Page 52 of Made for the Marquess (Second Sons of London 4)

Chapter Eighteen

The scream torefrom Percy’s throat, ripping him from a terrible nightmare. He rolled swiftly to his side and found no pillow to muffle the horrible sounds coming from him. They continued to pour forth and he wadded up the bedsheet and stuffed it into his mouth, his body trembling violently.

The nightmares had only grown stronger over the last few weeks. He had thought being away from the battlefront would ease his mind but, apparently, he was growing worse.

A sudden pounding sounded on his door.

“My lord, are you all right?” shouted Huston.

Percy froze. Before, he had always been able to quiet his screams. No one had a bedchamber along the corridor where he slept. Huston’s arrival only meant that his shouts had been loud enough to go as far as the servants’ quarters.

Huston beat on the door again. “My lord! Open up!”

A new voice joined in. “Lord Kingston, please open the door. We must see if you are all right.”

That was Tate, his butler. God only knew how many others had been awakened and disturbed.

He yanked the bedclothes from his mouth and barked out, “I am fine. Leave!”

Silence was the response for a few moments and then Tate called out, “We just want to see if you need anything, my lord.”

“I said I was fine—and I meant it!” Fury filled his body, which still quaked.

“Very well, my lord,” the butler shouted.

Percy listened, hoping to hear their steps retreat but did not, thanks most likely to the thick carpeting that lined the corridor.

His body continued to shiver as if he had no control over it. He realized he did not and curled into a tight ball, beginning to weep. His tears turned to gut wrenching sobs and, once more, he tried to quiet the noise so as not to alarm any more servants. He had no idea how long the sobbing went on, only that he felt he was slowly losing his grip on sanity.

Finally, they subsided and the tremors running through him receded, leaving him chilled and spent. He located the pillows, which had somehow been knocked to the floor, and brought them to the bed again. Bringing the bedclothes to his chin, he wrapped them securely about him, wondering why he had thought he could have a normal life. The life meant for Rupert. The life of the Marquess of Kingston.

He cursed aloud, blaming his brother for not having wed and producing an heir, causing that responsibility to fall upon his shoulders. Percy realized in this moment how unsuited he was, not only to hold the title but to think he should wed Minta and have children with her. He knew he could never relinquish the title. It was the albatross that would hang about his neck until his death. He could, though, see that it was passed beyond him. Surely, there was some cousin or distant relative who could inherit it upon his death. If there were no such heir, the title would revert to the crown.

Resolve filled him. That is what should happen. He would retreat to the country and live a solitary life, tending to his tenants and responsibilities and withdrawing from all social life in London.

That meant giving up his dreams of a life with Minta Nicholls.

A fresh wave of tears assaulted him. He let them run their course, deciding it would be the honorable thing to tell her in person. She deserved someone whole, not a broken man who would never be put right again. She needed a husband who could make her laugh. One who would cherish her.

But Minta was a determined young woman, not one who would take no for an answer without a fight. Percy believed in order to save her from him, he would have to hurt her. The thought of doing so nearly broke him but, in the end, it would be for the best.

Sleep must have come again for he awoke as light filtered into his bedchamber. The bedclothes were sticky with sweat. He rang for Huston and the valet appeared quickly. Huston did not bring up the events of the previous night and neither did Percy. Instead, he called for a bath and allowed the valet to scrub him from head to toe. His body might now be clean but he knew his mind never would be. It carried the scars of war. His damaged soul was his cross to bear. He would never burden Minta—or any other woman—with his shortcomings.

He went downstairs to breakfast and pretended to read the newspaper as he ate. Everything was tasteless to him. He merely put food into his mouth to give his body fuel for the battle that lay ahead.

Retreating to his study, Percy closed the door and sat in it for hours, brooding. When it was time to leave and call upon Minta as he had promised, he prayed for the Herculean strength it would take to end things between them. He promised himself not to argue with her nor be swayed by tears. He regretted how deeply he would need to hurt her but, in the long run, he would be doing her a favor.

He rang for Tate and asked for his carriage to be readied. When the butler returned and said the carriage awaited him, Percy went outside. Before boarding it, he gave instructions to the driver.

“Take me to Lord Westlake’s townhouse. Once I have left there, you are to drive.”

The coachman’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Drive where, my lord?”

Percy shrugged. “I will need time to think. Drive for an hour—no, two—before you return here.”

The coachman still had an odd look on his face but he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Percy climbed inside the vehicle and it set off. His belly roiled at what he was about to do and dread permeated every pore. He knew he was right, though. To save Minta, he would need to wound her gravely. Push her so far away that she would not ever be able to stand the sight of him again.

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