by Lauren Smith
“Wait, Banks? I’ve heard of you!” the first man said. “You’re quite the fortune maker, I hear.”
Martin knew Stamford’s companion was doing his best to ease the obvious tension, but Martin didn’t care.
“Littleton Field. Tomorrow at dawn.”
“Agreed. Tomorrow.” Stamford jerked his head in a nod. He and his companion beat a hasty retreat into the gambling rooms.
Martin stormed in the reading rooms and threw himself into the nearest chair. He sat there, stewing over the encounter with Stamford for some time before someone handed him a glass of brandy.
“You look as though you may need this, old boy.” Rodney Bennett chuckled as he took a chair beside Martin.
“I suppose I do.” He accepted the brandy and took a long gulp, ignoring the fiery burn of the liquid in his throat.
“Let me guess. You and Stamford are dueling tomorrow?” Rodney asked.
“How on earth would you know that?” Martin grumbled.
“He’s boasting in the gaming rooms about it. Arrogant bastard.”
Martin winced as he felt his eye already starting to swell. He’d be lucky if he had good enough vision in his right eye to fire a pistol. “You’ll be needing a second, then?” Rodney’s tone was light and far too normal. But then again, he’d been through all this before. The last time had been several years ago when Martin had lost the last of his then meager funds to a man named Gareth Fairfax. Gareth had challenged him to a duel, and Rodney had been his second.
Only I never fought that duel. Helen did in my place.
And Gareth had fallen in love with her, the brave woman who’d fought a duel disguised as her twin brother. If she knew he was facing another duel, she would strangle him. But he had to do it, to protect Livvy, because he was the damned monster who’d put her in this situation to begin with.
“Martin, what’s the matter, old boy?” Rodney leaned forward, worry lines etching his face.
“Have you ever had the sudden realization that a course of action you took was incorrect and it may have caused more harm than you intended?”
Rodney’s lips tilted down in a frown. “Not sure I follow.”
“I challenged Stamford to a duel over him wanting to buy a woman to satisfy the debts of the woman’s father.”
“That was noble of you.” His friend grinned.
“It wasn’t.” Martin sighed, and the sound was world-weary, which was exactly how he felt.
“What do you mean?”
“Because I already bought the girl a few days ago for a debt owed by her father. I’m no better than Stamford.”
Rodney paled. “You bought a woman?”
Martin nodded. His stomach was still coiled in tight knots. “I bought her companionship, though now I believe there is little difference.”
“But…how?”
“It was the night we went to the Argyll Rooms. The girl’s father and I have a history, one of a personal nature and enmity on my part. I saw him losing, and I took advantage. In the end, he owed me a vast sum, far more than he could pay, and I went to his house, planning to toss him out. And then I saw her. She was lovely and brave and… She offered herself to me. I accepted. I took her home that night.”
“Good God, man!” Rodney’s face was red with anger. “Send her home!”
“I would, but…” I can’t. Martin drew in a breath. “If I do, I fear Stamford will show up on her father’s doorstep, demanding the same. I fear others will hear of it and seek similar satisfaction. What have I done?” He buried his face in his hands, pressing the heels of his hands so hard into his eyes that he saw stars.
“But you haven’t…?” Rodney cleared his throat.
“No. She has nothing to fear from me. If she wants me, all she needs to need to do is ask, but I won’t force her.”
His friend nodded. “Good. I’d call you out myself, friend or not, if you did something like that to any woman.”
“That’s because you’re a good man.” Martin said dryly. “Far better than me.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” Rodney laughed before he grew serious again. “So tomorrow you duel Stamford. Where and when?”
“Littleton Field at dawn.”
“Then I’ll be there,” Rodney declared. “Do you plan to sleep here tonight?”
Martin nodded. He couldn’t imagine himself going home under these circumstances.
