Wilson, Gayle

by Anne's Perfect Husband

  "Anne..." Travener began and then immediately corrected himself with a small, formal half bow in Ian's direction. "Miss Darlington feels that because of her father's actions she is unworthy of the love of an honorable man. And unworthy of a suitable marriage. Those are things to which you and I both agree, I'm sure, that she is perfectly entitled, no matter what Colonel Darlington did. I know of no better way than this duel to convince her that I am quite sincere in my desire to marry her. Despite the scandal surrounding her father."

  "No better way than to challenge a sick old man?"

  "General Mayfield should never have treated Miss Darlington in that despicable fashion."

  "And therefore he should be killed? Because he was embittered to rashness by Darlington's action, which I remind you, cost him his only and much beloved son?"

  "I won't kill him. I promise you that," Travener said. "And I am also a very good shot."

  "Then you must be hoping, I suppose, that Mayfield is not."

  The blue eyes lightened, and the corners of Travener's mouth slanted upward. "I am indeed. I confess I don't relish getting shot. Despite my lack of the kind of commendations you received, however, I am not a coward. And if I can convince Miss Darlington that I am willing to make any sacrifice for her—"

  "A bullet in the heart seems a rather permanent sacrifice to prove the depth of your affections."

  Travener laughed, and despite his exasperation, Ian found his own lips inclined to tilt at the boy's ardently romantic declarations. And it had become very obvious that no matter Travener's age, he was still a boy, much like those who had once served under Ian's command.

  "It won't come to that," Doyle said confidently. "What makes you so sure Mayfield won't recognize he was the one in the wrong and delope?"

  "The fact that I knew his son, I suppose," Ian said. "Hot-headed and hair-triggered. And I should imagine he inherited those qualities from his father."

  "You liked him."

  "Of course."

  Travener nodded. "I won't hurt his father," he promised. "This is all symbolic, as most affairs of honor are these days. You're welcome to join us, if you wish. As a matter of fact, I should be honored if you would accompany me."

  In Ian's experience there was no circumstance in which having a loaded pistol pointed at your heart might be considered symbolic. Of course, he had had far more shots fired at him than this young firebrand, which tended to put things like life and death into their proper perspective.

  He glanced up and found the eyes of Travener's cousin on his face. And then, realizing that Ian had become aware of that scrutiny, the man looked down again on the dueling pistols, nested like lovers in their case. These would be the extra set, of course. Mayfield, as the challenged party, would bring his own.

  "Have you heard from her?" Travener asked.

  And Ian's mind was suddenly, very much against his will, revisiting the sights and sounds and smells of Fenton School. The mental journey had been instantaneous, and its effect was powerful.

  The picture of Anne as he had first seen her, little more than a schoolgirl, was too vivid in his mind's eye. And it was only in comparison to that indelible first impression that he realized how much she had changed during these few short months.

  The difference involved more than the thin veneer of sophistication and confidence Elizabeth's mentoring had given her, although that was a part of it, of course. When he had met Anne, she had been a girl. Now, clearly, she was a woman. A woman who had claimed to be in love with him.

  In the two short days since Anne had left, Ian had discovered that his resolve to refuse that love was not strong enough to allow him to think of her. And not strong enough to dwell on images of Anne caring for the "poor Sally Eddingtons" of the world rather than for his children. The physical distance she had put between them when she had returned to Fenton School was not great enough to allow him that indulgence.

  "I know that she is doing what she wants to do," he said simply. "And I know that she has always been happy there."

  "Happy caring for other people's children?" Travener asked, adeptly probing a wound that was still raw. "That's not what a woman like Miss Darlington was created to do. We both know that, I think."

  Chilblains, porridge, and running noses. Would it be better for Anne to marry Doyle Travener and bear his children? Certainly not better for his peace of mind, Ian admitted, feeling the painful sting of jealousy at the thought.

  I should be bored to tears after our first breakfast together. And considering only the few minutes he had spent with Travener this morning, he realized Anne had been right.

