by Gaelen Foley
A blank stare was her answer—at first.
Connor bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing as this gave way to a shocked look of missish indignation. The hot female interest of a moment ago was tucked away, snapped closed, and folded out of sight, like a lady’s fan.
“Well, of course I have ankles,” she said, “but what has that got to do with anythi—”
“Good! Let’s see ’em.” Connor dropped back down into his armchair and waited for the show.
She stared at him, slack-jawed.
“You cannot be serious!” she spluttered at length.
He shrugged, hiding his mirth. “We all have our weaknesses, love. It’s not my fault that yours is Lord Mincemeat. Well?” He rubbed his hands together. “Show us what you’ve got. Then perhaps we can reach an agreement.”
She gaped at him with dubious incredulity; his demand finally seemed to sink in.
“You want to see my ankles,” she repeated slowly.
“I do,” he declared, then drummed his fingers eagerly on the chair arms.
Is she actually going to do this?
For, really, it was perfect. It was just enough.
It would do her no serious harm, but she’d know she’d gone over the line of propriety beyond just her visit to his house.
Then she’d have to do as he asked, or risk him spreading the word about this bit of naughtiness. Not that he’d ever actually carry out the threat. He was no extortionist.
Ah, but lovely Lady Margaret didn’t know that.
She stood there, searching his face, as though trying to tell if he was jesting.
“Well?” Connor prompted.
“No.”
“Oh, come. Be a patriot.” He grinned. “My reward for winning the war?”
“Humph,” she said. “Single-handedly, I suppose?”
“Aye.” His smile widened as he lounged in the chair. “One arm tied behind my back.”
She scoffed at that, and though her gray eyes narrowed as she attempted a withering glare, her lips pressed together like she was fighting a giggle. She cleared her throat, then tilted her head skeptically. “Still. While your victory against the French is very much appreciated, I can think of no good reason why you should need to see my ankles regarding the matter of the duel, Your Grace.”
“Well, to be quite honest, I’d like to see much more of you than that, Lady Margaret, especially in the off chance I should die in this blasted thing. But I’ll settle for the ankles, I suppose. After all, I am not entirely depraved.”
“Oh, aren’t you?”
Connor laughed. He liked her spirit. “Time’s wasting, my lovely. Come on, girl. Live dangerously, eh? I’ll look, I won’t touch, promise.”
She pursed her rosy lips as she debated with herself, setting one hand on her hip. “So if I…show you my ankles,” she said archly, “then that means that you’ll spare Lord Bryce?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “As I said, it depends.”
“On what?”
“I haven’t got all night, love. If you want me to consider your request, then you’d better start tryin’ to persuade me.”
A knock on the door interrupted just then. Connor heard her suck in her breath with relief. But if she thought she was saved, she was wrong.
It was only Will.
“Major?” called the lad, his voice muffled through the door. “Your challenger’s second just arrived. Nestor took him up to the drawing room to make the arrangements.”
“Thank you, William. Dismissed!” Connor added meaningfully.
This was no time for interruptions from those two.
Clearly, Lady Margaret felt differently. She shook her head and lifted her fingertips to her lips. “Oh God,” she whispered.
She looked shaken to contemplate the fact that one of her suitor’s mates was now under the same roof with her and could feasibly spot her here, where she ought not to be.
Her predicament doubled Connor’s amusement about all this.
Then she looked into his eyes, and once more, her anguish preyed upon his chivalry, damn her.
“Must you duel with him?” she asked.
Connor bristled at her plea. “It wasn’t my doing,” he grumbled, even as he acknowledged inwardly that this girl could get to him. Better not let her figure that out. “Your little friend shot his mouth off to the wrong man this time, and now he’ll have to pay for it. Unless…?”
He flicked a meaningful glance back down toward her lower extremities.
“Oh, very well!” she snapped, her cheeks like strawberries. Slipping her reticule’s loop over her wrist, she grasped her pale, frothy skirts with both hands and yanked them up to show her shapely shins.
A triumphant grin spread across Connor’s face. It was a very nice view indeed, and the lass still had not caught on that it was all a trap.
Now that she’d done this shocking thing, he had what he needed on her. Something he could hold over her head to ensure her cooperation.
It seemed he’d just secured himself a helper. And also learned in the process that she could be pushed.
The hem of her gown dangled about her pretty knees, and in spite of himself, Connor ogled her legs. Damn…
White silk stockings hugged her slim, shapely calves, and sure enough, she did possess a pair of finely turned ankles.
Encasing her feet were dainty green dancing slippers with white ribbon lacings that twined round her shins. His mouth watered at an unbidden thought of unlacing those ribbons, peeling those silk stockings down, and feeling her legs wrap around him…
Just as a ticklish flutter tautened his belly and a warm surge of lust stirred in his loins, the curtain dropped on his private show. Her skirts swished back down to the ground again.
“Happy now?” she said.
No. Not at all. Now he was merely frustrated.
Yet strangely proud of her. The girl had a certain toughness to rise to his challenge.
She’d need it, to help him in his goal.
