The Sum of All Kisses (2 page)

“What?” Hugh said to himself. “No.” He’d aimed to the side. Not far to the side, but he was a good shot, an excellent shot.

“Oh, Christ,” the surgeon muttered, and he took off along the side of the field at a run.

“You shot him,” Dunwoody gasped. “Why’d you do that?”

Hugh had no words. Daniel was hurt, perhaps even mortally, and he’d done it.
He
had done it. No one had forced him. And even now, as Daniel raised his bloody arm—his
literally
bloody arm—

Hugh screamed as he felt his leg tearing into pieces.

Why had he thought he’d hear the shot before he felt it? He knew how it worked. If Sir Isaac Newton was correct, sound traveled at a rate of 979 feet per second. Hugh was standing about twenty yards from Daniel, which meant that the bullet would have had to travel . . .

He thought. And thought.

He couldn’t work out the answer.

“Hugh! Hugh!” came Dunwoody’s frantic voice. “Hugh, are you all right?”

Hugh looked up at Charles Dunwoody’s blurry face. If he was looking up, then he must be on the ground. He blinked, trying to set his world back into focus. Was he still drunk? He’d had a staggering amount of alcohol the night before, both before and after the altercation with Daniel.

No, he wasn’t drunk. At least not very much. He had been shot. Or at least, he thought he’d been shot. It had felt as if he’d taken a bullet, but it didn’t really hurt so much any longer. Still, it would explain why he was lying on the ground.

He swallowed, trying to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe? Hadn’t he been shot in the leg?
If
he’d been shot. He still wasn’t sure that was what had happened.

“Oh, dear God,” came a new voice. Marcus Holroyd, breathing hard. His face was ashen.

“Put pressure on it!” the surgeon barked. “And watch out for that bone.”

Hugh tried to speak.

“A tourniquet,” someone said. “Should we tie a tourniquet?”

“Bring me my bag!” the surgeon yelled.

Hugh tried to speak again.

“Don’t spend your energy,” Marcus said, taking his hand.

“But don’t fall asleep!” Dunwoody added frantically. “Keep your eyes open.”

“The thigh,” Hugh croaked.

“What?”

“Tell the surgeon . . .” Hugh paused, gasping for breath. “The thigh. Bleeding like a pig.”

“What is he talking about?” Marcus asked.

“I— I—” Dunwoody was trying to say something, but it kept catching in his throat.

“What?” Marcus demanded.

Hugh looked over at Dunwoody. He looked ill.

“I believe he’s trying to make a joke,” Dunwoody said.

“God,” Marcus swore harshly, turning back to Hugh with an expression that Hugh found difficult to interpret. “You stupid, contrary . . . A joke. You’re making a joke.”

“Don’t cry,” Hugh said, because it looked like he might.

“Tie it tighter,” someone said, and Hugh felt something yanking on his leg, then squeezing it, hard, and then Marcus was saying, “You’d best stay baaaaaaack . . .”

And that was it.

W
hen Hugh opened his eyes, it was dark. And he was in a bed. Had an entire day passed? Or more? The duel had been at dawn. The sky had still been pink.

“Hugh?”

Freddie? What was Freddie doing here? He couldn’t remember the last time his brother had stepped foot in their father’s house. Hugh wanted to say his name, wanted to tell him how happy he was to see him, but his throat was unbelievably dry.

“Don’t try to talk,” Freddie said. He leaned forward, his familiar blond head coming into the arc of the candlelight. They’d always looked alike, more than most brothers. Freddie was a little shorter, a little slighter, and a little blonder, but they had the same green eyes set in the same angular face. And the same smile.

When they smiled.

“Let me get you some water,” Freddie said. Carefully, he put a spoon to Hugh’s lips, dribbling the liquid into his mouth.

“More,” Hugh croaked. There had been nothing left to swallow. Every drop had just soaked into his parched tongue.

Freddie gave him a few more spoonfuls, then said, “Let’s wait a bit. I don’t want to give you too much at once.”

Hugh nodded. He didn’t know why, but he nodded.

“Does it hurt?”

It did, but Hugh had the strange sensation that it hadn’t hurt quite so much until Freddie asked about it.

“It’s still there, you know,” Freddie said, motioning toward the foot of the bed. “Your leg.”

