Despised & Desired--The Marquess' Passionate Wife (#3 Love's Second Chance Series)

by Bree Wolf

  Shaking his head, Frederick swallowed, and looking at his brother, he knew as clear as day that nothing in this world could ever paint a true picture of the horrors of war. Leopold did not know. For all the intelligence he possessed, he could not comprehend the savagery and gruesome-ness that could be found on a battlefield. Like animals, civilised men tore each other apart, their eyes burning with hatred for an enemy they did not know. An enemy who thought of them the same way. As time passed, that hatred would vanish replaced by numbing stillness until one could not even glimpse remnants of the soul anymore. Even if one survived, one would be dead. A hollow vessel, for the spark of life had been extinguished.

  For good.

  Clearing his throat, Frederick nodded, his eyes focused on his plate. “Indeed, they are.”

  Sensing his brother’s reluctance to speak about his experience, Leopold steered the conversation back to a more neutral topic. “Lord Branston reminded me of the invitation to his annual Midnight Ball. I already reminded him that you will not be attending since you are still in mourning,” he said to his mother, who nodded, her fingers reaching for the small silver bracelet her husband had given her for their first anniversary almost thirty years ago. “However,” he continued, turning to Frederick, “he is very eager for you to make an appearance.”

  The blood froze in Frederick’s veins.

  Leopold laughed. “I suppose as a war hero you would be quite the attraction at any event. The ladies will be all over you.”

  “Leopold!” Maryann chided, slapping him good-naturedly on the arm. However, she was instantly comforted by his charming smile and apologetic words.

  “I told him you would be happy to come,” his brother continued when his wife turned her attention back to the food on her plate. “I hope that was all right? I figured you would enjoy an occasion to reconnect with your friends and acquaintances.”

  Swallowing a rebuke, Frederick nodded, forcing the hint of a smile on his face. “Certainly.”

  His brother’s brows narrowed. “You do not wish to attend?”

  Frederick sighed and met his brother’s eyes. “No, Leopold,” he spoke, his voice harsh with suppressed anger and open frustration. “To tell you the truth, I have no desire to be surrounded by old tattletales, scheming mothers and envious, disgruntled gentlemen, who are merely interested in elevating themselves by association. All they care about is tales of heroic deeds as though such a thing truly existed. They know nothing of war, and what is worse, they don’t want to know. Not the cold, hard truth, at least.”

  Silence hung over the dining room, and Frederick felt a pang of guilt as his family looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

  He took a deep breath. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to spoil everyone’s appetite.” Rising from his chair, he bowed to his mother. “I believe it best I retire early tonight. My travels have worn me out. I trust a good night’s sleep will do me some good.”

  His mother nodded, and yet, her eyes said that she didn’t believe him. “Good night, Frederick. It is wonderful to have you back home.”

  Smiling at her, Frederick turned and left the dining room without looking back. His feet carried him up the stairs and into his room. He closed the door and locked it behind himself. Leaning against the smooth, wooden surface, Frederick closed his eyes.

  He should never have returned.

  Despite the sliver of hope that had carried him through the day, Frederick knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was no way back to his old life. The man he had once been didn’t exist anymore, and the man he had become did not fit into the life he had left behind.

  What was he to do now?

  Dropping down onto the bed, Frederick didn’t bother to undress. However, as he closed his eyes, images resurfaced that he had hoped to have left behind.

  It had been a futile wish.

  An anguished moan escaped his mouth, and he rubbed his hands over his face. The one person who would have understood what it felt like to be thrust back into this life was dead. His remains buried somewhere on the continent. Lost and forgotten.

  No one who had not walked to the edge of the world and almost fallen off would under-stand the despair that lived in his heart, poisoning him a little more each day until one day there would be nothing left of him.

  Then he would be truly dead.

  Frederick hoped that day would come sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Three − The Loss of a Friend

  Trapped in a drawing room with his mother and his sister-in-law as well as a handful of female visitors, Frederick was ready to shoot himself.

  Standing to the side of the armchair Maryann currently occupied, he did his best to blend into the background as the ladies, most of whom had not called on Maryann or his mother in a long time, chatted on eagerly. Again and again, he found adoring eyes sweep over him in a scrutinising manner as though trying to unearth his secrets.

  And yet, worse than the stares were the rather uneducated and insensitive questions they asked.

  “How many enemies did you kill?” I didn’t stop to count.

  “Were you wounded?” It was war. What do you think, my lady?

  A chubby matron elbowed the woman who had asked the question. “My dear Lady Bertram, do you not see the dashing scar on his temple?” She winked at him. “I say it makes you look like a pirate.”

  Frederick took a deep breath.

  “Do you still carry a pistol?” I wish I was.

  “Do the French truly look like evil men?” They are no more evil than you and me.

  All these questions hailed down on him in a matter of minutes that Frederick didn’t even know where to begin, much less how to answer without causing affront. However, to his great relief, he soon realised that an occasional nod or shake of his head sufficed, and the ladies flew into yet another rant about what a marvellous experience war had to have been for him.

