The Earl Claims His Wife

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Then swords it is.”

  They both sounded calm about the challenge and neither man had given her so much as a glance once they’d started speaking to each other.

  Wright turned to Packy, the head groom who had helped him with his horse. “Send someone to the house for dueling swords. I’m certain His Grace has them.”

  Packy nodded his obedience and directed one of the lads to do Wright’s bidding. Andres once again removed his greatcoat and jacket, preparing to duel. Wright threw off his heavy coat while the men in the stable yard began moving back into a circle for the men.

  Of course, their preparations were moot because Gillian was not about to let a duel be fought. She caught the stable lad before he could run to the house. “Stand right there,” she ordered the boy, holding up a finger in warning.

  “Go fetch the swords,” Wright countermanded without looking up. The lad raced away.

  Gillian’s temper snapped. She stormed forward into the center of the cleared ring. “This is absolute nonsense,” she said.

  “Actually,” her husband said, rolling up his sleeves, “it is the easiest way to decide the matter.”

  “No, it is not,” Gillian said. “There are many easier ways, such as discussion or respecting my rights to decide what I want.”

  Aunt Agatha came forward and put her hand in the crook of Gillian’s arm, gently pulling her to the side. “Gillian, you are being a bit of a ninny,” she whispered, strangely subdued. “This is the way men decide these matters. Besides, you have no rights. You are married. When you chose to defy your husband, what did you expect?”

  Gillian dug in her heels. “Not a duel.”

  “You didn’t?” her aunt asked with a skeptical lift of one eyebrow. “What sort of men do you think they are?”

  “Not the sort who would kill each other.” Gillian practically tossed the muff to the ground in exasperation. She turned to Andres. “You mustn’t do this. It’s nonsense.”

  The tall Spaniard came over and placed his hands on her arms. It was the first time he’d publicly touched her. “I do it for you, amor,” he said quietly. “I love you, Gillian. From the moment I saw you, I have wanted you. You are kind and good.” He reached for a strand of her hair beneath her velvet hat. “So lovely, so caring. When I entered Huntleigh’s hall, I felt the warmth of a home, the warmth you created.” He smiled. “Do not worry for me. All will be well. There isn’t an Englishman who is a better swordsman than I.”

  “You love me,” Gillian repeated, her voice wondrous at how easily he’d made his admission. “I love you, too, Andres. But what sort of a future will we have if you run my husband through?”

  Andres laughed, the sound confident, carefree even.

  Gillian wanted to pop him with her muffed hand to knock sense into him. “Or Wright could kill you,” she said, wanting to be certain what was at stake. “Don’t let his London clothes fool you. The man has been a military officer for years and even before that, he was a noted swordsman. I couldn’t bear to have anything happen to you.”

  She couldn’t bear to have anything happen to either of them. She had no desire to see Wright dead. “If you fight this duel, everyone will talk. We will have to leave England. You don’t know my husband. He’s a very powerful man in his own right, let alone with his father’s influence.”

  “I don’t care if I live in England,” Andres told her. “Or what gossips may say. Our love will keep us safe.”

  Over the past hour, she had cavalierly made the same statement to Aunt Agatha. Now it sounded like madness, and she understood what her aunt had been trying to say to her.

  She looked to the other side of the circle of men. Wright stood, a solitary figure with his arms crossed. Andres was a great favorite amongst her relatives and the servants. They would be cheering for him. Wright had no one to champion his side. The irony, of course, was that he was all alone…much like she’d felt living under his father’s roof.

  “Do all men think themselves immortal?” she wondered softly before saying to Andres, “Please, don’t do this.”

  His expression sobered. “You know the answer, amor.”

  He wouldn’t cry off. Not with his honor on the line.

  Gillian turned away from him and walked over to where her husband stood, his face a stone mask. “Wright, you must not fight a duel. Not over me.”

  She could feel Andres watching her. Feel everyone watching her. Embarrassment brought heat to her cheeks. Gillian had never enjoyed being the center of attention.

  “I take care of what is mine, Gillian.”

  She shook her head. “I am not some animal that you can buy and sell. Or some woman in a harem you can lock up. My decision not to return with you has nothing to do with the barón.”

  Wright gave her a small, tired smile. “It doesn’t matter, Gill. He has taken up your cause and as your husband, I am honor bound to exert my authority.”

  Gillian reached for her temper. It protected her from guilt. “A battle of honor? Wright, I matter very little to you.”

  Once again there was that stubborn set of his jaw returned. “Obviously you matter a great deal to me, my lady, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Please, don’t even attempt to portray the role of wounded husband,” she said with exasperation. “Our marriage was a sham.”

  “It was legal and valid.”

  “But it was a union of convenience. Your father wanted my father’s connections and their good will. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have given me a second look.”

  He released a world-weary sigh. “Gillian, does it matter anymore? This is an old argument between us. So what if those were considerations when I asked for your hand? You could have refused. Why didn’t you?”

  Because she’d fallen in love with him.

  It was one thing to admit it to her aunt or herself, another to reveal the depth of her foolishness to the man who had made her so foolish.

