They did surrender, but Peter wasn’t there to see it happen. He never got to celebrate. Not in real life, nor in his dreams.
“Peter! Prepare to fire!” Brock said, and Peter once again saw himself ready the match.
He turned to look at Brock, but Peter saw his dream self falter. Something had hit his left leg, a small little pellet of a bullet no larger than the top half of his thumb. Surely something so small could not send him to his knees, but it did. He marvelled at that every time, the way a bullet hundreds of times smaller than himself could make him genuflect.
Peter watched himself fall, hitting his head on the cannon’s base as he collapsed onto the ground. His team, his men, those who he had called friends, those he had looked up to and those who had looked up to him, didn’t notice for a moment. They were trained on the cannon ball as it leaped from its home into the air.
But when they saw him, they rushed to his aid.
It was then that Peter usually woke up, torn away from the past and thrown rudely back into the present. This same process had occurred every night for the last month and a half. He fell, his men lifted him up and carried him away, and then his eyes opened and returned to his new life, one that was so very altered.
And every time he woke, his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, his mind struggling to adjust to the numbness of the lower half of his body, only one thought ran through his head as his eyes adjusted to the darkness all around him.
I wish they had left me for dead.
Chapter One
“Good morning, my lord, and a fine one it is indeed. The sun is shining, the birds are out, and the tallest oak tree in the garden has just begun to change its leaves. Why don’t I take you out there later, to admire it?” Stevens asked as he pushed open the door to Peter’s room with his shoulder.
In his hands was a tray piled high with delicacies of every sort. There was bread so fresh that Peter could still smell the faint scent of baked yeast coming off of it. There was cocoa, tea, shortbread biscuits, and teacakes with butter already spread on them and slowly melting into the studs of dried fruit that littered the cakes on all sides.
On another plate sat three rashers of bacon, two sausages, and a pile of coddled eggs big enough to feed a family of five growing boys with ravenous appetites.
It was, in short, a feast meant for a king. And Peter didn’t want to eat a single bite of it.
Stevens, having been his butler for some years now, sensed this, and dropped his affable expression in favor of the stern one for which he was so well known, and which kept the rest of the household staff in line.
“You must eat, Your Grace. You must. For your recovery, and, if I may be so bold, for Cook’s sanity. She has cried three days in a row now, Your Grace. You of all people know how hard she takes it when people refuse her food. If you do not eat all of this, I will be forced to, and you know how I feel about teacakes.”
“Indeed, I do,” Peter conceded, pulling himself up by the strength of his arms until he was sitting more comfortably against his pillows. “However, disregarding your prejudices toward the north of this country and their baked goods, this is a veritable feast. King Henry VIII would no doubt have wept at the sight of it, gout be damned. So please, Stevens. I beg of you. Leave me the toast and take the rest of it away. Give it to one of the footmen if you must. They’re growing lads. No doubt they’ll celebrate the sight of so many edible delights.”
Peter was doing his best to say all this in as cheerful a tone as possible, but he was already weary, and he had only been up an hour and a half. Of course, most of that time had been spent staring at the intricate carvings on his ceiling and wishing for death, but despondency did take it out of a gentleman, particularly a gentleman in his condition.
“But Your Grace,” Stevens started, advancing with the tray, as though the scent of all the food might change Peter’s mind.
But Peter knew what the butler was up to. He’d known Stevens for most of his life.
“Stop,” he ordered, all friendliness gone from his tone as he glared at the tall, middle-aged man before him.
To his credit, Stevens did so, stopping so abruptly that the teacup balanced on the tray wobbled, sloshing liquid over the rim and filling the saucer below it with pale brown liquid.
“Leave me the toast, and give the rest of the food to the footmen. I do not care where or when they eat it. I just want it eaten. I will not have Cook crying, but nor will I stuff myself with a feast of such proportions when I have no need or desire to,” he said.
Or when I do not deserve it, he added privately to himself.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Stevens said with a disapproving frown. “I will send James in to help you get dressed in fifteen minutes. I assume that should give you sufficient time for your…toast eating,” he said, spitting out the last two words like toast eating was the vilest of activities, meant only for the scoundrels and scroungers of the world, rather than something that nearly ever British person partook in each morning.
“Thank you, Stevens. You may go now,” Peter stated, no longer looking at Stevens as the butler placed the plate of toast in front of him on the wine-red coverlet. Peter was about to tell him to leave the jam on the tray, that he needed only butter, but Stevens slammed the small bowl of jam onto the table next to Peter’s bed before he had the chance even to open his mouth. He decided that, upon reflection, he would be better off just dealing with the presence of the jam.
It was clear that Stevens was at his wit’s end, and Peter did not want to push him further.
When the door to his chambers was shut and he was once again alone, Peter exhaled a deep, frustrated breath and began buttering his toast, attacking the piece of bread with such violent motions that he actually pierced through it, scraping his knife across the porcelain plate, and making a truly horrible sound.
He took only the smallest spoon of the jam from the bowl at his side. The toast barely changed color when he was done spreading it. The spread jam was a depressing pale pink when compared to the vibrant magenta of the jam in its bowl.