  That surge of jealousy faded into an amusement he wished he could share with her. She would, he believed, have appreciated a recounting of the discoveries he had made about Mr. Travener's character.

  "It's what she wants," Ian said.

  "Forgive me if I disagree," Travener responded. "It's all that she believes she deserves. I intend to disabuse her of that notion."

  "And you believe that this...symbolic duel is the way to do that."

  "We shall see," Travener said, closing with a snap the case that held the dueling pistols. "My invitation is still open, Major Sinclair. If you accompany me, you'll be able to see for yourself that everything is properly done. Perhaps it will put your mind at ease."

  ***

  They arrived at the Elms before Travener's opponent. Despite the season, the predawn darkness was cold enough that the white fog of the horses' breath was visible in the dim light cast by the carriage lamps. There was even a rim of ice glinting around the edges of the murky puddle that lay in the center of the clearing, the trees that had given this place its notorious nickname looming threateningly above it.

  They didn't talk, each wrapped silently in his own thoughts as the slow seconds ticked by. And only when the sound of an approaching carriage disturbed the waiting stillness did any of their party move.

  The physician they had picked up on the way climbed reluctantly out of the relative warmth of Travener's coach and walked over to join them. Ian wondered idly how many duels the man had attended and how many of them had ended with a need for his services.

  Considering Travener's lack of passion about anything other than convincing Anne to marry him, this one seemed likely to turn out exactly as the young ex-soldier predicted. After all, Ian couldn't believe that in the intervening days since the ball the general had not come to regret his public condemnation of Darlington's daughter.

  No gentleman treated a lady in the way Mayfield had treated Anne. And nothing Ian knew about Arthur's father would indicate he was not a gentleman as well as a man of honor. Perhaps, as Travener had hopefully suggested, he would delope and put a quick end to this foolishness.

  When the old man was helped down from his carriage, he seemed as thin and pale as the first faint rays of the sun, which were brimming over the horizon. Using his cane, he moved carefully across the rough ground, glancing up occasionally at the group which had been awaiting his arrival. Mayfield was accompanied by two men who appeared to be around his age, but Ian didn't recognize either.

  As the general drew nearer, his gaze lingered on Ian's face, as if he were trying to place him. They had been introduced once, long ago. However, it would probably be difficult for Mayfield to recognize him since Ian was certain he was the last person the old man would expect to find standing beside Travener. And suddenly he wished he weren't.

  "General Mayfield," Travener said, bowing from the waist.

  The black eyes left Ian's face to consider Travener's. Mayfield didn't bother to return the salutation before his gaze came back to Ian.

  "Sinclair?" he asked, his tone puzzled.

  "Ian Sinclair, General Mayfield."

  "So the whelp was telling the truth," Mayfield said.

  "The truth, sir?"

  "That you have taken in Darlington's brat."

  "Miss Darlington is my ward. Those were the terms of her father's will."

  "And you ag
reed to them?"

  "I didn't feel I had a choice," Ian said truthfully.

  "In all honor." The tone was slightly mocking, as were the black eyes. "Arthur admired you a great deal. I find myself wondering why."

  Apparently Mayfield had not thought better of his accusations. Despite his own very powerful reasons for hating George Darlington, Ian felt his temper rise at the insult. If this was the way Mayfield had behaved at the ball, he had far more sympathy with Travener's subsequent challenge than he had had before.

  "Arthur was a gallant soldier, sir," he said. "And I regret his death more than you can imagine. My ward, however, had nothing to do with it."

  "Another ardent admirer of Miss Darlington, I see. Admittedly my acquaintance with her was brief, but frankly I failed to see the charms, gentlemen, which might inspire such loyalty. However, since we are now assembled..." He turned, his hand sweeping toward the clearing. His eyes came back to Ian's.

  "Surely this can be settled without resorting to that," Ian said.

