by Katy Madison
"YOU WILL BE TRUE TO ME?"
Keene blinked.
Sophie had the awful sinking feeling she had assumed too much. In her effort to back away, she slid, probably on the same patch of ice that had done her in before. Whenever she was around Keene, her normal grace—or at least normal ability to avoid predicaments—deserted her. Both feet went in opposite directions, and she fought to plant them on the layer of snow-covered ice.
Keene caught her around the waist and jerked her against him. For a second they both wavered as her face plowed into his midsection. Then he raised her upright. She wasn't sure why she did it, perhaps to reassure herself that he was really here, but she brushed her fingers across his cheek. His hand closed over hers, his skin warm where hers was cold.
The moment hung in the air like the white puffs that marked their expelled breath. His dark eyes searched her face and dropped to her lips. He pressed against her, and found her mouth with his.
There was a second of the gentle pressure she expected, but then the kiss changed. His breath mingled with hers. His flavor invaded her mouth. The wet swirl of the kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced. This was no namby-pamby kiss, it was wild. It was scorching. And she loved it . . .
THE WEDDING DUEL
Katy Madison
To my husband Mike who always believed in the dream.
Copyright © 2002 by Karen L. King
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book was originally published in paperback by Kensington Publishing Corp.
as The Wedding Duel by Karen L. King
Table of Contents
THE WEDDING DUEL
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
ONE
London, December 1814
The carriage rattled along the cobblestones. The steady clop-clop of the horses and the sway of the vehicle made sleep impossible. Keene Whitmore Davies lifted the shade and a shard of sharply angled morning sunlight pierced the dark interior.
This pure light should have been reserved for saints. He dropped the shade. A saint he was not.
"'Tis a bright morning," said his companion John.
Keene smiled grimly. "Good morning for killing fools."
John shifted nervously.
Poor boy, he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and out of misguided nobleness had offered to stand second. "Were you able to find pistols for me?"
"Yes, yes. Look at these. The workmanship is very fine." John opened the walnut box and held it out for Keene to inspect the contents.
Keene gave the matched set of pearl-inlaid pistols resting in a red velvet nest a cursory glance. "They'll do."
John ran a finger over the guns. "Perhaps you should not continue this."
Keene arched an eyebrow.
"I mean for your father's sake. He has just lost your brother. He should be heartbroken to lose both his sons in so short a space."
Keene didn't bother to correct John. His father would suffer his loss gladly. His younger brother's death had devastated both of them.
John shifted in his seat. "I'm sure Lord Wedmont will extend his apologies for the insult."
"I shall not accept his apologies."
"P-perhaps your brother's loss has shaken your normal good civility."
"I assure you, I'm not often accused of good civility."
"As you are well aware of your humors, you do not often find offense in others' comments."
"Give over, John. I know your duty is to talk me out of my intentions, but don't waste your breath."
"You are not known to demand satisfaction, sir. You are more known to laugh and find truth in others' insults."
Keene folded his arms across his chest and gazed at his nervous companion. "Dawn is too ungodly an hour to be about. I daresay I often refrain from demanding settlement for want of rising so early in the morning."
John squirmed in his seat.
He didn't understand that the insult offered by Victor Wedmont had happened many months ago. Approximately nine to be exact. There was no way to repair the ruin of their best friend George's marriage with a simple apology.
Victor and George had both been part of a group of friends that had ties back to Keene's school days in Eton. They had all been close to each other. Only now was it obvious how much in each other pockets they had been.
"Are you afraid of blood?" asked Keene.
John threw back his shoulders. "Of course not."
"Good, because I expect there shall be some."
An odd expression crossed John's face. "Perhaps." He looked down at the box that held the matched set of dueling pistols.
Keene watched his companion. "Are they Mantons?" Weapons made by the London gun maker were renowned for their accuracy.
"No. They are not. Legend has it they are from Spain."
Keene frowned.
John opened the box again. "They are quite beautiful. See the Spanish tooling on the grip? Quite a bargain. Only forty guineas for the pair."
"Quite," echoed Keene dryly. "Let us hope that a pistol worth twenty guineas is as capable of wounding as one worth twice as much."
Again that odd look flitted across John's face. Keene made a mental note to have his other second, the one in charge of fetching the surgeon, pack the pistols in case John had any ideas of using too little powder.
John cracked his knuckles and shifted in his seat. The case slid on his lap, and he grabbed it. Keene flicked his gaze over his second. Odd that John was so nervous, when Keene was the one on the way to fight.
"They are really quite beautiful, are they not?"
Keene closed his eyes. He didn't want John's nervousness to soften the icy rage that propelled him toward this meeting.
"Bewitched, they say."
Keene cracked one eye open.
"I say, there is a legend that goes with them."
"Yes, they are from Spain."
John twitched. "There is a legend that, regardless who stands or falls, the real winner shall be married to a fine woman and enjoy marital bliss."
Keene closed his eye. "A rare state."
