Page 50 of The Duelist for the Ton
She flinched. “No. You were merely besieged by a memory so vivid that it threatened to break into your consciousness. A memory is like a dream. When we dream we believe it is real, do we not? The more vivid the memory, the more real it seems.”
“Only a madman would say such things.”
“Would you call Dr. McIver a madman?”
Stephen shook his head. “McIver’s a clever man, unlike that charlatan Dr. Lucas and his cursed leeches.”
Her mouth curved into a smile. “Then you must accept what I say, for I merely repeat Dr. McIver’s words. He has written a paper on the impact of great suffering on the mind, though men such as Dr. Lucas have ridiculed him for it. But I have seen it for myself—soldiers wounded in the hospital, their bodies broken, minds suffering while they relive the horrors of war.”
“My body is not broken, Lady Portia,” he said. “I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. “Tell me, do you believe you deserved to return from Waterloo with no physical injury while men such as Captain Broom lost their limbs?”
“Of course not,” he said, before he could stop himself.
She took his hand, and the urge to withdraw and hide his shame warred with the desire to pull her close.
“There is no law that dictates whether a man deserves to be wounded in battle,” she said. “Every man who returns from war is a different man to the one who rode out to it. You all sustained wounds.”
“I escaped with barely a scratch, Lady Portia,” he said. “How is that fair? How can I look into the eyes of those who call me a hero of Waterloo when I survived while better men did not?”
“In what way were they better?” she said. “Because they were injured or killed, and you were not?” She caressed his cheek. “Youwereinjured, colonel, and you suffer those injuries still. Just because your injuries are invisible to most, that doesn’t render them any less deserving of compassion, or any less in need of healing.”
“Insanity cannot be healed.”
“An immaterial argument, given that you’re not insane.”
“I’m weak, then,” he said. “My poor sister does not need a weakling for a brother.”
“Your sister is fortunate to have you as a brother. Perhaps she’s the most fortunate sister in the world.”
“At leastyourbrother is no weakling.”
“It depends on your definition of weakness,” she replied. “Any man can behave like a rake when he has a title and a fortune, together with the kind of looks that make women swoon in droves.”
At that moment, a harsh voice called out from the darkness, and Lady Portia’s smile disappeared, the softness yielding to a hunted expression.
“Sister, where are you?”
Stephen glanced at his surroundings. “Where’s the rest of our party?”
“I steered you away.”
“So that they might not witness my weakness?”
“No, to give you privacy, so those who do not understand are given no opportunity to gossip. Not that I don’t trust dear Eleanor, but I cannot trust my brother—or that reprobate Sir Heath—to be discreet.” She offered her arm. “Shall we return before we’re missed? I think the fireworker has finished.”
He nodded and took her arm, and she steered him along the path toward Duke and Duchess Whitcombe. Angela was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s my sister?”
“With Miss Whitcombe. They’ve gone to look at the fire-eaters. She’s in safe hands with Olivia, you know.”
He nodded. “I still fear for her. An unmarried young girl in London is in far greater danger than a soldier on the battlefield.”
“Perhaps you should equip her with a pistol.”
He shuddered. “I abhor the use of weapons for sport, Lady Portia.”