“Then get some rest and have someone look at that eye. It’s likely to swell and compromise your vision tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Martin slapped Rodney’s shoulder as the other man rose from his chair and headed out. He would no doubt be going home to his wife and children, and for the first time Martin envied him. For a brief second he dared to imagine Livvy was at home, waiting up for him with a babe in the nursery and her smile ready and warm when she saw him.
That is a life you will never have. Certainly not with her.
The thought turned his heart cold, and he reached for the brandy. It would be his only companion on a cold night like this.
Livvy stared at the clock on the mantel in her chambers. It was nearly midnight. She couldn’t sleep. Not after how she’d seen Martin hurt at her words. It was her fault she had driven him away. Mellie had said that he left for his club and would not be back tonight. The staff had been given orders to keep her in her room, but she had a suspicion none of them would enforce it. She tiptoed out of her chambers, wrapping the dressing gown tight around her to keep warm. Thankfully Martin’s townhouse wasn’t as drafty as her own home had become.
She reached his bedchambers. The door was unlocked, and she slipped inside. His valet was there, polishing a set of his boots. He startled when he saw her and blushed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She backed toward the door.
“It’s all right, miss. I’m finished. I usually take the boots downstairs, but with the master out…” The valet brushed the polishing rag over the tip of the boot, then put the boots in the armoire against the wall on the far corner.
“Thank you.” She leaned forward against the beautiful bed, watching the valet tidy up.
“Do you need anything, Miss Hartwell? Before I go?” he asked.
“Oh… No thank you.” She glanced toward the fireplace, which was beginning to run low. “Except perhaps more logs. I could feed the fire myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” The valet bowed. “I’ll have a footman bring some up shortly.”
After he left, she wandered about the room, examined the fine porcelain washing basin, the shaving razor, the sandalwood scent in a small bottle. She raised her nose and inhaled. The scent brought back memories, vivid ones of Martin holding her close, kissing her in a hard but pleasing way. She’d never imagined kisses could be so passionate, wonderful, frightening.
And I drove him away. Did it matter that he’d bought her? Shouldn’t it only matter what she felt? She felt good when he kissed her, good when their breaths mingled and their bodies pressed flush against one another. Maybe that was all that mattered.
Pride—her pride—shouldn’t matter, not anymore. The damage was done. She was no longer innocent by society’s standards. Shouldn’t she at least enjoy the sins she would be ruined for anyway?
She would risk falling for him, but perhaps that was inevitable. She was already drawn to him, and it was not simple carnal fascination, but something else. The haunted look in his eyes when he spoke of his family and the early death of his mother, the hints of the reluctant amusement in those mysterious blue eyes, the tenderness of his lips and hunger of his hands created an inseparable tangle of emotions for her. She could not view him as just one thing. He was not the cold and callous man she’d mentioned in speaking to Mellie. He was anything but that.
Livvy climbed into his large bed and stared into the depths of the dwindling fire, her mind lost in a chaotic swirl of thoughts.
Do I risk it? Do I dare give myself over, heart and soul, and pray the
glimpses I’ve seen of a good man are real? That a man like him could learn to love me?
Hope was all she had to cling to in the darkness. Hope that she would find the answers, and hope that once dawn was here, Martin would come home to her.
10
Martin studied the pistol in his hand, feeling the weight of the metal and the polished wood grip, which was cold in his palm. All around him the field was quiet, the predawn sky lit in a pale purple light. The coach that brought Stamford and his second, the man from the night before, Stephen Albright, had only just arrived to present him with his choice of pistol.
“What you think? Does it shoot fair, you suppose?” Rodney whispered next to Martin.
“Devil if I know. I rarely handle the damn things.”
“What?” Rodney hissed. “Bloody hell, man, do you even know how to shoot?”
“Of course I do.” He knew how to shoot well on a pheasant hunt with a rifle, but that wasn’t the same as firing a dueling pistol.
“Are you satisfied with the weapon, Mr. Banks?” Mr. Albright inquired. He shot a nervous glance at Stamford, who was glaring at them.