John mumbled, "I know you have maintained these many years that you shall never take a wife as you wanted Richard to be your heir."
"Richard is dead."
"Yes, I know."
Keene grimaced. He knew John knew. The two had been fast friends. John had been his brother's friend more than his own. Sometimes Keene needed to remind himself that his lighthearted fair brother was gone, snatched away in the prime of his life by a fever. His brother had epitomized all that was good in their mother, and like her had found his way far too early into the arms of an eternal Morpheus.
The carriage drew to a halt. Keene swung the door open. The rare sunny morning cast long shadows through the lines of trees. Three other carriages were drawn up beside the lane. His opponent stood apart from a cluster of men.
Rage sifted through Keene. He stared at Victor. The man raised his arm in a half salute, his exposed linens showing that he was prepared to go through with the duel. Keene unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat. The cluster of men approached him.
"Sir, Lord Wedmont extends his most graci
ous apology. He withdraws any insult he may have spoken and claims he meant not the words as they sounded, but begs your leave to explain his true meaning."
Keene stared through the man acting as Victor's second.
Another held up a slip of paper and began reading, "Lord Wedmont also extends his apologies for any past action of his that might have brought offense to you, sir. He swears that his actions were never intended to offer any harm to anyone, least of all you, a man he greatly respects. He swears his behavior has been directed by a foolish heart." The speaker frowned.
To be sure, it was an odd apology for an insult.
The four seconds clustered around him waiting for his acceptance of the apology, to declare that he was satisfied. He wasn't.
He peeled back his jacket and waistcoat. The cool December air blew through the fine linen of his shirt.
Oddly, the wording of the written apology fueled his icy rage. Victor gave him a wry smile as his seconds shook their heads. Keene crossed the lawn in long strides.
"Should you wish to settle this with fists, sir?" asked Victor.
"I shall not draw enough blood with my fist."
Victor blanched.
Keene glanced back to make sure the others remained out of hearing range. "How could you have done it? You've ruined her life. George is ready to blow his brains out."
"If I could have, I should have married her, rather than let George have her."
Rage pulsed through Keene's system. "Why didn't you?"
Victor's voice was low. "Why didn't you?"
Keene wanted to walk away, return home and pretend it was all a bad dream. "I had no plans for marriage."
Victor's face paled. He looked haunted. "I would have married her. I thought I loved her—"
"Everyone loves her." Keene struggled against the surge of compassion that threatened to dampen his rage. If Victor had truly loved her, he would have married her.
"I thought I loved her before I knew she would fall into my bed with so little persuasion." Victor eyed him speculatively. "Is that why you challenged me?"
"I fight for George's honor." Keene stumbled over the words he intended to deliver with his usual aplomb.
"It is not my blood you want," said Victor softly.
Keene watched the man run a shaky hand through his artfully disordered brown locks. It wouldn't be a fair fight if Victor couldn't hold his hand steady to fire the pistol. Honor tore Keene in a thousand ways. What loyalty did he owe Victor? George? George's wife, Amelia?
"I should do it again. If George has no care for his wife, I shall be pleased to take her into my keeping. She should be happy in a cottage as long as she had my service."
Cold fury poured through Keene. "You, sir, are no gentleman. She is a lady."
"That, she is not. I have reason to know. Besides, 'tis not so uncommon a situation. At least the child is a girl; she shall not be George's heir."
In that moment Keene hated Victor. There was no dealing with the man. Keene heeled about and crossed the field to the cluster of men where he could make sure the pistols were properly loaded and primed.
"A shame you fight this battle with me, Davies. You should have picked an opponent less willing to shed your blood."
Keene watched the pistols being loaded; a single shot would have to be enough to quench his thirst. Amelia didn't deserve to be belittled for her weakness or the failure of her chaperons. George didn't deserve the unhappiness of a wife unfaithful to him before marriage. Life would not be so hellish for the offspring if men did not ruin good women and then leave them to make the best of it in a world that did not look kindly on impure gentlewomen and their by-blows.
They paced out their ten steps and turned.
"Stand and deliver."
Keene raised his gun, taking careful aim. He did not wish to miss. At the same time, his finger refused to tighten on the trigger. Victor's gun pointed straight at his heart. The burst came from Victor's pistol, and Keene held his involuntary flinch to a mere flicker of his eyelids. He waited for the burn of a bullet . . . and waited.
"Deliver, sir," said one of the seconds.
Victor stood his ground as he lowered his gun. How was it the bullet missed? Victor was nearly as good a shot as he was. Keene cursed his patient aim. He couldn't kill him. Victor's words echoed in his head. It is not my blood you want. He lowered the nose of the pistol to aim at his opponent's left thigh. He would draw blood and let it fill Victor's top boot.
The shot rang out in the cool bright morning. Smoke wafted away from the barrel of his pistol as Victor fell to the ground, his hand clasped on his right shoulder over the blossoming red stain.
"I daresay you have ruined my linens, sir," Victor said.
