by Gaelen Foley
Exhaling at last, she could not believe how nonchalant the man looked.
Maggie rubbed her hands on her arms, trying to warm up, but when she spotted Bryce coming over to see her, she licked her lips and fixed her face into a guarded smile.
“Lady Birdwell.” Bryce gave Delia a debonair nod, then bowed to Maggie. “My lady.”
“How are you?” Maggie asked softly.
“I’m quite well,” the earl said. “You?”
“Terrified,” she whispered.
He chuckled, though it sounded rather forced, and took her hand. “There, there, pet. It’ll be all right. I know such things can be difficult for ladies to watch—well, some ladies.” He glanced wryly at Delia, who was chatting merrily with her friends; one of the handsome dragoons had joined the banter.
Maggie ignored the lot of them.
“But I’m glad you’re here,” Bryce continued, gazing into her eyes. “It shows how much you care for me.”
She pressed her lips together, guilt pulsing through her. Guilt for the thrill that visiting Amberley had given her. Guilt for going behind Bryce’s back to try to save his blasted life.
Guilt for her motives in pursuing him in the first place.
How starkly she saw in that moment that she did not love this man. Not as one’s future husband deserved.
The unsightly fact of it stood out in her awareness like the scraggly branches of the huge dead tree emerging from the fog at one end of the grove.
“Of course I care.” She cleared her throat. “Y-you got my letter?”
“I did.” He nodded.
“Did you read it?” she asked, noting his lack of reaction.
“Yes, of course. It was most affecting.”
“But not enough to change your mind.”
He looked away with a superior smile. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, Lady Margaret.”
She stepped closer to him. “You really think the duke killed your friend?”
Bryce glanced across the grove, eyeing his enemy. “I think he’s killed many people. He learned it at war.”
“But he wasn’t even in London at the time.”
“Of course he’d keep his distance to avoid looking guilty. He could’ve easily hired someone. Why could he not? With so much at stake. Fortune. Power.”
“But that’s just it! I don’t believe he ever wanted the title. Look at him. It doesn’t look to me as though he even enjoys being a duke.”
“Who wouldn’t enjoy being a duke?” Bryce laughed at her like she was a foolish chit of a girl.
“He should respect you…”
“Why are you defending him, anyway? It’s irksome,” Bryce said.
Maggie tamped down her impatience. “Please, don’t go through with this.”
“Sorry. It’s done.”
“Fine! If you won’t apologize, at least don’t shoot him.”
“But that’s the whole point of this.”
“Fire into the air,” she pleaded. “You can still delope without dishonor.”
“Why should I? You think the authorities will come after me, is that it? You’re worried I might get arrested?”
“I’m worried you might get killed!”
“No. Right is on my side. Such things have been decided by combat since King Arthur’s day.”
“Bryce, he was a legend, just like your theory. This is ludicrous!”
“If you don’t like it, then leave,” he said coldly.
She looked away, stung. If he kept this up, she might be tempted to shoot him herself. “Maybe I should go and fetch the constables, hmm?”
He smirked. “They don’t dare interfere when the fight’s between aristocrats. You know that.”
“Very well, then. What of your soul?”
He laughed. “My soul? You little silly-head. You should know by now I haven’t got one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Surely you don’t want to live the rest of your life with blood on your hands.”
At that, he peered more deeply into her eyes, and she saw that behind his outward bravado, he looked like a frightened boy.
He dropped his gaze, the morning’s breeze rippling through his golden curls. “I must avenge my friend’s death,” he said once more.
“Is this really what Richard would want? For you to kill his kinsman?”
Bryce did not lift his head, but sent her a guarded look. She was encouraged to think that perhaps he was finally listening to her.
Then he took her hands, and she noticed that his palms were clammy; his hands were shaking.
Instantly, Maggie felt a rush of compassion for the haughty fool, though she hid her surprise.
She knew then why Amberley had referred to him so many times in their chat as a lad. He must have seen through Bryce’s façade in a glance.
Jarring as this insight was, it doubled her resolve to stop the duel from happening.
“Listen,” she soothed, knowing this was her last chance to avert disaster. “Surely His Grace wants to know as badly as you do what really happened to his cousin. Instead of trying to kill each other, why don’t you work together with him to try to get to the bottom of this? If you truly suspect foul play—”
“I do, and that man has the strongest motive for killing him! Besides, he’s Irish, and everybody knows they’re just a race of barbarians. Now stop trying to talk me out of it!”
Maggie fell silent, offended enough by his tone and his bigotry to wash her hands of him altogether.
Bryce’s glare faded as he saw by her cool demeanor that she had just quit the conversation. He glanced around at the audience that had gathered to watch the duel, then looked at her again.
“Almost time. How about a kiss for good luck?” he said.
She gave him a withering stare. Are you jesting? After how you just spoke to me? “I think not,” she answered, but he laughed, leaned down anyway, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
Amberley must have been discreetly observing the two of them together the whole time, for when Bryce kissed her, the duke looked over sharply.
His glance reminded her that he was the one in real danger here, having already promised not to pull the trigger.
Bryce, for his part, had made no such pledge.
