Page 19 of The Duelist for the Ton
Heaven, deliver me from the male sex!
And where better to seek deliverance than a library? Particularly this one. Earl Thorpe was renowned for having an excellent library—even Portia’s brother remarked on it. Among the historical and theological works and journals was a collection of literary and artistic works that had expanded over the years, courtesy of the countess. And, unlike most members of Society, the Thorpes were known to actuallyreadtheir books.
Portia approached one wall and ran her fingertips along the spines, tracing the outlines of the titles embossed in gold leaf. She smiled to herself as she traced the name of the author.
William Shakespeare.
She continued along the row until she found the title she sought.
The hand of providence, perhaps—how else could she have found that very work in a room that must house five hundred books at least?
Clutching the book like a prized possession, she crossed the floor and settled into an armchair beside one of the candles, then she opened the book and flicked through the pages to the passage she sought.
Another explosion sounded in the distance, together with a cheer.
Then she heard it—a long, low growl.
The skin on the back of her neck tightened with apprehension.
It was no mouse. Nor was it a cat.
Holding the book in one hand, she picked up the candle, then approached the corner from where the sound had come. Herstomach clenched in fear as a shadow shifted in the darkness, moving slowly back and forth.
“Is someone there?” she said, unable to temper the tremor in her voice.
The fireworker outside let off another explosion, and a long, low moan came from the apparition in the corner. With a shriek, Portia stepped back, almost losing her grip on the candle.
You fool!
What would her brother think of her, frightened of a shadow?
She held the candle aloft, and the shadow dissolved to reveal the figure of a man.
Crouched in the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, he rocked back and forth.
“Sir?” Portia asked.
He made no response, and she moved closer.
“Sir, are you well?”
The rocking ceased and he lifted his head. Soft brown eyes stared ahead, dark against the pallor of his face, which was surrounded by a thick mane of honey-blond hair, and a shock of recognition coursed through her.
It was the man from the hospital.
“Colonel…” Curse it, what was his name? She’d thought of him asColonel Crabby, after cursing the Almighty for always blessing the handsomest men with the sourest temperaments. But perhaps he had a reason for his poor disposition—a reason that gave rise to his suffering now.
He closed his eyes and mumbled to himself.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Portia said. “I did not hear you.”
The mumbling continued, and she caught a single word…
Battle.
Then another explosion echoed outside and he flinched. His eyes opened, glazed with fear.
“They’re shooting,” he groaned.