  Besides, he was right—it no longer mattered. She had Andres…although, especially after Aunt Agatha’s accusations, a portion of her feared her aunt might be correct in suggesting at least some of Andres’s attraction was the opportunity for Gillian to defy her husband.

  She immediately shut that stray thought away.

  “We all make mistakes, Wright,” she answered him.

  His angry sharp eyes went to Andres and then back to her. “Yes,” he drawled, “apparently we all do.”

  His criticism vanquished any remnant of guilt. “I hope he runs you through,” she said. Turning, she walked away.

  But she didn’t go to Andres. The crowd around him had stepped back so that both he and Wright stood very much alone.

  Instead, she marched up to her aunt. “You must talk sense into them.”

  “I don’t waste my breath on men,” Aunt Agatha answered. “Or goddaughters.”

  “You seem to have forgotten that rule earlier,” Gillian said crossly. “You were offering me quite a bit of advice.”

  “A pity you didn’t heed it.”

  The stable lad they’d sent for swords came running down the path carrying them followed by a number of relatives and other guests from the house who apparently wished to witness the duel. Huntleigh always entertained a large number of guests for the Christmas holidays and many lingered on their visits for months. Now they would have a good story to tell when they returned home and Gillian wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

  Her cousin Carter Lowrie straggled behind the others, appearing as if he’d just risen from bed. Charming, good-humored and a bit lazy, Carter came up to the women and asked, “Why is Andres in a duel?”

  “Because Gillian’s husband has come for her and wishes to run him through,” Aunt Agatha said with a gusto that Gillian thought was quite unbecoming.

  “Ah, Wright has finally arrived,” Carter murmured. “Thought he would show himself sooner or later.”

  Gillian scowled at him, knowing his sentiment was probably shared by a good number of
the men whether they liked Andres or not. Raising her voice so she could be overheard, she decided to let them know the truth. “The barón and I have not done anything that should warrant a duel. We are merely good friends. Truly,” she added in the face of her cousin’s unconvinced look.

  At that moment, Andres stepped into the center of the stable yard. He whipped the air with his sword, testing it.

  Wright did the same. Pleased, he said, “Your terms, Barón?”

  Gillian clasped her hands inside her velvet muff. She realized she was the one who didn’t believe this was going to happen. Men didn’t fight over her. Especially her husband.

  “First blood wins,” Andres said calmly.

  “As you wish,” Wright answered without any sign of emotion.

  And then they raised their swords.

  They were truly going to fight. Gillian began shaking. Wright was a bruising swordsman. She’d overheard an officer who had served with him on the Peninsula describe him that way. For the first time she realized her husband had killed men.

  She didn’t know Andres’s experience but she knew his heart. He would fight to the death for her.

  There was the slide of steel-on-steel and then both raised their arms—

  Gillian found her voice. “No.” She rushed forward, placing herself between the two men and their swords.

  Both had been ready to deliver slicing blows. They pulled their weapons back just in time. Wright swore colorfully. “Do you realize you could have been killed?”

  She shook off his complaint, unconcerned for her own safety. “This is nonsense,” she informed them, speaking as if they were schoolboys. “I’m not worth fighting over.”

  “We disagree,” Andres said.

  Wright kept quiet, wary and impatient. Both men were anxious to continue their duel…and Gillian knew what she had to do.

  Her husband would not give up. His pride was at stake.

  And Andres…Andres so much wanted to be her champion. His love, his loyalty pierced her soul.

  But she could not ask him to stake his life for her. Wright was ruthless. He was his father’s son. The marquess didn’t hesitate to mow down anyone who stood in his way.

  There was one thing she could do to protect her beloved Andres. “I’ll go with you, Wright. You’ve won. Have a coach readied. We’ll leave as soon as I pack.”

  She did not wait for his response but started walking toward the house.

  Chapter Three

  Brian Ranson, the recently named Lord Wright, watched his wife storm up the path toward the house. Her back was ramrod straight, her skirts swung with indignation—and he knew.

  Gillian had taken a lover. A Spaniard, no less.

  The realization flew in the face of every notion he’d held about his wife. He had expected the old Gillian, a mouse of a woman who’d been easily cowed by playing to her conscience.

  Instead, he’d arrived to see her looking in good spirits and with a healthy measure of pride. She was confident, strong willed…and stunningly beautiful.

  Of course, her looks had always been there. There were few men who wouldn’t have admired her golden blond hair or her figure, which was round and full in all the right places. Brian had always found Gillian attractive, even when he’d been in love with Jess, a slim brunette.

  But there was something more here surrounding Gillian. Perhaps it was the laugh lines around blue eyes that snapped with intelligence. Or that she hadn’t hesitated to make her opinion of him clear. From the moment he’d presented himself, she’d let him know her displeasure and he felt chastened. It was a novel experience for a man who’d once had the ability to make infantrymen, officers, and French alike quake in their boots.

  And convinced him he was exactly correct in his instincts to bring Gillian by his side.

  This new Gillian was the sort of woman he needed. She could face the challenges ahead…if he could bring her to London.

  The Spaniard brushed by him, heading up the path after Gillian.

  Brian caught his arm. “My wife,” he said.

  “That can change,” the Spaniard answered.