Of course it was still there. It hurt like bloody hell. Where else would it be?

“Sometimes men feel pain even after they lose a limb,” Freddie said in a nervous rush. “Phantom pain, it’s called. I read about it, I don’t know when. Some time ago.”

Then it was probably true. Freddie’s memory was almost as good as Hugh’s, and his tastes had always run toward the biological sciences. When they were children, Freddie had practically lived outside, digging in the dirt, collecting his specimens. Hugh had tagged along after him a few times, but he’d been bored out of his skull.

Hugh had quickly discovered that one’s interest in beetles did not increase with the number of beetles located. The same went for frogs.

“Father’s downstairs,” Freddie said.

Hugh closed his eyes. It was the closest he could manage to a nod.

“I should get him.” Said without conviction.

“Don’t.”

A minute or so went by, and Freddie said, “Here, have a bit more water. You lost a great deal of blood. It will be why you feel so weak.”

Hugh took a few more spoonfuls. It hurt to swallow.

“Your leg is broken, too. The femur. The doctor set it, but he said the bone was splintered.” Freddie cleared his throat. “You’re going to be stuck here for quite some time, I’m afraid. The femur is the largest bone in the human body. It’s going to take several months to heal.”

Freddie was lying. Hugh could hear it in his voice. Which meant that it was going to take quite a bit longer than a few months to heal. Or maybe it wouldn’t heal at all. Maybe he was crippled.

Wouldn’t that be funny.

“What day is it?” Hugh rasped.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” Freddie answered, correctly interpreting the question.

“Three days,” Hugh echoed. Good Lord.

“I arrived yesterday. Corville notified me.”

Hugh nodded. It figured their butler would be the one to let Freddie know his brother had nearly died. “What about Daniel?” Hugh asked.

“Lord Winstead?” Freddie swallowed. “He’s gone.”

Hugh’s eyes flew open.

“No, no, not dead gone,” Freddie quickly said. “His shoulder was injured, but he’ll be fine. He’s just left England is all. Father tried to have him arrested, but you weren’t dead yet—”

Yet
. Funny.

“—and then, well, I don’t know what Father said to him. He came to see you the day after it happened. I wasn’t here, but Corville told me Winstead tried to apologize. Father wasn’t having . . . well, you know Father.” Freddie swallowed and cleared his throat. “I think Lord Winstead went to France.”

“He should come back,” Hugh said hoarsely. It wasn’t Daniel’s fault. He hadn’t been the one to call for the duel.

“Yes, well, you can take that up with Father,” Freddie said uncomfortably. “He’s been talking about hunting him down.”

“In
France
?”

“I didn’t try to reason with him.”

“No, of course not.” Because who reasoned with a madman?

“They thought you might die,” Freddie explained.

“I see.” And that was the awful part. Hugh did see.

The Marquess of Ramsgate did not get to choose his heir; primogeniture would force him to give Freddie the title, the lands, the fortune, pretty much anything that wasn’t nailed down by entail. But if Lord Ramsgate could have chosen, they all knew he would have chosen Hugh.

Freddie was twenty-seven and had not yet married. Hugh was holding out hope that he might yet do so, but he knew there was no woman in the world who would catch Freddie’s eye. He accepted this about his brother. He didn’t understand it, but he accepted it. He just wished Freddie would understand that he could still get married and do his duty and take all this bloody pressure off Hugh. Surely there were plenty of women who would be thrilled to have their husbands out of their beds once the nursery was sufficiently populated.

Hugh’s father, however, was so disgusted he’d told Freddie not to bother with a bride. The title might have to reside with Freddie for a few years, but as far as Lord Ramsgate was planning, it ought to end up with Hugh or his children.

Not that he ever seemed to hold Hugh in much affection, either.

Lord Ramsgate was not the only nobleman who saw no reason to care for his children equally. Hugh would be better for Ramsgate, and thus Hugh was better, period.

Because they all knew that the marquess loved Ramsgate, Hugh, and Freddie in precisely that order.

And probably Freddie not at all.

“Would you like laudanum?” Freddie asked abruptly. “The doctor said we could give you some if you woke up.”

If
. Even less funny than the
yet
.

Hugh gave a nod and allowed his older brother to help him into something approaching a sitting position. “God, that’s foul,” he said, handing the cup back to Freddie once he’d downed the contents.