Then came the dreaded announcement.
A portly viscount whose name escaped her seemed to be in charge of the event, a neutral party.
“Gentlemen,” he called from the center of the grove, “if I may have your attention, it is time to begin!”
Bryce looked grimly at her, unaware he was quite safe, thanks to her covert maneuverings. “Farewell, my lady.”
Maggie couldn’t answer. Her voice had fled, having failed her in her effort to stop this madness. She just shook her head at him.
Bryce’s eyes hardened with the task ahead; he pivoted and marched back to his side of the battlefield.
Meanwhile, Amberley slapped his eye-patch friend on the back encouragingly; the one-eyed Mr. Godwin trudged out to the grove to shake hands with Bryce’s second.
Maggie’s heart took up an ominous drumbeat inside her ribs.
Amberley checked his pistol while Private Duffy stood by. Maggie noticed that the warrior duke held the gun naturally, with such familiar ease that it almost seemed an extension of his hand.
“Birdy, wake up,” Delia ordered her husband through the carriage window. “They’re about to begin!”
“All such stupidity,” Edward grumbled from inside the coach.
A ripple of excitement traveled around the ring of carriages. Wagers were being laid. The few ladies present fetched scarves, fans, and bonnets to hide their eyes with, in case watching the thing proved too ghastly.
The noisy dragoons were still boasting about their own victories as Edward tumbled sleepily out of the coach and yawned.
Maggie clasped her hands together and prayed hard.
Her pulse pounded as both contenders swaggered out to the center of the grove and received their instruc
tions.
“Gentlemen: twenty paces, turn, and fire. Any questions?”
They had none.
“Godspeed to you both.”
Maggie winced and bit her lip, hugging her pelisse more tightly around her.
The next thing she knew, Bryce and the Irishman stood back to back.
Their seconds retreated from the field of battle, and Maggie noted that Amberley stood half a head taller than Bryce.
In every way, he was the more formidable man. Surely, Bryce had to see that.
What could have compelled her suitor to challenge such a dangerous foe? She still could not comprehend why Richard’s death should have affected him so deeply.
For some reason, it never crossed her mind to wonder whether Amberley would keep his word not to kill Bryce.
His honor she trusted. After all, he could’ve done much worse to her in that candlelit sitting room than demand a peek at her ankles.
She just hoped that her secret pact with Amberley to spare Bryce did not encourage the peacock to think he had won and that he should do this more often…
Then the portly viscount retreated, calling for quiet.
The spectators fell silent—even Delia, holding her breath.
The dragoons went motionless, leaning forward as a group, as though poised for battle themselves, one of their cavalry charges. Edward shook his head in regret at the foolishness of it all.
Maggie turned to him in distress.
Her kindhearted brother-in-law saw the panic in her eyes and offered his hand. She took it, and he squeezed.
“You don’t have to watch, Mags,” he reminded her softly.
Indeed, she couldn’t, when the crucial moment came.
One hand clasping her brother-in-law’s, instinctively, she turned away, shielding her eyes as the viscount numbered their paces aloud: “Seventeen, eighteen…”
As the duelists neared their ends of the grove, Maggie felt ill.
Stomach churning, she squeezed her eyes shut. Held her breath. God, don’t let him die.
Shots exploded in the grove, a twin crack-crack.
She heard a curse, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder smoke invading her nostrils. Exclamations ran around the clearing.
She was afraid to look, but when she drummed up the courage to peek through her fingers, the field was a scramble of activity.
Both contenders were concealed by their helpers. The audience was murmuring.
“What happened?” Maggie asked Edward and Delia in alarm.
Edward was squinting at the two clouds of drifting gun smoke. “I’m not sure…”
But Delia was shaking her head in amazement. “Did you see that?” she cried.
“No!” said Maggie.
Delia pointed. “The duke just shot Bryce’s lucky hat clean off his head!”
“What? He shot Bryce in the head?” Maggie shouted.
“No, he shot Bryce’s lucky hat,” Delia said in amazement. “What a shot!”
Her sister started laughing, clapping for the duke. “Bravo, Your Grace!”
Even the dragoons applauded, looking impressed by the shot.
Maggie was trembling from head to toe as Bryce swept his black beaver hat up off the dew-covered ground, held it up, and peered through the hole in the crown. The brilliance of sunrise shone right through it.
“Oh no,” Delia said suddenly, standing on her toes to see through the hubbub. “I think Amberley’s hurt. He’s bleeding.”
CHAPTER 7
The Dragoon
No. Maggie took a step forward and drew in her breath.
The duke was on his feet, but holding his side. Blood flowed through his fingers, and in the rosy light of the rising sun, she saw the snarl of perfect fury on his face.
He might’ve been making sardonic jokes about all this earlier, but now he looked tempted to give Bryce the thrashing of his life.
Amberley ripped off his jacket and stalked toward his carriage, where his eye-patch friend had taken out a physician’s bag with cool, calm efficiency.
Throwing his coat on the ground in disgust, the duke shrugged out of his waistcoat, stepped somewhat behind the open door of his carriage, and lifted his bloodied white shirt off over his head.