“Bravo, my dear.” Connor smiled in approval and drew a deep breath to will down the throbbing in his trousers. “Trust me, you have nothing to be embarrassed of there.”
She huffed with exasperation and looked away, beet-red.
He let out a low, congratulatory whistle. “No, I mean it,” he insisted as he stood up again, drifting toward her. “Those are some of the finest ankles I’ve ever beheld, and trust me, I’ve seen quite a few.”
“I’ll bet,” she muttered.
“Makes me wonder about your thighs,” he added in a purr, unable to resist.
She gasped with shock, then suddenly whomped him on the shoulder with her reticule, and Connor exploded with laughter.
“I’m jesting, lass!” he exclaimed, fending her off.
“Ruffian!” she cried as she beat him.
“Calm down! It’s a lark! I’m not goin’ to hurt you!”
“What? A lark, did you say? Jesting?”
He nodded.
Outrage filled her face, and she whacked him again. “You think that makes it better? You cad! A man’s life is at stake! Is this all just a joke to you?”
“Aye, more or less,” he lied, laughing. It was never a joke when killing was involved, but that was not the sort of thing one said to a lady.
She harrumphed with disapproval, and swung her wee tasseled handbag at him again. But this time he grabbed it—and used the strap to tug her gently closer.
“Enough, you,” he chided in a husky tone, smiling. It mystified him, how easily she came into his arms, no longer fighting him.
Instead, she allowed it when he pulled her playfully off balance so she crashed against his chest; at once, he hooked an arm behind the small of her back, capturing her.
She didn’t seem at all to mind, laughing along with him reluctantly, shaking her head. “You’re mad.”
“I’m fun,” he corrected.
“I think you’re dangerous.”
“Yes. But not to you, L
ady Margaret. Never to you.”
Holding her lightly like that, catching the floral hint of her perfume, feeling the warmth of her flesh, the soft swells of her breasts against his chest, the pounding of her heart against his body, it was all he could do not to kiss her.
But that might prove far more dangerous than even the major dared contemplate.
She intoxicated him more than any fine whiskey.
“Very well, lass,” he conceded in a husky murmur, his face mere inches from hers. “You’ve earned it. I’ll spare your suitor. But remember—now you’ll owe me.”
“Owe you how?” she asked softly.
Her whisper beguiled him.
Yet when he saw the relief on her face to hear that she’d just secured the life of her suitor, Connor experienced a baffling twinge of jealousy.
His glance dipped to her lips. Somehow he fought the temptation to drive any thought of that other fellow right out of her head with his kisses. “Could use your help,” he said.
“What sort of help?”
“I’ll explain later. Nothing too scary, I promise.”
She frowned.
“Don’t worry. I won’t ruin your life.”
“I think you could,” she said very softly, and somewhere inside him, a cold, stony chip of his battle-hardened heart melted at her aching vulnerability.
“Tell me something,” he murmured.
“Yes?” Her hand rested on his chest, delicate as a bird.
How dainty she was in his arms, almost fragile. The top of her head barely came up to his collarbones. For some reason, she filled him with wonder.
“Why come to me instead of your suitor?” he asked. “Why not just go to Lord Bryce and prevail on him to bow out of this duel?”
She lowered her lashes. “He’d never listen to me.”
Connor furrowed his brow. “Well, that isn’t right,” he said. He lifted her gaze by tipping her chin upward with one finger. “A man ought to listen to his lady in matters of such consequence. He should respect you.”
“Like you have?” she challenged him ever so softly. Then she pulled away, sliding free of his hold.
Connor winced, dropping his gaze. Based on what he’d just done, he supposed he had no room to argue that. Touché, my dear.
“I must go,” she informed him. “My sister will be wondering where I am. So, do we have an agreement, Your Grace?”
Connor nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, then slipped past him, flitting off across the parlor at her tiptoeing walk. Instead of leaving straightaway, though, she turned back at the door, hesitating as she studied him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Do be careful tomorrow.”
He snorted. “If that blackguard kills me for your sake, I’ll come back and haunt you, I swear.”
She smiled at his jest, though her eyes filled with worry.
He waved her off. “Go. Before I change my damned fool mind.”
She nodded, then opened the door a crack and peeked out, obviously determined not to be seen by Lord Bryce’s second. No doubt it would be difficult to explain why she was here, in the enemy camp.
Connor heard Will greet her from the entrance hall.
Once she saw the way was clear, she cast an uncertain last glance back at Connor, then went whisking away.
Will showed her out, as the click of the front door promptly confirmed.
Connor stood there alone for another long moment, smiling wryly at the floor. I know I will regret this.
Then he let out a sigh and sauntered out of the sitting room, the image of lovely legs in white silk stockings still dancing before his eyes.
Thrusting the legs and the rest of Lady Margaret Winthrop out of his mind, he went to learn the time and place of his duel.
CHAPTER 6
Pistols at Dawn
In the gray half-light before sunrise, the dewy air of Hyde Park throbbed with the cacophony of countless birds hunting for their breakfasts. Their squawking and screeching, endless caws, and shrill tweets set Maggie’s nerves on edge.