  Slipping out of the room after half an hour, Frederick breathed a sigh of relief, his feet directing him toward the stairs and the safety of his room without conscious thought.

  “Brother!”

  Frederick froze, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, willing Leopold to simply walk away.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

  “Would you care to join us?”

  Reluctantly, Frederick turned around and found his brother standing by the foot of the stairs, a group of men crowding around him.

  Not unlike the ladies, the gentlemen eyed him with a mixture of admiration and curiosity; and yet, some faces held a hint of envy etched in their eyes.

  Forcing a somewhat pleasant expression on his face, Frederick joined them in the study for a glass of brandy and a cigar. Talk soon circled around to the war, and Frederick once again did his best to retreat into the shadows, hoping to be overlooked.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

  Although the men’s questions were of a more technical nature, they were no less insensitive. Gritting his teeth, Frederick tried to stay calm as he felt the blood pulsing in his veins. If he could only show these fools that war was neither a game nor a business endeavour!

  Before he could explode, his brother placed a hand on his shoulder, steering the conversation back to the Midnight Ball that was to take place in three days. Especially the younger, unmarried gentlemen were eager to discuss the attending ladies, and soon Frederick was able to escape the room in much the same fashion as before.

  Shaking his head, he wondered how much more of this he could take before losing his mind.

  In the hall, he came upon his mother. As unease seized his heart, he quickly scanned his surroundings for a potential flock of chattering ladies following close on her heel.

  A gentle smile came to his mother’s face. “I am alone,” she said, brushing a hand down his arm. Lately, he had noticed that she sought a physical contact as though needing to reassure herself that he was really there.

  He sighed. “I cannot understand what these people are doing here,”
he moaned, doing his best to keep the desperation he felt out of his voice so as not to alert his mother. “Are there not enough war stories circling around that they have to beg for more?”

  His mother cupped a hand to his cheek, gentle eyes looking into his. “Just humour them. Tell them what they want to hear,” she advised, “and before long, they will leave you alone.”

  Frederick nodded. “I suppose you are right, Mother. However, I do not know how much more of this I can bear.”

  “Why don’t you go for a ride?” his mother suggested. “Get some air and clear your head. You’ll feel better.”

  Again, Frederick nodded, and after thanking his mother, he headed straight for the stables.

  As the wind whipped in his face and he saw the horizon shine in the distance, Frederick felt some of the strain of the last few days fall from his weary muscles.

  The ache in his bones, however, remained.

  ***

  “You have a visitor, Lord Frederick,” Wilton, Elmridge’s butler, announced as they sat down for dinner.

  “Who is it?” Frederick moaned. Would this never end?

  “The Earl of Cullingwood.”

  Almost jumping to his feet, Frederick turned to his mother, who nodded her head, a pleased smile on her face. “Do not worry about us. Go see your friend.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Frederick replied and hurried out of the room. Long strides carried him down the corridor and toward the front drawing room. For a moment, he stopped outside the door and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since they had last seen each other; not since he and Kenneth had gone off to war, and Oliver had remained behind.

  Entering the room, Frederick found his friend staring out the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. Although a hint of melancholy hung about him, he looked like he always had. His auburn hair gave his rather pale complexion a bit of a glow as he stood tall, shoulders squared, and sipped his drink. His pale blue eyes were distant, and frown lines darkened the face that used to shine with laughter more than any other Frederick had ever seen.

  When he closed the door behind himself, Oliver turned from the window, and their eyes met. “It is good to see you, old friend,” Frederick greeted him, unsure whether they could simply continue their friendship as it had been before.

  “It is, indeed,” Oliver agreed, and the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile. “I hope you don’t mind,” he lifted the glass in his hand, “but I helped myself.”

  Involuntarily, Frederick felt the corners of his mouth tug up in reply. “I can’t say I am sur-prised.” Stepping forward, he gestured for his friend to sit and then took a seat himself. “What brings you here?”

  “Do you truly have to ask?” Oliver set down his glass and leaned back, his eyes even more piercing than Frederick remembered. “I thought you would come to see me or, at least, send word.” A hint of disappointment showed on his face. “Or do you still hold a grudge?”

  Frederick frowned. “A grudge? What about?”

  Shaking his head, Oliver smiled. “You truly do not hold it against me, do you?”

  “I have no idea what you speak of.” Leaning forward, Frederick rested his arms on his knees, his eyes searching his friend’s face. “I’d be much obliged if you would explain yourself.”

  “I should have gone with you,” Oliver said without preamble, and Frederick felt a shiver run down his back. “I knew I should have. I knew it even then.” He shook his head. “I never should have listened to my father.”

  Closing his eyes, Frederick drew in a deep breath before once more meeting his friend’s eyes. “Your father’s counsel was wise. We should all have heeded his words. Neither one of us should have gone.” He looked at Oliver imploringly. “He saved your life. Do not hold it against him.”