A collective gasp went up from around the grove, especially from the ladies.
Maggie’s eyes widened with shock at the sight of his towering, herculean physique. In all her twenty-two years, she had never glimpsed so much of the male form before, but for his part, the warrior duke did not seem inclined to give one damn who saw him shirtless.
Not that he had anything to be ashamed of.
On the contrary, Maggie thought with a gulp. His shoulders were massive, his chest thick with smooth, sculpted muscles; his arms bulged; and when he turned away, his back was a glorious expanse of rippling strength, his lean waist chiseled as though by a sculptor’s tools.
Unfortunately, across the right side of his waist, the bullet had torn through his flesh. He twisted about to peer down at the wound, then muttered a curse, and lifted his arm out of the way so Mr. Godwin could assess the damage.
Time seemed to slow as Maggie stared at the scarlet liquid running down Amberley’s side.
His very lifeblood.
Some girls might have fainted at the disturbing sight. But for the well-behaved Lady Maggie Winthrop, it was as though something inside of her snapped.
A lifetime, perhaps, of always trying her best to follow the rules.
This man had been shot for her sake.
If not for her plea, Bryce would be dead, true—but he was the one who’d picked the fight. She had never meant for Amberley to be wounded as the price for his restraint.
The next thing she knew, she was in motion, launching herself across the grove without warning, without explanation, without looking back.
She lost all thought of anyone else there and went running to Amberley, her pulse slamming.
All that mattered in that moment was finding out how serious his injury was. If he would die.
She couldn’t bear it.
Near him and his companions, she skidded to a halt on the wet grass in her dancing slippers.
Mr. Godwin was already giving him bandages to press to his side, while young Will offered the duke a flask. Amberley swigged from it as Maggie barreled into their midst, breathless with terror.
“Is it serious?” she blurted out.
They all looked at her in surprise, having barely noticed her arrival.
She saw at once that the blue of Amberley’s eyes had darkened to that of stormy seas, while the red blood flowed down his side.
“Now you really owe me,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’m so sorry!” she cried, gaping at the blood.
“Never fear, milady. ’Tis but a flesh wound,” Mr. Godwin reported. “Don’t worry, he’ll live.” The one-eyed surgeon clapped his large friend solidly on the arm. “He’s had plenty worse, this one.”
“True,” Amberley agreed.
Maggie pressed her hand to her chest, where she could feel her heart pounding. “Oh thank God. You gave me such a fright.”
“I’m touched by your concern,” the duke drawled.
“Lady Margaret!” Bryce called indignantly from across the grove. “Get away from there this instant!”
“Mags!” Delia brayed a loud laugh. “What on earth are you doing?”
Maggie glanced back at her sister, and then, scanning around the grove, discovered the whole audience staring at her in surprise.
Her cheeks flooded with belated embarrassment at her own utter breach of protocol.
“S-sorry,” she said faintly to no one in particular, “I-I don’t know what came over me.”
“Go back to your carriage, if you please!” Lord Bryce said. He stepped away from his companions as though he meant to march over and drag her back physically to her family.
Amberley went very still, narrowing his eyes at Bryce.
Maggie noticed the ch
ange in his demeanor; Bryce must have, too, for he said nothing more and stayed on his side of the grove.
She turned back to the duke in misery. “I’m so sorry he shot you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I did try to talk him out of this madness, but he simply wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s not your fault, m’lady.” He gave her a rueful smile as he pulled a blood-soaked bandage away from his wound and quickly applied a fresh one.
She grimaced at the sight.
“Run along now, before you start a scandal. You can’t be of any help to me if you’re disgraced.”
She stiffened instantly at his pointed reminder of why he had shown mercy.
It was not from the goodness of his heart; he wanted something from her. Exactly what that might be, she had yet to discover.
“Don’t worry, miss,” said Private Duffy, “we’ll take good care of him. We’re used to this one bleedin’ all over the place.”
She winced at the realization that, indeed, they probably were.
“Go,” Amberley murmured softly. “I’ll call on you soon.”
Maggie eyed him in distrust, but accidentally flicked one last wayward gaze over his magnificent body, unable to stop herself.
He grinned, noticing her stray glance. His chin came up a notch. “Just say the word, darlin’.”
She sucked in her breath with embarrassment, shot the rogue a self-conscious scowl, then hurried back to her sister.
“What was all that about?” Delia asked in amusement.
“I…I don’t know. I just…”
Edward came to her rescue. “The sight of blood can be very disturbing for young ladies, obviously.”
So can the sight of a half-naked demigod. Maggie refused to let her gaze wander in that Irish scoundrel’s direction again.
“Are you all right, Mags?” Edward asked, laying a hand on her shoulder, searching her face.
She nodded. “Thanks. I’m not sure what came over me. I-I thought I could help.”
Delia chuckled. “At least you didn’t faint. I’d have lost all respect for you.”
You respect me? Maggie thought. Since when? Then she shook her head. “I hope I haven’t caused a scandal.”
“What, you? The girl who never does anything wrong? Mama’s perfect little angel? Don’t be ridiculous,” Delia said in a breezy tone, but Edward frowned at his wife’s snide comment.