  "Then Mr. Travener is prepared to apologize?"

  The black eyes left Ian's face to examine Travener's. They were still mocking. Or at least that seemed to be his opponent's impression. The flush was back, staining Travener's high, smoothly boyish cheekbones. "He is not," Travener said.

  The general smiled. "Nor am I, Mr. Travener. That woman's blood still offends me. As does your presence here this morning, Major Sinclair."

  His eyes had quickly tracked back to Ian's face. And there was little Ian could say in his own defense. Especially since he had himself been questioning the wisdom of his presence, which seemed to imply his approval of what was about to happen.

  "Miss Darlington is my ward," Ian said. "She is a woman of unquestionable integrity and great courage. And you have publicly maligned her, sir."

  "Are you planning to challenge me, too, Sinclair?" the old man asked. "Do you believe that, considering my age, it will require two smitten fools to get this job done? If so, I'm flattered."

  Two smitten fools. An apt enough description.

  "I am here simply as an observer, sir," Ian said.

  "At Mr. Travener's invitation. Not at mine. And yet you were Arthur's friend. At least he thought you were."

  "I was Arthur's friend. I don't believe you honor his memory, however, by what you did to Miss Darlington."

  "Arthur's memory is all I have left, Major Sinclair, and that is the fault of your ward's father. Surely you, of all people, don't deny that bastard's guilt in what happened?"

  Ian could not defend Darlington's actions, no matter how he felt about Anne, which was, of course, the greatest irony of Darlington's will.

  "Go home," Mayfield advised softly. "Don't lend your name to this travesty. Your reputation is too fine to be besmirched by this folly."

  The temptation was there. Ian had known from the start that this was exactly what Mayfield had called it. A travesty. And a folly. Two smitten fools.

  Again Anne's face was in his mind. This time the image was from the day he had put his body between hers and the angry mob, pressing her against the wall to protect her. He would have given his life for her without thought.

  Not that the gift of his life, irreparably shortened by her father's actions, would amount to any grand gesture. His unbesmirched reputation, as Mayfield had called it, would be a far more meaningful sacrifice. Perhaps that was the same conclusion that Doyle, in his simplicity, had come to about his own reputation. Whatever Travener's motives, Ian found that he couldn't leave. Travesty or not, he would see this out to the bitter end.

  "I believe my reputation will survive my attempt to protect my ward's. She is undeserving of your disdain, sir. Arthur would have admired her courage and honesty. So do I. She should not be stained with the slander that will haunt her father's name forever. And that in itself should be punishment enough for the likes of Darlington. Please don't let his cowardice claim yet another victim."

  For a moment, the old man's eyes seemed to waver in their conviction. His mouth moved, but before he could respond, Travener, his eyes on the rising sun, interrupted.

  "The sun is up, gentlemen. It's always possible that word of our meeting has gotten out. Perhaps we should begin before the magistrates arrive."

  Mayfield held Ian's eyes for a moment longer before he turned to Travener.

  "The eternal impatience of youth. Are you always so eager to face death, Mr. Travener?"

  "I'm always eager to right a wrong."

  "And that is what you see this to be?"

  "Of course. You insulted Miss Darlington, whom I intend to make my wife. Unless, of course, you are ready to apologize to her. And if that is the case, sir, I must demand that your apology be made in as public a forum as that in which the original insult was rendered."

  Mayfield laughed, the sound of his laughter rusty as if from disuse. "Not bloody likely, boy. Let's get on with it."

  "As you wish, sir."

  Travener bowed again, and then inclined his head to Ian. When he straightened, the blue eyes seemed, surprisingly, touched with amusement. Before Ian had time to interpret whatever was in them, however, Doyle turned away, walking over to where the seconds were examining the pair of pistols the general had provided.

  "Did my son die well?"

  Ian's gaze returned to the old man's face, and in it he saw again the real cost of Darlington's cowardice. His throat thickened, as memories he had buried long ago crowded his brain. Darlington had held back his own force, watching as Ian's men were cut down before his eyes. And so many of them, like Arthur Mayfield, had been not only comrades but friends. As dear as brothers.

