Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman Read Online Free PDF Page A

stood over six feet, and if he tucked her against him while they were standing, he’d have to tilt his chin up to get her as close as possible. Her hair, a burnished copper, more orange than red, was pulled back severely and tucked up neatly beneath her bonnet. She was slender, far too slender for a woman who’d recently given birth. He wondered if she’d had a difficult time of it. Guilt plagued him as he considered the hardships he’d brought upon her. Certainly, they went beyond the shame and mortification of having a child out of wedlock. Why had she not abandoned it somewhere? She could have returned to England with no one the wiser, concerning her indiscretions.
    He ignored the chill in the air and the sharp ache in his leg as they trudged through his younger brother’s gardens. They were bleak now. Not a blossom to be seen, the leaves and stems withered. Still, it was only here, in the quiet and solitude, that he could almost pretend that he was once again normal.
    He looked up at the gray sky. So much seemed without color of late—except for her hair—that he wondered if his vision had been damaged as well. His family and the physician who’d treated him knew of his mental affliction, but otherwise he’d not spoken of it to anyone. Pride forced him to hold his silence on the matter, and to beg of his family to do the same. He’d never begged in his life, but here he was—a man he barely knew. Somehow, he had changed, but he didn’t know what had transpired to change him.
    Sometimes he would have a blink of memory—a bloody arm, an earth-shattering boom, a yell, a scream, the rancid smell of death—but it would flitter away before he could snatch it and hold it close to examine it. Perhaps he was a fool to desperately want to regain such hideous images, but the not knowing, the emptiness of his mind was far worse.
    “Are you cold?” he asked, and she staggered to a stop. Obviously, not the first words she’d expected him to utter. Her dark green cloak was thick and heavy. It was probably doing the job it was intended to do; still the damp could eat through to the bones.
    “It was much colder in the Crimea,” she said. “Although I’ve heard that England had an exceptionally cold winter at the start of this year. I can’t help but wonder if God wanted people to have a taste of what they’d sent their countrymen into.”
    “And their women.”
    She averted her eyes and a blush crept into her hollow cheeks as though she were embarrassed by what certainly must have been good works.
    He considered for the span of a solitary breath telling her of his affliction, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t add insult to the injuries he’d already inflicted upon her, to admit to not knowing who the devil she was or what place she’d held in his life—other than a possible night’s entertainment. But it was more than a desire not to embarrass her or cause her grief. It was his own pride, his own shame. And his paralyzing fear.
    What did it say of a man’s mind when he couldn’t tug at a thread of memory?
    Those who’d served under him lauded his heroic efforts. But he couldn’t recall a single action worthy of praise. A month after returning home to recover from his grievous wounds, he had no memory of how he’d acquired a single scar—except for the tiny one on his cheek, just below his eye. Westcliffe had given him that one when he’d split his skin with his fist after dragging Stephen from the bed he’d been sharing with the wife Westcliffe had acquired only hours before. In truth the encounter had been quite innocent, involving nothing more than holding and comforting her, but Stephen had wanted Westcliffe to believe otherwise. He’d paid for it with a sound beating, but it was nothing compared with what he’d suffered lately. Or so other scars seemed to indicate. They alone knew what he’d endured. Pity they didn’t speak.
    He resumed walking. It was better to keep moving,