battle thought themselves fortunate. He had heard more than one man refer to himself as “cursed” long after the sounds of war had faded. And it was true. Here he sat, surrounded by more finery than he had any right to enjoy, still plagued by the dark memories of the killing fields.

With a shudder, Myles looked away from his scarred reflection to the fire. “I must get hold of myself.” Speaking the words aloud gave them the feel of a vow or a prayer. “I cannot shame my wife or her family. Or the men depending on that hospital.”

When sunrise came, it found him already dressed. He needed his routine back. Marriage or not. He’d found the best way to cope was to go through the same motions, every day. Wake. Dress. Read. Walk. Eat breakfast. Go to a club. Spar. Take tea.

He rehearsed to himself all the things he had done before Philippa came into his life. He couldn’t do it all. Not the same way. But maybe he could build a new order.

He went out the front door and into the world, determined to order his thoughts and regain control of his mind. The first important thing on his list was to find a place with a simple breakfast. Along the way to make that discovery, Myles acquired a newspaper. Each step upon the pavement of London streets returned a measure of strength to him. In the finer neighborhoods in which he walked, there were not yet many people out to enjoy the morning light. The lack of walls, of crowds, let him take his first deep breath in what felt like ages.

Once he sorted out his breakfast, Myles went to Boodle’s. His father had held membership there for a short time, when he took a small political role in London during his youth. That fact, and Myles’s military career, had gained him notice. His willingness to engage other gentlemen in informal fisticuff lessons had cemented his membership.

No one treated him any differently when he walked into one of the many club rooms filled with books, chairs, and tables. He selected a quiet spot in the corner and sat, content to read his paper in peace.

A shadow fell upon the newssheets as someone stepped between Myles and the window. He looked up, lifting his eyebrows and preparing to return a greeting. But the man who stood over him was a stranger to Myles.

“Mr. Cobbett.”

Myles did not flicker an eyelash at the address. “And you are?”

The man’s expression turned to an arrogant smirk. “Havenbrough. My wife is an acquaintance of Lady Philippa’s.” He crossed his arms and settled back on his heels as though intending to remain in the stance for some time. “I told her you were a member at my club, though I cannot think how, given what little recommended you. Prior to your marriage to a peeress, of course.”

It took a moment for Myles to remember the man’s wife. She had been one of the three spiteful women at the ball, eager to simper and offer words of false sweetness to Philippa. Given the way Havenbrough stood before him, Myles anticipated more of the same. “It does seem as though the club will let anyone who can pay the fee join.” Myles feigned a disappointed sigh.

Mr. Havenbrough’s jaw visibly tightened. “I understand you’re something of a pugilist, Mr. Cobbett.”

Myles raised his eyebrows at the change in tactics. Surely the man wasn’t about to issue a challenge of some sort. Not that Myles was an expert at boxing, but he held his own and had even gone a few rounds with scrappers of professional capability. “I would not classify myself as such, Mr. Havenbrough. I enjoy the sport for the camaraderie and exercise it provides.”

The frustration that had begun to layer itself within him made the temptation to engage in fisticuffs stir. Yet just looking at Havenbrough, Myles sensed the man would post little to no challenge. The part of him that rose like a wolf scenting the wind hunkered down again, more discontent than before.

“It seems the rumors I’ve heard are not far from the truth.” Havenbrough smirked again. “Though how someone of Lord Montecliff’s respectability could permit his younger sister to marry a common scrapper, I can’t understand. Unless there wasn’t much of a choice.” The man had a tone that suggested an impolite amount of relish for the subject. “Perhaps no one else could handle the young woman. I understand she can be—”

“Careful how you finish that sentence.” Myles didn’t speak so much as growl the warning. “Pugilist or not, I take exception to a man who knows nothing of my wife speaking of her with less than absolute respect.”

Rather than appear chastened, Havenbrough’s teeth flashed in a less than friendly grin. “Sensitive, are you? I must have struck a chord you did not care for.”

“Or perhaps he merely has better manners than you,” a new voice said, and Moreton appeared beside Myles’s chair. “I cannot say I know many who make it a habit to speak of ladies in a gentleman’s club. Perhaps you are not acquainted with that unspoken rule.”

Havenbrough bowed the barest amount. “Forgive me for intruding, Mr. Cobbett. I will leave you to your business.”

Myles and Moreton both watched the man withdraw to a group of others sitting in a ring of chairs, all of them watching his approach with interest. Finally, Moreton sat down in the chair nearest Myles.

“I didn’t expect to see you here so early in the morning.” Moreton glanced at the news sheet Myles had wrinkled in his grip. “I thought you had a luxurious sitting room, or perhaps a well-laden breakfast table where you read your paper these days.”

Myles shifted somewhat guiltily and forced himself to relax his grip on the paper. “How can I explain?” Myles tipped his head in the direction of Havenbrough’s retreat. “I missed the joy of fending off rude strangers.”

Moreton chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Emily received your lady’s invitation to dinner tomorrow evening.”

Philippa had invited his friends to dinner? “I hope you both accepted. The Gillensfords employ an excellent cook.”

“Which makes me again question why you are here when you could be in a comfortable townhouse enjoying a breakfast prepared by said cook.” Moreton wore his solicitor’s expression—one which meant he had found a scent of deception and meant to follow it to its source. “We no longer run in the same circles, Myles, but I cannot help wondering if Havenbrough’s rudeness is mild compared to what else is being said.”

The conversation at the ball flashed through his mind, and Myles turned his attention to a nearby window. “Nothing of a sensational nature has overcome the news of Lady Philippa marrying a nobody. Though one would think that would be less interesting than the gossip previous.”