Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel by Heather Snow

it was better or worse?”
    “I wasn’t as taken by surprise by it, so in
that
sense, it was better. But really, it was the same. I avoided ballrooms after that,” he said, “even when I was all but ordered to accompany Wellington to various events.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat to hide his clenched fists. “In fact, I didn’t step foot inside a ballroom again until your wedding ball.”
    Penelope turned her face to him. Twin lines formed between her brows as her mind worked. Her eyes cast up and off to the side as if she were searching her memory. “I knew you were uncomfortable,” she said, “but I had no idea it was as bad as all this.”
    It hadn’t been. Not that night. But he couldn’t tell her that it had been
her
who had somehow kept the panic away. It would reveal too much.
    “But,” she went on, her voice laced with confusion, “you attended several balls after our wedding, both in Town and in the country. Did the dread just fade with time?” she asked, her delicate features rearranging themselves into lines of puzzlement as she studied him.
    No. It had been hell. He’d hated every single one of them. But he’d forced himself to attend, knowing that would be the best place for him to find a wife of his own.
    And after a while he’d given up that pretense and admitted to himself that he’d gone only so that he could be with
her
.
    But he could never say anything like that, either. Could never tell her that truth. A hot, raw vulnerability scraped through him. “I can’t do this anymore, Pen,” he rasped.
    “You
can
.” Her voice was forceful and sympathetic at the same time. Her expression shifted to match. “Whenever a topic becomes too difficult, we can just move to another and come back when it isn’t so painful.”
    He shook his head, causing her to rush on. “Let us leave the war behind for a while and talk about your life before you bought your commission,” she suggested. “Perhaps we can find some clues as to why this mania is afflicting you by looking into what you were like before the wars.”
    But he didn’t want to talk anymore. He sped his steps, pulling ahead of her by several feet.
    She followed, of course. He should have known she wouldn’t let him escape her.
    As she came alongside him, she said, “You never answered me earlier, when I asked you to define your bouts of melancholy. Would you say they were severe? Did they last for more than a day or two?”
    He let out a harsh breath. “No. No, I have moments of darkness, but I wouldn’t say they are extreme. Or prolonged.”
    “But did you have them before you went to war?”
    Gabriel thought about her question, wondering where she was leading. He was fast learning that Penelope’s softly spoken queries tended to lead somewhere. “Yes. Some. Not as often as after, though.”
    The crunch of their boots filled the silence between them for several steps. Gabriel glanced up at the sky as they walked without speaking. The clouds had darkened—not quite ominously, but rain was certainly not far off. He might win his reprieve after all.
    He turned his head to Penelope, about to suggest they turn around and head back toward Vickering Place, when she asked, “What about the opposite?”
    He blinked, lost for a moment in the conversation as his mind had been on the impending storm. “What do you mean?”
    “Well, rather than feeling low, have you ever experienced rushes of exhilaration instead? States of excitement where you were so filled with energy that you thought you could do anything? Perhaps even gone without sleep because of it?”
    He huffed. “Why? Is that common with battle fatigue?”
    “No.”
    “Then why have you brought it up?” he asked, hearing the slight bafflement in his voice.
    “No reason,” she demurred.
    But he didn’t believe her. What had she said before she started this line of questioning? That she was looking for clues to explain his mania in his life before