“I suppose,” Martin replied. He’d woken that morning with a headache and a sense of dread, and it wasn’t until the servant had come to serve him a brief breakfast that he remembered he was to face Stamford on the field in less than two hours.
“There is one last chance to reconcile,” Rodney interjected. “Mr. Stamford, I believe you made unpleasant and ungentlemanly comments toward a young lady last evening. Do you withdraw such comments?” Rodney placed himself slightly in front of Martin, acting as an emissary. In that moment Martin saw how good a friend the other man was. Over the years Rodney had always stood by him and by Helen.
Helen… He couldn’t believe his twin sister had faced this same trial, had taken his place against Gareth all those years before, disguised as Martin, while he lay unconscious in a broom cupboard after she’d knocked him out.
He briefly closed his eyes, picturing her that day, willing to face death for him. He’d never been worthy of the people in his life who loved him. All he had done was let them down over and over again. If he died today, Livvy wouldn’t miss him—she would be grateful he was gone. Her debt would be paid, and she would go home…only to have a man like Stamford come and claim her in the same way. Fury rose in him like a violent storm, wind lashing the inside of his mind and heart. He could not allow such a thing.
“I do not withdraw my comments,” Stamford declared. His aristocratic features were defined by the cruelty which shadowed his eyes.
“Very well,” Rodney sighed. “Backs together, and each man must count to twenty paces. Then turn and face each other.”
Martin and Stamford approached one another. It took a fair amount of self-control to not toss the pistol to the ground and tackle him into the earth and throttle him. He drew in deep breaths and turned his back. Stamford did the same. Then they began to step away, counting their paces. When he reached twenty, he turned, facing his opponent. Albright and Rodney stood to the left, some yards away from the line of fire.
“Pistols may be raised,” Rodney announced.
Martin adjusted his stance. The meadow grass coated in ice was slick and uncomfortable beneath the soles of his boots. Then he carefully raised his arm. His fingers trembled slightly, and with one eye almost swollen shut, he felt like this was a very bad idea now, but he could not let Stamford just walk away, not after what he said he’d do to Livvy.
Stamford raised his arm.
“On the count of three, you may fire.” Rodney’s voice rang out over the frozen field.
“One…”
Martin licked his dry lips and adjusted his grip on the pistol.
“Two…”
Stamford’s lips suddenly curved in a devil-may-care grin.
“Three—”
Crack!
Martin jerked sideways. Pain knifed through his upper arm. He cursed but kept his pistol up.
“Banks! You’ve been hit?” Rodney shouted.
“Grazed,” he grunted. “I think.” He looked at Stamford, who was staring at him, his face ashen.
“It is your shot, Banks. You may fire at will,” Rodney said. Both he and Albright watched in worry.
“Well!” Stamford almost shrieked. “Get it over with!” He stamped his foot like a petulant child, but even at this distance Martin couldn’t mistake the stark fear on the man’s face as he tried to stand sideways to reduce his chances of a lethal shot.
He stared at Stamford, his gun raised. “Sell me the note Hartwell owes you and I won’t put a bullet through your black heart.”
“What?” Stamford shuddered.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Martin warned, his voice low and calm. How he managed that when his own arm hurt like the devil he didn’t know. Hot blood trickled down his arm beneath his coat, but he ignored it.
“Why do you want it?” Stamford asked.
Martin continued to hold his pistol steady. “That’s my business. Do you agree to sell me the note?”
Stamford frowned, still eyeing the gun. “Do I have a choice?” Martin growled. “Fine, the note is yours.”
“Good,” Martin said. “I’ll have the funds delivered later today.”
Stamford exhaled in relief, his shoulders drooping. Martin raised the pistol into the air above the other man’s head and fired.
“Bloody hell!” Stamford snarled, leaping back.