Peter frowned, wishing he could spread more, wishing he could empty the whole of the bowl of jam onto his plate and spoon the saccharinely sweet stuff directly into his mouth.
But he could not. He knew if he allowed himself this indulgence, more would follow. Suddenly, all those cravings for rich foods that he managed to hold at bay each day would come out with a force he would not be able to detain. And he must detain them.
Rich foods were for hale and hearty gentlemen who went about their days attending to business, strolling about their fields and generally being useful. Whereas Peter spent nearly every hour of his day supine, dependent on others to move him where he wanted, to attend to his needs. He didn’t deserve such delicacies. He would not allow himself them.
It was nothing short of humiliating to live like this. People had often remarked that he had enough energy for three gentlemen, able to accomplish in an afternoon what most did in two days. Now he was an invalid. It was a transformation Peter could not stomach, no matter how much time he had to adapt to it.
The injuries to his leg had shrunk his world to a very small thing, indeed. He relied on people for nearly everything. He could not walk on his own, and had to be carried anywhere he wanted to go. He could not even dress himself, unable to even touch the lame appendages that now served as his lower half. They mocked him, looking so normal from the outside. His legs looked exactly as they had always looked, bar a slight loss in muscle tone due to his inactivity. But they did not move, not unless someone moved them. And Peter couldn’t bear it himself. He hated them. They had ruined his life.
With every passing day, Peter could feel shame descending upon the centuries-old dukedom that he had inherited from his now-deceased father. The Dukes of Kingwood had always been the strongest of fellows, winning every argument they entered into in Parliament, protecting their tenants and workers, providing for their families.
P
eter had promised his father on the old gentleman’s deathbed that he would continue the legacy, but he was unable to do so now. An invalid could not be a duke. A coward could not be a duke.
And I am both of those, Peter reminded himself daily.
Of course, he couldn’t step down. It was impossible. No, instead, he was destined to a life of letting his solicitor manage the affairs he ought to be handling, while he convalesced in bed and let all those idiotic physicians from all over England and the continent take a look at him and pronounce his condition “very strange, very strange indeed.”
Though only Peter’s right leg had received the gunshot wound to the calf muscle, both his legs were immobile. It was what some physicians termed “a nervous condition,” which made Peter think more of blubbering old biddies in Bedlam than dukes of the ton, though the physicians assured him the condition could afflict anyone.
“The wounds are in your mind, Your Grace. The calf muscle was torn, indeed, but it has recovered remarkably. You ought to have retained full movement of the leg, and indeed, tests show this to be the case. But since you still cannot move either appendage, it must be in the mind, and the cure for such an illness is far more complicated than that of a gunshot wound.”
These were the words of the last physician, who Peter had thrown out on his backside seconds after he finished his speech.
Peter knew it wasn’t in his mind. His legs didn’t work. He had tried to move them many times in the last few weeks, but they never budged from their straight, slack position. His knees could be bent if he was in a sitting position, but it was a painful process that took both Peter and Stevens to complete.
No, his legs didn’t work. It was his legs, not his mind. His mind, whether fortunate or not, was still entirely in working order. The injury hadn’t affected it at all.
After an hour’s rumination on this and other similarly melancholic subjects, Peter was thoroughly depressed. James had come to dress him, and Peter was stationed in an armchair by the fire, reading The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, a book so thoroughly boring that Peter often fantasized about using it as fuel for the fire rather than as reading material. He was bored out of his skull, and considering ringing for tea just to have something to do, when he heard the familiar, high-pitched voice of Lady Magdalene Stewart. And suddenly, the Roman Empire seemed rather appealing.
This feeling grew even more pronounced when Stevens threw open the door to the drawing room a mere minute later and declared that Peter’s betrothed had arrived, and they would both be adjourning to the garden to see the oak tree Stevens had so raved about.
“I do not wish to go,” Peter grumbled as Stevens lifted him capably into his arms and began to walk toward the morning room, a side door of which opened onto the expansive garden of the North London estate.
“I am afraid there is not much to be done about that, Your Grace. Lady Magdalene is here, and I do not think she will leave until she sees you. You know how persistent your betrothed can be,” Stevens said, not even out of breath despite carrying a ten-stone duke in his arms.
Peter envied his butler his strength, though he had lost a few stone in the last few weeks, so Stevens’s job was considerably easier than it would have been before he returned home. Of course, back then, he didn’t need to be carried. He was perfectly capable of moving his own body about the house.
Ah, those were the days.
They entered the garden to find Lady Magdalene already settled in one of the iron chaise lounges that populated the brick-covered patio bordering the back of the manse. To one side were tall oak trees bursting with autumnal colors, and to the other there was a small hedgerow that served as a border between the duke’s estate and that of another member of the ton next door, Horatio Hodge, Earl of Lifton.
“Peter!” Lady Magdalene exclaimed as Stevens gingerly deposited Peter in the lounge directly next to Lady Magdalene. She jumped out of her seat and came over to him, kissing him chastely on the cheek and taking his hand in hers. Her palm was warm and smooth and her movements gave off the faintest whiff of lilac, a scent that Peter associated particularly with Lady Magdalene.