  “You make him sound more caring than he truly is,” Oliver objected with a snort. “The only reason he was concerned for my life was because I am his only heir.” He rolled his eyes. “And he did not counsel me. He ordered me to stay behind.” Frederick could see the guilt on his friend’s face as clear as day. He, himself, only knew too well how it felt to have regrets that tormented him with every breath he took. “And still, I could have gone. I could have stood up to him, at least once, and made my own way. But I didn’t. If I had, maybe…”

  “What?” Frederick asked. “Kenneth would still be alive?”

  Oliver shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

  “You couldn’t have saved him,” Frederick said as the images of their friend’s death played before his eyes. “I was there, and I couldn’t.” He took a deep breath. “Do not torment yourself for it would be in vain.”

  “Don’t you?” Oliver asked. “I can see it plainly on your face, so do not deny it.”

  Once again feeling the desperate need to escape the room, Frederick gritted his teeth as his hands balled into fists. Every muscle in his body tensed, and a drumming pain settled behind his forehead. “I am not denying anything!” he forced out through clenched teeth. “I am the very reason he…” His words trailed off, and he forced more air down his lungs.

  Oliver nodded. “How did it happen?”

  Frederick closed his eyes. He had feared that this moment would come. A moment that would force him to relive the most horrible seconds of his life. And yet, he could not deny Oliver’s request. He had a right to know what had happened.

  “Do not ask me which battle it was for they all blurred together a long time ago,” he began, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears like that of an old man. “I only remember sweeping hills and a sunrise so beautiful that I thought for sure all this had to be a bad dream. How could the world be so breath-taking when good men lost their lives upon its soil day after day?” As Frederick closed his eyes, he heard his friend draw a strained breath. “When the battle began, we charged ahead. The icy wind whipped our faces as our horses carried us closer to the enemy. We could see their weapons, polished to perfection, gleaming in the early morning sun.”

  Frederick swallowed, and as he met his friend’s eyes, he saw in them the same reluctance to hear what had happened that he felt to recount it. Still, neither one of them had a choice. They owed it to Kenneth. “We spotted the cannons from far away,” he continued, remembering the day like no other, “as we had many times before. But we did not see it coming. Even if we had, I doubt that there would have been anything we could have done.”

  For a long time, Frederick remained silent, trapped in a memory he could not escape, watching his friend’s face twisted in the agony of death.

  “What happened then?” Oliver asked, his voice merely a whisper as though he was afraid to disturb Frederick’s thoughts.

  “They fired,” was all he said, and once again silence hung between them. A silence that stretched into a heavy burden settling onto their shoulders. A burden they would carry with them for the rest of their days.

  “One second, he was right next to me,” Frederick finally continued, “and the next, the can-non ball cut down his horse’s legs. As it slumped to the ground, Kenneth was flung out of the saddle. Only a moment later, he landed on the ground with a sickening crunch.”

  Wringing his hands, Oliver looked paler than he ever had.

  “And that was it,” Frederick said, meeting his friend’s eyes. “He was gone. From one second to the next, Kenneth was gone. He broke his neck upon hitting the ground.” Rising to his feet, Frederick started to pace. “I keep thinking that it shouldn’t have happened like that. Soldiers, who die in a war, are shot or stabbed. It should have been the cannon ball or a sabre or…” Trailing off, he shook his head. “And then I think it does not matter how it happened. Dead is dead.” He turned to look at his friend. “But shouldn’t he have had a hero’s death? He fell off a horse!” Frederick shook his head, feeling an all too familiar madness engulf him. “I still can’t believe it. And I don’t know what to think or how to look at his death. I don’t know anything anymore.” Coming to stand by the window, Frederick stared past t
he neatly trimmed hedges and the orderly gravel path leading up to the front steps. His eyes focused on the horizon where earth met sky, a line that looked the same no matter where he went.

  “It was not your fault,” Oliver spoke from behind him. As they stood side by side, he placed a hand on Frederick’s shoulder. “You could not have saved him. I know that if anyone could have, it would have been you.”

  For a brief moment, Frederick closed his eyes. “I know. Somehow I know that, and yet, there is a part of me that knows nothing of reason, of rational thought or of cause and consequence. It is that part that I feel rising to the surface lately. Everything I thought I knew is just…It’s gone, replaced by a black abyss, and it’s drawing me in.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Oliver admitted, worry clinging to his words. “If I had gone with you, I might not have been able to save Kenneth, but maybe we could have saved each other. Now, you’re alone.”

  Looking at his friend, Frederick nodded. “Thank you for listening to my rambles. I appreciate-ate it.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Do not speak as though you’re standing on the brink of a cliff with no intention of turning back.” Oliver grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a hard shake. “I lost Kenneth, but I will be damned if I lose you, too.”

  Frederick stared into his friend’s eyes, and for the first time, he thought that maybe all hope was not lost.

  Chapter Four − The Midnight Ball

  The stars sparkled in the night sky like diamonds as Ellie and Madeline ascended the stairs to Lord Branston’s residence for his annual Midnight Ball. Even early in September, the late hour brought with it a slight chill in the air, and Ellie drew the delicate shawl closer around her shoulders. Although she had chosen a dress that covered most of her scars, her neck and lower face were naturally still exposed, and so she had insisted on the shawl in order to further cover herself−as far as that was possible.