by Burke, Darcy
The Duke of Danger
Darcy Burke
Contents
The Duke of Danger
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Thank You!
Acknowledgments
Books by Darcy Burke
About the Author
The Duke of Danger
The Duke of Danger
After killing his opponent in a duel, Lionel Maitland, Marquess of Axbridge, is known as the Duke of Danger. Tortured by guilt, he shields himself with a devil-may-care attitude. However, when he kills another man in another duel, he’s beyond redemption, even though it wasn’t his fault. He refuses to smear a dead man’s name, especially when he’s left behind a blameless widow who doesn’t deserve an even bigger scandal.
Widowed and destitute, Lady Emmaline Townsend must marry the man of her parents’ choosing or beg unsympathetic relatives for support. The only way out is to ask for help from the one man she’s sworn to hate, the man who owes her anything she asks, the man who killed her husband. They strike a devil’s bargain in which passion simmers just beneath the surface. But her dead husband’s transgressions come back to haunt them and threaten their chance at love.
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The Duke of Danger
Copyright © 2017 Darcy Burke
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1944576177
ISBN-13: 9781944576172
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Book design: © Darcy Burke.
Book Cover Design © Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Photo copyright: © Period Images
Photo copyright: © Claudio Divizia/Depositphotos
Editing: Linda Ingmanson.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-944576-17-2
Created with Vellum
For Great-Grandma Elsie,
a brilliant, amazing woman who lit up the sky with her smile and warmth.
Chapter 1
London, July 1817
“He really wishes to go through with this?” Lionel Maitland, Marquess of Axbridge, asked his friend and second, Sebastian Westgate, Duke of Clare.
West clenched his mouth into a grim line. “Apparently. I tried talking sense into his second, but Chalmers said Townsend isn’t having it. He’s dead set on dueling.”
“Dead set? Did he use those exact words?” Lionel shook his head. “He’s a hotheaded idiot. I challenged him, and I’m offering him an opportunity to make things right.”
“He maintains your accusation is baseless.”
Lionel swore viciously. “It isn’t.”
West arched a brow. “Of course not. I trust your word.”
Lionel took a deep breath to calm his anger. “Townsend really won’t agree to end and bury this entire affair? It would be best for him.”
“He won’t.” West threw a narrowed-eyed glance over his shoulder toward Townsend and his second, Chalmers. “I would guess he needs the money. I think your only chance to keep him quiet is to pay him off.” He expelled a breath. “Or kill him.”
A chill raced down Lionel’s spine. “I’ve no intention to do either. I meant to scare him. What featherbrain accepts a challenge from me?” Lionel had fought two prior duels, the latter of which had resulted in his opponent’s death. That he found himself in this situation for a third time was alarming. However, he simply couldn’t allow Townsend’s behavior to continue unchecked.
West coughed. “Indeed.”
He cast West an apologetic stare. “I must apologize again for rousing you from your bed to attend me. Assuming I survive today, the Duchess will surely kill me.”
West quirked a half smile. “Perhaps. For now, her hands are full with our daughter.” He sobered. “I suppose we should get on with this.”
Lionel exhaled. “If we must.”
He waited while West and Chalmers walked out the twenty paces and marked the location. That way neither Lionel nor Townsend could shorten their gait to increase their advantage. It also meant they wouldn’t be able to turn and fire early.
After reviewing the pistols, West approached him with the loaded weapon. “All is ready. What do you plan to do?”
In his first duel, Lionel, as the challenger, had declared himself unsatisfied after the first shots hadn’t drawn blood. The second shots had—one of them, anyway. He’d hit his opponent in the arm.
His second duel had gone much worse. Lionel blinked, expelling the memory from his mind. That wouldn’t happen today.
“I will fire over his shoulder, close enough to scare the hell out of him.” He grimaced, removing his coat and delivering it into West’s keeping. “I hope.”
West exchanged the coat for the weapon. “Good luck.”
Lionel walked to where the seconds had marked the start. Townsend met him there, his lip curling. Despite that show of bravado, he lacked any color to support even a modicum of confidence.
“You still have time to settle this without weapons,” Lionel offered.
The viscount was several inches shorter than Lionel, his brown eyes dark and chaotic. The man was known for his short temper. “Our seconds have already discussed the matter. Let us continue.”
Lionel leaned over him, using his height to intimidate the man. “Don’t be a fool, Townsend. You need only cease your activities with regard to our mutual acquaintance, and this entire affair will be concluded.”
“As I’ve said before, I am not guilty of what you accuse me of. My honor is at stake, and I must defend it.”