“Peter! It is so lovely to see you outside. You look so well in the sunshine,” she continued, brushing her hand across his jaw before crouching down next to him, her dress skirting the bricks below them, which were still wet from the previous night’s rain. He wanted to tell her to get up and go back to her lounge rather than risk ruining her dress, but he knew she would brush off the suggestion with some comment about how her dress was of no importance compared to her love.
As Lady Magdalene ran her hand up and down the rough whiskers of his jaw, Peter tried not to shrink back from her touch. Such sentiments never failed to make Peter feel a bit queasy. He generally liked Lady Magdalene’s effusive nature, but he detested when she doted on him. It made him feel even weaker, even less capable than he already felt.
The war had changed many things about him, but excepting his legs, the most marked change was his aversion to touch. He hated having his bare skin touched, especially by Lady Magdalene, who seemed to do it with alarming frequency, as though she thought it would calm him. It served to do the exact opposite, but of course he could not tell her this.
He still hadn’t forgotten the tears she had wept that first day she visited him after he had returned home. She had tried to smooth his brow, and Peter had barked at her to get away. She had burst into tears and had been inconsolable for a good hour.
“If I may be so bold, Your Grace, might I suggest refraining from such outbursts? Lady Magdalene is a sensitive creature, and I suspect she will not understand your aversions to touch, no matter how you try to explain it,” Stevens had suggested.
Since then, Peter had perfected the grateful smile in return for Lady Magdalene’s caresses and touches, a smile that came with an inward cringe so forceful Peter could feel it curling his stomach into a knot each time it occurred.
Still, he smiled at the lady in front of him, who was staring into his eyes with the same affection and devotion with which she had shown the night he proposed what felt like years ago. It had, in fact, only been four months ago, but Peter had been so changed, so affected, that it felt like a lifetime since he had been excited to wed himself to this lady.
Nothing excited him anymore, least of all the idea of tying himself to Lady Magdalene Stewart for all eternity. She deserved better than him. He could never be the husband she deserved now, and he wished every single time she visited that this would be the day that she realized he would never return to his old self. He would remain a miserable, self-pitying sod for the rest of his life, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.
“It’s good to see you, my love,” he said to Lady Magdalene, squeezing her hand. “But please, sit,” he implored, gesturing toward the lounge.
Lady Magdalene rolled her eyes and harrumphed, but did so, climbing back into her lounge but keeping her fingers intertwined with Peter’s.
For a while, both of them sat in silence, admiring the autumnal foliage to their left, the leaves sparkling under the sunshine of an unusually cloudless day.
Peter’s nerves, which were always heightened when Lady Magdalene was around, were just beginning to settle when she spoke. And her words shattered whatever calm he had within him.
“I have another physician for you to see, dear, and I do think this one will do the trick. Hatty Featherington told me her brother’s best friend’s cousin used him to heal the nervous condition she developed after the birth of her fourth child. He’s said to work absolute miracles. I’ve sent off a letter to him and I expect I should receive word back soon,” she said, looking over and giving Peter a smile that said, “See? Look what a good wife I am to you already, for all that we are not yet married.”
Peter, for his part, barely restrained a grimace. This was the fifteenth physician he had seen since returning home to England. Nearly all the physicians had been sent for by Lady Magdalene, who was convin
ced that Peter was “fixable.” And that once he was fixed, he would return to his old self, and they could be married. Peter had known after seeing the second physician, the one who had diagnosed a nervous condition, that he would find no answers from medical professionals. His injuries were a mystery to one and all, and could not be cured.
But Lady Magdalene disagreed. Whereas charities and sewing circles had occupied the majority of her time before his injury, searching for and contacting physicians now took up the whole of her time not spent at balls. She was steadfast in her belief in Peter’s ability to be fixed, and she would not abandon her cause.
It was the main source of tension between them, the base for the few rows they had as an affianced couple.
“My dear, you know what I am going to say,” Peter told Lady Magdalene gently. “I do not think it will work. The last three physicians—”
“Were pig-headed, know-nothing charlatans. Their reputations were obviously the work of fiction, but this one is different, Peter. I have a good feeling about him. I just know he can cure you, and then we can finally start to plan the wedding. I already have the flowers all picked out, and Madame Baptiste is awaiting my letter to start the dress,” she said, her voice full of child-like hope.
Peter swallowed his retort, knowing that nothing he could say would dissuade his love. Lady Magdalene’s omnipresent happiness was what had first drawn Peter to her. She was always so cheerful, so full of smiles and sunshine. That she was also well-born, the daughter of a marquess and a marchioness with connections to the Prince Regent on her mother’s side, was simply a boon.
She was also beautiful, with cascading black curls, large brown eyes, and lips that begged to be kissed.
She was the perfect wife, Peter knew. She just wasn’t his perfect wife anymore.
Peter wished she would leave him. She deserved so much better than him, but she stuck by his side like a conker on a wool coat, and Peter had not quite figured out yet how to remove her without damaging the delicate… nut within.
Sins 0f An Intoxicating Duchess (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 31