She wished every feathered one of them would be quiet so she could hear herself think. Her heart was in her throat, and she still couldn’t believe any of this was happening.
Her efforts to stop the duel had failed.
A ring of fine carriages surrounded a remote grove, far removed from the well-traveled Ring, the Serpentine, and the border of Kew Gardens. Fashionable folk of all sorts had come to watch the duel, some two or three dozen in all.
There was not just Bryce and his friends, Amberley and his two peculiar companions, but coaches full of ton folk come to watch the grim spectacle, including a noisy, probably still-drunk group of dragoons in their showy uniforms, and, of course, Delia, Edward, and Maggie.
A bizarre sort of festival atmosphere hung over the grove, but for her part, Maggie felt freezing-cold with fear.
She pulled the pelisse she’d donned more tightly around her body. It was five thirty in the morning, and she was still dressed in her ball gown.
Delia chattered on beside her, eager to watch the pageantry unfold, as though this were a horse race at Ascot or some silly acrobatic show at Vauxhall—like that indecent, near-naked woman who walked across a tightrope as high as the roof there, with crowds waiting to see if she’d fall to her death.
Maggie felt a little like that woman right now after her secret visit to the duke’s.
She frankly couldn’t believe she was here now. But she had to know the outcome. She had not thought Delia would agree to come, but she should’ve known better. Her sister adored being close to the action.
As an eyewitness to the scandalous event, Lady Birdwell would relish describing every morbid detail to her followers in the days ahead. It was as good an excuse as any to make herself the center of attention.
Indeed, Delia’s only regret seemed to be that it was Maggie who was more directly involved in the drama than herself, as the lady being courted by one of the duelists.
But reflected glory would have to do.
Meanwhile, Delia’s husband and Maggie’s brother-in-law, the plump, unflappable Edward, Marquess of Birdwell, had insisted on escorting the ladies to the duel, thank God, though he found the whole thing reckless and distasteful.
He did tend to be the voice of reason in their family.
Maggie and Delia had climbed out of the coach to watch the proceedings, but Edward had lain down in his carriage to doze.
“Wake me up if anybody dies,” he had said.
Maggie didn’t know how she would bear it if anybody did.
She had poured out her pleading in a letter to Bryce and sent it off with a footman in the middle of the night, just to try. Amberley’s question, after all, had got her thinking.
It remained to be seen if her efforts would do any good. But at least she’d attempted to get through to him.
So far, the results were not encouraging. The duel had obviously not been called off yet, though it still might. No doubt that would disappoint the gawkers, but at least then both men would be safe.
She looked anxiously from the carriage of one to the other.
Bryce was pacing about, tapping his lucky beaver hat against his leg. It seemed he meant to wear it in the duel.
She knew he never played cards without it. He laughed when he said so, but he swore that hat was responsible for winning him hundreds of pounds at the card tables.
She watched him pacing back and forth, putting on a brave face for his companions, but surely, he must be frightened, she thought.
Her gaze then traveled to the opposite end of the grassy meadow, where Amberley stood perfectly still, feet planted wide, his hands propped on his hips, like a statue of Mars garbed in Bond Street clothing.
The two fellows from his house were there, moving around nervously. They seemed more on edge about this contest than the duke himself.
For a long moment, Maggie stared at him.
Of course, she was scared of
anyone learning of her visit to Amberley House. But as for the man himself, she still did not know how to feel about him.
Having met him in person, spoken with him, having won the concession from him that she’d sought—though, Lord knew, it had cost her a moment’s immodesty—only increased her distress over all of this.
Bad as he was, the man had his charm, to be sure. She could not forget the soft pressure of his warm, muscular arms encircling her, the blue glow in his eyes as he’d held her lightly, the coaxing lilt of his deep, velvety voice.
When she had invaded his residence, her only concern had been saving Bryce. Now she realized she had asked Amberley to stand there across from his foe like some inert human target, declining to defend himself.
How could she do such a thing? How could the man have agreed, for heaven’s sake? For naught but a look at her ankles?
Surely he must have some trick up his sleeve. She hoped so. Because if anything happened to him, Maggie was not sure she could forgive herself.
She repented of her selfishness, and the fear that had blocked her from seeing it sooner. As the moment drew near, she begged divine intervention.
Maybe the angels could step in somehow and steer Bryce’s bullet wide of its target. Please, God, let there be no bloodshed today.
What still puzzled her, though, was the duke’s cheeky humor before the dawn’s battle. Show him her ankles indeed. She shook her head, baffled at what sort of courage it must take to be cracking jokes in the face of death.
She supposed he was used to it, and that, she found sad.
All that merriment must be simply a soldier’s defiant graveyard humor, but one thing she knew: there was no way that man was a murderer, as Bryce had accused him.
What he might still expect of her, though, was cause for some worry. He’d made it plain that if he spared Bryce for her sake, Maggie would owe him.
She trembled to contemplate what that might mean.
As though he felt her watching him, just like in the ballroom, Amberley looked across the grove and captured her gaze. She went motionless; the rest of the park disappeared for a heartbeat.
He offered her a discreet nod of greeting, then turned away to chat with his skinny young friend.