For some reason Martin found that all too amusing, and he burst out laughing. The world spun a little, and he grunted as he fell to his knees. Blood dripped down onto the snow. So much blood…
“Banks.” Rodney was at his side at once. He grabbed his good arm, hoisting him up. “Come on. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Martin stumbled across the field, letting Rodney guide him into the waiting coach. He fell onto his seat and closed his eyes.
He must have lost consciousness, because when he came to, a doctor was crouched in front of him and they were outside a townhouse he didn’t recognize.
“Mr. Banks, glad to have you back with us,” the doctor announced. Martin shivered, and he realized he was bare-chested. The cold air permeated the coach, and he cursed softly.
Damnation, he felt weak.
Rodney’s face suddenly appeared in the doorway of the coach. “A decent wound, eh?”
“A decent wound?” Martin asked. “Is there such a thing? Ouch!” he yelped as the doctor cinched the white bandage around his arm.
“Well, you know, something romantic for the ladies to swoon over. My Anna would gush without end if I were shot defending her honor.” Rodney prattled on with a good-natured grin. Behind him the streets were bathed in morning light.
“Bennett, where are we?” If anyone saw him being tended for a wound from an illegal duel, he could be in trouble.
“On Duke Street. I brought you to Dr. Phillips. He’s one of the best.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phillips.” Martin tried to smile at the man. “What’s the damage?”
Dr. Phillips smiled a little, but he remained focused on the wound as he finished bandaging it.
“A flesh wound with some minor muscle injury. You will need to take care. I want to see you in a few days to see how you’re healing. Mr. Bennett has given me your card. I shall call upon you, if that’s all right?”
“Yes, that’s quite fine,” Martin said.
“Good.” The doctor helped him put his shirt and waistcoat back on. The garments were bloodstained, and his valet would be cursing him once he got home.
“You need me to go home with you?” Rodney asked as the doctor packed up his black bag.
“No, that’s all right. I’m sure Anna is missing you. I’ll send you a message if I need you.”
Rodney’s eyes deepened with concern, but he nodded and started to pull his head from the coach door.
“Bennett!” Martin called out.
His friend turned back to him. “Yes?”
“Thank you. For today…and for the day you stood by Helen all those years ago. I never understood what she faced, not really. This morning…” He shuddered and carefully favored his bad arm. “What I mean to say is, you’re a good friend. I don’t deserve you.”
Rodney grinned cheekily. “You certainly don’t. Anna and I will be in London for the holidays if you wish to attend the dinner at our house.”
“Thank you.” Martin watched Rodney cross the street and hail a passing hackney. He leaned out of the door and told his coachman to take him home. He’d barely slept at the club, and the brandy he’d drunk the night before along with a swollen eye and wounded arm were now taking their toll on him. As soon as he got home, he was going straight to bed. He would not think about Livvy until later in the day when he’d had a chance to rest and think.
When he reached his home, the coach driver helped him out of the vehicle and up to the door.
“Thank you, Jim.” He nodded to the coachman before entering. Harris was exiting the door to the servants’ quarters and froze when he saw Martin.
“Sir?” Harris gasped. “What happened?”
He waved Harris off when the butler came over to him. “I will explain later, but I’m all right.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, not now. I think I just need to sleep for a few hours.” He started up the stairs, his feet dragging. He felt as weak as a pup. When he got to his room, he sighed against the door as he turned the latch. He was suddenly very weary. If he could just make it to his bed, everything would be all right.
The door swung open, and he started toward his bed. But the moment his eyes touched upon his bed, he stumbled. It wasn’t empty. Livvy was lying there, beneath his sheets, asleep. Her dark hair rippled out across the pillow. She looked so sweet, so innocent and lovely it made his heart ache.
I should go to another room, but I’m too bloody tired. Martin fumbled with his waistcoat and shirt, wincing as he removed them. When he collapsed onto the bed beside Livvy, darkness closed in around him almost instantly.