  "He died as bravely, sir, as even you could have wished," Ian said softly.

  The black eyes glazed briefly with moisture. And then the old man nodded once before he, too, turned and walked across the clearing toward the group examining the pistols.

  Ian turned toward the rising sun, blinking back an answering and unwanted moisture. Each of their lives had been touched in some way by the long-ago actions of one man. A daughter he had never known. A fellow officer whose life he had shattered to protect his own. An old man whose only son he had sacrificed. And a smitten fool, who would never have the woman he loved. Two smitten fools.

  "...very sensitive, sir. I beg you to be very careful."

  The sound of Travener's voice brought Ian's wandering attention back to the center of the clearing. And he realized that he had been reliving the events of that final battle far longer than he had been aware. The principals were already in position, pistols raised.

  Unconsciously Ian held his breath as he watched the ancient ritual played out. If Mayfield deloped, then Travener would follow suit. In honor, he would have no other option. And Ian had at least made the old man think about what he was doing. He could only hope—

  They turned, and Mayfield fired first. The ball sailed harmlessly to the left of Travener, striking one of the elms with a small explosion of bark. It was not the admission of regret on Mayfield's part that Ian had been hoping for, but it could hardly matter. No harm had been done, and surely Travener—

  Except he wasn't, Ian realized, continuing to watch in growing horror. Instead of deloping, Mr. Travener was lowering his pistol, aiming it very deliberately at his target, which appeared to be the center of Mayfield's chest.

  The old man obviously believed the same thing. He straightened, lowering his now-useless pistol so that it dangled from his fingers. His thin lips were arranged in a sardonic smile and the bristling brows lifted arrogantly above the hooded eyes. And then, frozen by courage and dignity, he simply waited.

  Ian's gaze flew back to Mayfield's opponent. Travener's face was set. The beautiful blue eyes seemed cold as he lowered the pistol until the muzzle was pointed straight at the general's heart.

  For a breathless eternity there was no movement at all in the clearing. Then, by some infinitesimal change in his posture, Ian knew that despite his promise, Travener's finger was about to close
over the trigger.

  "Travener," he shouted, taking a step forward. Toward the two men silhouetted against the rising sun.

  Ian Sinclair's voice had never lost that unmistakable tone of command. And apparently it was one Doyle Travener had never forgotten.

  Responding to it now, the ex-soldier turned, his whole body moving as his shocked gaze swung toward the man who had shouted his name. As he did, the hair-trigger pistol he held discharged, firing prematurely.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Bloody hell," Ian said, involuntarily flinching from the last of the surgeon's seemingly endless probing.

  "Almost," the man said, the fingers of his left hand wrapped like an iron band around Ian's upper arm. In his right were the forceps with which he was attempting to extract Travener's ball. "One would think if one can see the blasted thing..."

  Ian's gasp coincided with the surgeon's exclamation of satisfaction. "There now," he said, obviously relieved. He held the ball, firmly grasped between the metal tongs, up to the light. "Hardly damaged. Lucky you weren't standing any closer."

  Dr. McKinley stepped around the surgeon to place a thick pad over the wound, which was bleeding again. He began to wind a strip of clean linen around the lint to hold it in place.

  "Major Sinclair's luck is well-documented," McKinley said, gesturing with his chin toward Ian's chest as he worked.

  "So I see," the surgeon agreed, his own eyes examining the scars that marred it. "Shrapnel?"

  "And grapeshot."

  "Nasty business. War was once a gentleman's game. Knights on horseback. England and Saint George, and all that. Now..."

  The surgeon's eyes traced once more over Ian's chest. He laid the forceps and ball on the table, and using the tips of his fingers, which were still covered with his patient's blood, he lightly touched the piece of metal that still lay, clearly visible, beneath the skin.