Page 13 of The Duelist for the Ton
“D-does she not mind…?”
A slight frown creased Broom’s forehead and he shook his head. “You give her too little credit, my friend.”
“I’m sending her fiancé back minus a limb.”
“No, my friend—that particular honor goes to Dr. Lucas.He’sthe sawbones. Or, if you really wish to apportion blame, set it at the feet of the Frenchie who shot me—who, if I recall, is himself scattered across the field at Waterloo courtesy of your firearm. If you must feel pity for anyone, Reid, pityhissweetheart, who will be waiting forever for him to return.” Broom squeezed Stephen’s hand. “Or perhaps save a little compassion for yourself.”
“Forme? Why?” The familiar tide of guilt swelled within him. “I escaped unscathed where my fellow soldiers were killed or maimed. I’m the one who should have died in battle.”
Broom’s expression softened. “No, my friend,” he said. “You didn’t escape unscathed. Your wounds may not be visible, but I see them. You need to heal as much as I.”
In Bedlam, perhaps? Wasn’t that where they sent men whose wits had snapped? Weak souls incapable of facing the consequences of their actions—men who relived the battle every night, waking to the stench of blood in their nostrils and the screams of the dead in their ears. Men who—
“You’re doing it again, old boy.” Broom took his hand. “Do not let the war claim your soul, my friend. What do you think your sister would say if she knew you’d rather have died in battle than return home to her? There is no honor in death—the honor is in returning safe to your loved ones. Angela’s too young to lose her brother.”
“She has another brother.”
“Who is too occupied with his own family to bother with a younger sister embarking on her first Season. Face it, Reid, Angela needsyou.”
“I’ve employed a chaperone for her.”
“Angela needs a brother, not some dowdy, sour-tempered widow.”
“Mrs. Stowe is not sour-tempered. She’s perfectly amiable.”
“Ah, Mrs. Stowe!” Broom said, grinning. “So I was mostly right, then. Her late husband was something of a profligate, or so I hear, which explains her need for employment. She’s dull enough to keep Angela from straying. But your sister doesn’t just need a colorless old woman to keep her from coming to harm. She needs her brother to champion her honor and protect her from rakes.”
“Perhaps.”
“There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it, old chap. Your sister is the epitome of innocence. A veritable angel.”
Broom’s smile widened and he sat up, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Ah, speak of an angel, and the finest in the kingdom will appear.”
“Beg pardon?”
Broom gestured across the ward. At the far end stood two young women. One was dressed in the garb of a servant, but the other wore a gown of bright-red silk with a matching redingote that lent a splash of color to the otherwise muted tones of her environment, as if she were a single rose blooming in a neglected garden. Illuminated by a beam of sunlight, she looked almost ethereal, as if an angel had descended to walk among mere mortals. Tall and slim, she towered over her companion. Beneath her bonnet, dark curls framed her face—the color of a raven’s wing, shining in the sunlight, giving it a deep blue hue to match the color of her eyes…
Sweet heaven!Stephen had never seen eyes such as hers—the color of cornflowers under the summer sun, with a spark of sharp intelligence.
In short, he could never have believed that such loveliness could exist.
A low chuckle came from the bed.
“You like her, eh, Reid?”
“She’s pretty enough.”
“Ha! She’s a damned sight more than that, and you know it. I’m only thankful I have my Sophy to go home to, or I’d be as smitten as you.”
Indignation, tempered by shame, shimmered in the air and Stephen turned away. “Don’t be a bloody fool.”
The man in the bed recoiled at the savagery in Stephen’s tone. “Come, come, my friend. A man would have to be blind not to want her.”
“He’d doubtless have his heart torn to shreds at her feet,” Stephen replied. “Mark my words, Broom, a woman like that has no time for men such as us—especially notyou. You’re a leg and a title short of what a woman such asherwould deem acceptable.”
“Do you insult me, or Lady Portia?” Broom said. “I assure you, she cares not for appearance—as you’ll come to know.”
“I’ve had my fill of haughty misses who care nothing for others, Broom. I have absolutely no desire to know Lady—”