"The yellow offends me. You need new."
"I won't stay away from her."
Keene strode toward the fallen man. All his precautions would be in vain if Victor spoke Amelia's name out loud when the other men could hear. "Shut your mouth."
"I won't. A moment of her pleasure is worth a thousand wounds."
"Next time I shall see you to hell."
"You cannot. You cannot shoot a man who has missed you. Damn, Davies, I had every intention of hitting you."
Keene whirled around to face his seconds. "Load the pistols again."
John stumbled out to him, bearing powder and balls. "You do not mean to fight again?"
"Load them."
John complied, while Victor lay bleeding on the ground.
"I must regretfully inform you that I cannot give you satisfaction at the present," said Victor.
"Quiet." Keene took the first pistol.
"Dear God, Keene, no," whispered Victor. "Please no."
Standing above Victor, Keene raised the gun.
The report sounded loud to his ears. Victor whimpered. Keene took as much satisfaction from that as anything. Perhaps Victor should feel enough humiliation from that sound as George felt upon learning his wife bore another's man's child.
The shot was high and to the left. A spray of leaves fell from the tree he wounded. He took the second pistol from John's hand and aimed once again for the trunk. The shot didn't hit the trunk, nor did any leaves pepper down.
"These are the most untrue weapons I have ever fired."
"Are they?" replied John.
Keene faced the young man. "Did you know?"
John replaced the pistols in their case. "Know what?"
"Know that the pistols are inaccurate?"
"How should I know that?"
It had been Keene's experience that John evaded questions more than he answered. "I ought to call you out."
John bit his lip, but managed to meet his gaze squarely.
Keene stalked toward his carriage. "Tell the damn surgeon to attend him." He paused before ascending the step. "John, return those defective weapons to the place you bought them. I have no wish to keep them."
John bowed.
Keene allowed the grin that threatened to overtake him to break only when he had shut the carriage door. The little milksop John had bested him. Legends of a winner's wedded bliss indeed. The only curse of those guns was that a man couldn't hit an elephant at six paces. Unless of course he aimed to miss, which was why a shot intended for Victor's thigh had hit him in the opposite shoulder.
Keene's grin died as he directed his coachman to George's house and the enormity of what he'd just done and why hit him.
* * *
Three weeks later he received a summons from his father. The trip home took a day and a half. After an impassive greeting, the butler led Keene to his father's library.
The old man sat by the fire, his face half in shadows. Keene crossed the room, splashed a healthy dose of brandy in a glass and sat down in the Morocco leather chair opposite Lord Whitley, the seventh baron in a straight line to hold the title.
Keene took a sip of his brandy and told himself to remain civil, no matter the provocation. The silence did not bode well for a prodigal son welcome. Bu
t then, he had never been the favored son. Keene realized he'd clenched his empty hand into a fist. He splayed his fingers out and forced himself to relax. "You wished to see me?"
"Word has reached me that you tried to kill a man."
No point in mentioning that his opponent had also tried to kill him. "I did not succeed."
"Ever you are a wild profligate. Now you are shooting men."
"Only one. I was provoked." Keene took a healthy swallow of his brandy. What would it be now? Would the old man demand he move out of the town house now that Richard was no longer there?
"I could have you thrown in jail for less."
"I'm sure many would find throwing your eldest son and heir into prison an interesting move."
Lord Whitley leaned forward. The firelight caught his florid complexion. His light eyebrows furrowed together. He shook a sausagelike finger at Keene. "You are a disgrace to my name, with your gaming and whores."
"Only one, and I let her go." He'd had to. With only his winnings from the gambling tables to support him, he couldn't afford to keep his high-flier in the style she deserved. But then, he preferred discreet liaisons with married women. In the long run they cost less.
"I cannot break the entail, but only the old manor house and ten acres are assigned to it. The rest I have willed to your cousin Sophie Farthing."
The house in London, the farms that supported the estate, still wouldn't be his. Keene gulped a drink of his brandy. Damn, now the glass was dry. It wasn't that he wanted the money. He was content with very little. Maintaining appearances was another thing. When one was the presumed heir to a rich baronial estate, others expected more.
As a gentleman, trade was not an option, not that he would know how to make a living working. The only thing he cared a fig about was his father's right to sit in the House of Lords, an honor Lord Whitley didn't bother to exercise, but Keene would be a sitting member of Parliament when his time came.
That and the house in London, which had been his home these last ten years, were the only important things. Otherwise he should have left to seek his destiny far away from here.
"Not much has changed then," commented Keene mildly. Lord Whitley had intended the bulk of his estate to go to Richard.
"Everything has changed. I spoke with my solicitor. He says if you are exiled I might be able to break the entail."
As far as Keene knew there were no male relatives in line to inherit. "But then the barony should pass into oblivion. Or had you a mind to sell the title?" Or it could revert to the crown to be bestowed on whoever the prince regent fancied. A scary thought at best.
