She never thought he’d be despondent enough to contemplate taking his life.

“Lady Charlotte!”

She ignored Batsfoam’s cry and flung herself into the small room at the back of the house that Dare used as his study.

He sat in the darkened room before the empty grate, a bottle of whiskey at his side, one of his dueling pistols lying across his knee. With a slow, ominous movement, his head turned until he was looking at her. Her breath caught at the dulled look of hopelessness in his dark blue eye. He had given up. Dr. Milton had warned her that men either fought to live, or gave up and just wasted away. Despite all her care and love, Dare had chosen the latter path.

Well, he would have to think again! Charlotte stood before her husband, her hands fisted, anger like none she’d ever known filling her at the sight of the pistol on his lap. She loved him—he couldn’t just give up like that! He loved her, too. Didn’t that mean he would do anything for her?

“If you kill yourself, I will never forgive you,” she yelled. “Never, do you understand? Never! I will make your life a living hell, or just you see if I don’t!”

He blinked at her, then smiled a grim sort of smile that made her hand itch to slap it off his face. But she couldn’t slap him—he’d been grievously injured. A good wife didn’t slap her husband when he’d suffered a most traumatic event like surviving an explosion.

“If I am dead, you can hardly make my life a living hell.”

The crack of her hand meeting his cheek shocked both of them. Batsfoam, standing in the doorway, gasped in surprise before suddenly grinning as he quietly backed out of the room and closed the door. Dare stared at her, disbelief written on his face. Slowly he set the pistol on the table at his elbow and one-handedly pushed himself out of the chair.

Charlotte refused to give ground to him. She stood where she was, pressed against him, her head tilted back to give him a glare to end all glares.

“You slapped me,” Dare growled.

“Yes, I did. And I enjoyed it,” she answered defiantly. It was true—she had enjoyed slapping him, a fact that should have shamed her, but the sad reality was that she was fed up with his self-pity. Dr. Milton had told her that very afternoon that unless Dare stopped pitying himself, he would likely not survive another month. Considering the pistol, she doubted if he would last even that long. “Indeed, I enjoyed it so much, I think I will do it again.”

The second slap brought some color to Dare’s face, but best of all, it also brought a murderous glint to his eye. Charlotte could have danced a jig at the sight of that emotion—until then, only apathy and despair had been present in his lovely eye.

“I have been wounded, madam. Do you take so much pleasure in my pain that you must add to it?” Dare asked between clenched teeth.