With a jerking shudder, Damon suddenly became aware of his surroundings. His valet was bent over him in the dim glow of candlelight, gently shaking his shoulders while he fought off the miasma of his bad dreams. Through his drugged senses, Damon could feel his heart pounding, while a sheen of sweat slicked his body.
“You were shouting, my lord,” Cornby said quietly. “It appears you suffered the nightmare again.”
Yes, of course. That was his trouble.
Sitting up slowly, Damon ran a hand roughly down his face. “Did I wake the entire household?”
“No, my lord. I had not yet retired, so I came here directly when I heard you.”
“You should know better than to wait up for me, Cornby.”
“It is no matter, sir.”
Damon was in no mood to continue their ongoing argument about the valet's outsized sense of duty and protectiveness. “Thank you, then. You may go.”
When the valet hesitated, Damon insisted gruffly, “I am all right, truly.”
He was not all right, however, he reflected when his elderly servant had left him in peace, for he couldn't shake the savage tumult of his emotions.
He hadn't had the nightmare about his brother's death for a long while, although it had haunted him for years afterward.
Joshua lying there on his deathbed, struggling for breath, the scattering of bloodstained handkerchiefs a macabre contrast to his ghostly pallor.
Joshua coughing harshly and grimacing in agony, then smiling with cracked lips, trying to offer reassurance to his family as they kept vigil during his last hours.
Their parents sat beside his bed, striving to keep up a brave front. Damon stood back, however, fighting tears of grief and rage.
Then Joshua slipped back into a drugged slumber, never to awaken. When finally his breath ceased and his ravaged body grew still, Damon's sobs had matched their mother's.
He felt as if he too had died that day, although his pain didn't dissipate readily, nor did his deep streak of anger. In the ensuing years, he had taunted death often, rebelling against fate, railing against life's injustice and the guilt assaulting him.
Why had he survived? Why had he not been the one stricken? Why had he inherited the title and fortune when he was no more deserving than his twin?
It wasn't even certain how Joshua had contracted consumption, except that he'd shown an amorous interest in a barmaid at a local tavern, who later was discovered to have the pernicious disease. But Joshua was the firstborn, the eldest by an hour. He should have been the one to live a full, joyful life.
Damon had never found the answers to his un answerable questions. He'd merely learned to crush his emotions while relegating his memories of his brother's demise to his nightmares.
It was many years, however, before he'd begun channeling his anger toward a more productive course, using science and the latest innovations in medical thinking to make a difference in the lives of those stricken with consumption.
Eleanor was right, Damon acknowledged. He couldn't save his brother, but he'd come to hope that he could save others.
Yet even years later, it was little consolation for being the twin who had survived.
Lady Beldon was highly disappointed to learn that Signor Vecchi had left the ball early with Prince Laz-zara and without even taking leave of her. She was also quite concerned that the prince had become ill, since it would hamper his courtship of her niece.
“Did they mention the alfresco picnic tomorrow at the Royal Gardens?” Beatrix asked Eleanor as they stood waiting for their carriage to reach the head of the long queue of equipages in front of the Haviland mansion.
“The prince may not be feeling well enough to attend a picnic, Aunt,” Eleanor replied, deciding not to share the particular details about what had ailed him tonight. The probability that someone was threatening his health if not his life would only upset her aunt to no purpose.
“Of all the ill luck,” the elder lady complained. “I believe our servants should arrange the picnic tomorrow. We can be certain to provide dishes that will tempt his highness's appetite, which he will appreciate if he still suffers from a sickly stomach. I shall write to Signor Vecchi first thing in the morning to propose my change in plan.”
“You are very generous, Aunt,” Eleanor murmured, thinking that it might indeed be wise to supply tomorrow's repast from their own kitchens. That way they could ensure the dishes and wine would be untainted.
&nbs
p; Beatrix smiled. “Generosity has little to do with my motives, my dear. I am determined we should take every opportunity to encourage Prince Lazzara's attentions. He would make such a splendid match for you.”
Eleanor refrained from replying, not certain that she agreed with her aunt's view any longer. In fact, she was seriously beginning to doubt that the prince would make her a good match at all.