Lionel didn’t disagree that the man’s honor was at stake. However, he was choosing the path that would see it in ruins. “At least think of your viscountess.”
“I am thinking of her. Now let us begin.” He spun around, presenting his back.
Turning, Lionel gripped the pistol in his hand. Chalmers started the count, and with each number, Lionel took a measured step. His heart began to beat faster as the distance between him and Townsend increased. He pushed away the images threatening to crowd his mind—the times he’d done this before.
How the hell had he got here again?
Because you have more honor than sense.
His father’s voice took over his conscience. Though he’d never said those words, Lionel could imagine him doing so. If he were still alive.
Lionel jolted himself after nearly failing to take the next step.
“Eighteen.”
Almost there.
Lionel squared his shoulders, then loosed them, forcing himself to relax. A stead
y shot required a calm body and an even calmer mind.
“Nineteen.”
He briefly closed his eyes and said a prayer.
The sound of a shot was followed by a searing pain in his left shoulder. He twisted, raising his arm, and took aim.
He fired.
Townsend dropped to the ground, and Chalmers rushed to his aid.
“Christ, you’re bleeding,” West said, taking the pistol from Lionel’s hand.
The pain had disappeared for a moment, while he’d focused his shot. He’d intended to shoot above the bastard’s shoulder. Until Townsend had fired before twenty. Then Lionel had altered his tactic—aiming to take the man down lest he have any other stupid plans.
But Townsend had moved at the last second, and Lionel’s intention to nick him in the leg hit him squarely in the thigh. Instead of a glancing wound, it would be far more destructive.
The burning pain returned, and Lionel cradled his left arm with a wince. “Where’s the physician?”
“Here, my lord.” The man arrived at his side and immediately pressed a cloth to Lionel’s shoulder.
Lionel swore under his breath, his heart pumping furiously. “This is nothing. Go tend to Townsend.”
The physician frowned. “It’s not nothing, my lord. I need to determine if the bullet is lodged within you. And there is always the chance of infection.”
“I know that.” He’d been terrified that the first man he’d shot would contract an infection, but that hadn’t happened, thank God. He prayed the same for the imbecile now writhing on the opposite end of the field. “The bullet didn’t go in—it grazed the flesh. See to Townsend.”
The physician instructed West to hold the cloth to the wound.
“Not so bloody hard,” Lionel said. He wasn’t entirely sure where the bullet was, but he’d wanted the physician to attend to Townsend first.
“That’s the point—to stop the flow of blood.” West shook his head. “One would think you’d never been in a duel before.”
Lionel glared at him. “I’ve never been shot in one before.”
“I suppose that’s true.” He looked down the field where the physician knelt next to Townsend. “What happened to your plan to frighten him?”
“I abandoned it when he fired at nineteen.”
West turned back to him, his gaze dark. “Understandable. He behaved like a blackguard.”
“Given the man’s temper and apparent lack of honor, I shouldn’t have been surprised. The cursed fool.” He began to walk toward him.
“What are you doing?” West struggled to keep his hand pressed against Lionel’s shoulder as well as keep up with him.
Lionel ground his teeth as he approached the man on the ground. Chalmers ran off just as they arrived.
The physician looked up at Lionel’s shoulder for a moment. “I’ve sent Chalmers to my coach for the litter. Townsend will need surgery to get the bullet out. You will need a few stitches, at the very least. Send a footman to fetch my colleague.”
“I’ll take care of it,” West said. “Here.” He handed the bloodied cloth to Lionel before taking off toward Lionel’s coach.
Lionel stared down at Townsend, whose eyes were squeezed shut. His face was drawn tight with pain, his hand grasping his leg just above the wound, where the physician was pressing a cloth. The flow of blood was dark but slow.
“Townsend,” Lionel said. “Open your eyes.”
The viscount fluttered his lids before looking up at him. “Come to gloat?”
“No. I came to ask why you fired early. For a man so concerned with defending his honor, you behaved without a shred of it.”
Townsend closed his eyes once more and moaned. “I thought it was twenty.”
Lies, it seemed, came as easily to this man as breathing. “You don’t have a very close relationship with the truth, do you?” Lionel asked.
Townsend’s eyes flew open, and he scowled up at Lionel. “You’re a nasty son of a bitch, aren’t you? You would insult a man while he’s down.”
Chalmers arrived with a pair of footmen and the litter. The physician directed them to place it next to Townsend. “We’re going to move you now, my lord,” the physician said. He nodded at the footmen, who transferred him onto the litter.
Townsend groaned, his face losing what little color it had.
Blood of the devil. Lionel didn’t like the man or his principles, but he didn’t want him to die. He transferred the cloth to his left hand and grabbed the physician’s shoulder with his right before he could walk away.