  “No, it won’t,” Brian said, feeling a bit smug at putting the rival in his place. “She’s made her decision.”

  The Spaniard shook his head, unoffended. “You are a fool,” he said softly. “That woman has more honor and dignity than you and I together could ever imagine. She’ll go with you because it is her duty but she’ll find no joy in the task.” He dropped his gaze to where Brian’s hand still held his arm.

  Brian released his hold, struck by the truth of his opponent’s words.

  This time when the Spaniard turned to go, he let him.

  He turned and discovered everyone watched him, their disapproval clear in their expressions. He was the villain here, and he didn’t know quite how that had happened.

  Brian hid his doubts by taking charge. He nodded toward Packy. “Prepare a coach for my lady and bring it up to the house with all haste.” He didn’t wait to see his order followed but started up the path.

  Lady Kensett’s soft voice called to him to wait.

  A stab of annoyance went up Brian’s back. He’d been riding hard for the last five hours. His reception so far had not been pleasant. He didn’t have time to go chasing his wife, let alone listen to the admonishments that he knew Lady Kensett wished to convey, and yet he would not be rude.

  He tried to divert her by saying, “I know. You were right. You warned me. I should have come sooner.”

  She placed her hand on his arm, forcing him to slow down to her aged pace as they walked up to the house. Impatience made him want to shake her off; manners forced him to obey. She smiled up at him as if knowing exactly what he was thinking.

  “They aren’t lovers,” she confided. “Not yet, at least. Although I believe she was ready to capitulate. The barón cuts a very romantic figure.”

  “No wonder he is so angry,” Brian responded. “I robbed him of his prize. Of course, perhaps I would be doing the men of England a service by running him through.”

  “Possibly, except I do believe he does love Gillian,” Lady Kensett said. “This was no passing fancy for him.”

  That gave Brian pause. The sharp-eyed old lady noticed. She never missed a thing. “Good. It’s nice to know you have some feelings for her, Wright, even if they are nothing more than proprietary. That duel was like watching two dogs with one bone, except that one of the dogs had true feelings for the bone. The other man just wanted it because it was his.”

  “Gillian is my wife,” he answered as his defense. “Of course, I am concerned another man has serious feelings for her.”

  “And that is why you let her languish out in the country for so long?”

  He made an impatient gesture. “I came as soon as I could.” Which was true. He couldn’t really even afford the time here now but desperate men took desperate measures. His life was unraveling and Gillian was the only person left who might be able to help him. In his defense, he added, “And she hasn’t wanted me to come for her. Or did you notice how welcoming she was when I arrived?”

  “Gillian is a sensitive sort. I warned you when you asked for her hand. I said she was a country girl and used to country ways. You shouldn’t have let her know you had a mistress, Wright. It was very careless of you.”

  “Or very honest.”

  Lady Kensett snorted her opinion. “What? Am I walking beside that rarity of rarities? An honest man? Please, Wright, you are a politician. You know that some things are best left unspoken.”

  “I’m not a politician,” he insisted. “I’m a soldier.”

  “Not anymore. Not now that you are your father’s heir. It was deuced bad luck for you that your brothers died. Before you could have done as you pleased. Now, you march to the marquess’s tune.”

  “Is all of England about nothing but building power and social status?” he asked bitterly.

  “Yes,” Lady Kensett said without hesitation. “And it’s always
been thus. You’ve forgotten because you’ve been so busy fighting the French. There are expectations that go with a title. Responsibilities.” She frowned. “I just had this discussion with Gillian.”

  He frowned. It was probably concerning him. He decided not to touch it. “What I find difficult,” he murmured, “is how everyone thinks me odd to truly mourn the loss of my brothers. It is as if they feel I should be pleased with my good fortune over the title that came to me from their deaths.” Even his parents seemed calloused. Not once had his mother shed a tear at their memories.

  “It’s good you’ve returned to England,” Lady Kensett observed dryly. “Unfortunately, you’ve grown a heart and a conscience since you’ve been away. Get rid of them. They’ll serve you no good purpose in London and Gillian has heart and conscience enough for the both of you.”

  Brian stopped. “Was I that jaded before I went to war?”

  “Yes, and I’m not certain I didn’t like you better.”

  Lady Kensett’s tart reply was unsettling.

  They’d reached the top of the path. “Take that door, the garden door,” she ordered, directing him with a point of her finger. “There is no need for you to go in the front entrance. The house is still full of relatives. Those that didn’t go down for the duel will be waiting for you. I imagine there will be a flurry of letter-writing this night. The story may be all over London before your return. Remarkable how the post can be efficient when we least wish it to be.” She was leaning heavily on his arm and he realized she was tired.

  “Here, let me lead you to someplace where you can sit and rest,” he said.

  “The garden door will be fine enough,” she responded, not refusing his offer. “There is a sitting room off to the side.”

  Brian had been to Huntleigh before. Holburn had invited him out for some hunting shortly after his betrothal to Gillian had been announced. It had been a good day and it had convinced Brian his parents had been right in insisting he marry her. It had also given him the opportunity to discuss with the duke a vote coming before the House of Lords that Brian’s father had been keen to see go his way—