Freddie sniffed the dregs. “Alcohol,” he confirmed. “The morphine is dissolved in it.”

“Just what I need,” Hugh muttered. “More alcohol.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hugh just shook his head.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Freddie said in a tone that forced Hugh to notice that he had not sat back down after pouring the laudanum. “I’ll ask Corville to tell Father. I’d rather not, you know, if I don’t have to . . .”

“Of course,” Hugh said. The world was a better place when Freddie avoided their father. The world was a better place when Hugh avoided him as well, but someone had to interact with the old bastard on occasion, and they both knew it had to be he. That Freddie had come here, to their old home in St. James’s, was a testament of his love for Hugh.

“I will see you tomorrow,” Freddie said, pausing at the door.

“You don’t have to,” Hugh told him.

Freddie swallowed, and he looked away. “Perhaps the next day, then.”

Or the next. Hugh wouldn’t blame him if he never came back.

F
reddie must have instructed the butler to wait before notifying their father of the change in Hugh’s condition, because nearly a full day went by before Lord Ramsgate blustered into the room.

“You’re awake,” he barked.

It was remarkable how much that sounded like an accusation.

“You bloody stupid idiot,” Ramsgate hissed. “Nearly getting yourself killed. And for what? For what?”

“I’m delighted to see you, too, Father,” Hugh replied. He was sitting up now, his splinted leg thrust forward like a log. He was quite certain he sounded better than he felt, but with the Marquess of Ramsgate, one must never show weakness.

He’d learned that early on.

His father gave him a disgusted look but otherwise ignored the sarcasm. “You could have died.”

“So I understand.”

“Do you think this is funny?” the marquess snapped.

“As a matter of fact,” Hugh replied, “I do not.”

“You
know
what would have happened if you died.”

Hugh smiled blandly. “I’ve pondered it, to be sure, but does anyone really know what happens after we die?”

God, but it was enjoyable to watch his father’s face bulge and turn red. Just so long as he didn’t start to spit.

“Do you take nothing seriously?” the marquess demanded.

“I take many things seriously, but not this.”

Lord Ramsgate sucked in his breath, his entire body shaking with rage. “We both know your brother will never marry.”

“Oh, is
that
what this is all about?” Hugh did his best imitation of surprise.

“I will not have Ramsgate pass from this family!”

Hugh followed this outburst with a perfectly timed pause, then said, “Oh come now, Cousin Robert isn’t so bad. They even let him back into Oxford. Well, the first time.”

“Is that what this is?” the marquess spat. “You’re trying to kill yourself just to vex me?”

“I would imagine I could vex you with significantly less effort than that. And with a far more pleasant outcome for myself.”

“If you want to be rid of me, you know what you have to do,” Lord Ramsgate said.

“Kill you?”

“You damned—”

“If I’d known it would be so easy, I really would have—”

“Just marry some fool girl and give me an heir!” his father roared.

“All things being equal,” Hugh said with devastating calm, “I’d rather she not be a fool.”

His father shook with fury, and a full minute passed before he was able to speak. “I need to know that Ramsgate will remain in the family.”

“I never said I wouldn’t marry,” Hugh said, although why he felt the need to say even this much he had no idea. “But I’m not going to do so on your schedule. Besides, I’m not your heir.”

“Frederick—”

“Might still marry,” Hugh cut in, each syllable hard and clipped.

But his father just snorted and headed for the door.

“Oh, Father,” Hugh called out before he could leave. “Will you send word to Lord Winstead’s family that he may safely return to Britain?”

“Of course not. He can rot in hell for all I care. Or France.” The marquess gave a grim chuckle. “It’s much the same place, in my opinion.”

“There is no reason why he should not be allowed to return,” Hugh said with more patience than he would have thought himself capable. “As we have both noted, he did not kill me.”

“He shot you.”

“I shot him first.”

“In the
shoulder
.”

Hugh clenched his teeth. Arguing with his father had always been exhausting, and he was far overdue for his laudanum. “It was my fault,” he bit out.

“I don’t care,” the marquess said. “He left on his own two feet. You’re a cripple who may not even be able to sire children now.”

Hugh felt his eyes grow wide with alarm. He had been shot in the leg. The
leg
.