“He’ll be fine, won’t he?” Lionel asked in a near whisper.
The physician shrugged. “Hard to say just now, but if infection doesn’t set in, he should recover well enough. He may have a slight limp, but I won’t know until I find where the bullet is lodged.”
Lionel pierced him with a steady stare. “You’ll send word as soon as you have news?”
“Aye, my lord. Now, we must be off.”
Lionel released the man and watched them bear the viscount off the field. Chalmers paused, glaring at Lionel. “You’d best pray he doesn’t perish.”
“Have you nothing to say of his behavior today? You were counting—you did not reach twenty.”
Chalmers, a young bloke with too much of the stain of inexperience about him, looked at Lionel as if he were mad. “Didn’t I?”
Lionel snatched the man’s sleeve as he made to turn. He sneered at the dandy. “Watch yourself, Chalmers. Do not spread misinformation. That—or rather the threat of it—is precisely what led your friend to this predicament in the first place.”
Chalmers’s gray eyes widened but he said nothing more before dashing off. Lionel dropped his hand and watched him go.
“Are you ready to leave?” West asked from behind him. “I’ve dispatched one of the footmen to fetch the other physician.”
Lionel turned, feeling suddenly heavy. He started toward his coach, then stumbled.
West rushed to his side, propping his weight against him as they walked to the coach. “You were supposed to hold that cloth against your wound.”
Lionel grunted in response.
A short while later, they were at his town house on Brook Street. The physician arrived just after and found there was indeed still a bullet lodged in Lionel’s shoulder. It was, thankfully, rather easy to remove, particularly after he dosed Lionel with a measure of laudanum. The stitches, however, required a bit of whiskey.
By the time the surgery was finished, he didn’t feel a thing. Except a growing remorse and the beginning of self-loathing.
No, do not take that path.
Townsend would be fine. He would survive this and likely try to continue his harassment of Marianne.
Lionel reached toward the bedside table for his glass of whiskey only to find that it was empty. “Hennings!”
His valet rushed into the room, a concerned expression pulling at his middle-aged face. “Are you all right?”
“My glass is empty.”
Hennings exhaled, his shoulders drooping. “I see. Well, I daresay you’ve had enough.”
Lionel glared at him. “Do not manage me. I’ve been shot.”
“Of course.” He took the glass and set it back on the table before picking up the decanter. He poured the contents out. “And now this is empty, so you’ll have to make do.”
Lionel snorted as he accepted the glass from his valet. “As if I don’t have more liquor in the house. But never mind. I doubt I’ll make it through this serving before I pass out.”
Hennings pivoted to go.
“Hennings, you’re to wake me when we receive word about Townsend. I am expecting his physician to inform me of his state.”
“Just so, my lord,” Hennings said.
Lionel took a drink, then set the glass back down. He fell back against the pillow, rotating his trunk so that his right shoulder took the brunt. A moment later, he surrendered to blackness.
Images of his dueling opponents, their
bodies twisted and bloody, their mouths open in anguished cries, assaulted him from all sides. He jerked awake, and blistering pain radiated out from his shoulder, reminding him why he’d had that nightmare.
He blinked his eyes open and pushed himself to a sitting position. The chamber was dim, but a bit of light stole beneath the drapes.
Pushing back the covers, he swung his legs out. His head pounded—perhaps he’d had too much whiskey after all—as he stood. His banyan lay at the end of the bed. He grabbed it and fought to pull the sleeve over his wounded arm, wincing and cursing with the effort.
When he’d finally accomplished the task, he donned the rest of it and tied the sash at his waist. He made his way slowly to the bellpull and rang for Hennings.
The valet rushed inside, appearing as alarmed as he had earlier. “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“I’ve a headache, which shouldn’t surprise you, and do spare me your consternation. I’m famished.”
Hennings nodded. “I’ll have a plate brought up immediately.”
“Any word about Townsend?”
Hennings’s face turned ashen. Lionel reached for the bedpost, feeling suddenly lightheaded. His insides churned, and the floor seemed to tilt.
“I’m afraid he succumbed to his injury,” Hennings said gently.
Fuck.
Lionel half sat on the end of the bed because his legs simply refused to support his weight. “How is his wife?”
“The missive didn’t say.”
How should she be? Shocked. Grief-stricken. Devastated. Lionel wished he hadn’t reacted to Townsend’s lapse, that he’d maintained his plan to only scare the man by sending the bullet close. But no, he’d been shot and sought to take the man down lest he somehow manage to wreak more damage. It had been a defensive maneuver, but that didn’t alleviate Lionel’s guilt.