Silence.
The handkerchief fluttered to the ground, swirling a little in the breeze.
Very slowly, Hugo raised his arm and levelled his pistol. Forster had not dared to move from his place. His shaking was clearly visible at twenty-five yards. His face was ashen.
A fly settled on Hugo's forehead and started to crawl down towards his eye. Hugo cursed silently and reached up to brush it away with his free hand. But there was no fly. It was blood, trickling down his face. Blood! He must have been hit. And yet he had felt nothing but the wind when the ball sped past him.
He narrowed his eyes and took a bead on Forster's bare head. The man seemed to be trying to shrink away now. It would be so easy to kill him, to rid the earth of a proven coward.
But he had promised not to make Emma the wife of a murderer.
He gradually lowered his aim, pausing at Forster's belly. No, that too would probably kill him, though gratifyingly slowly. His legs, then? A shattered knee would leave him crippled. Hugo knew exactly how it felt to be pitied and despised as less than a whole man. Forster, coward and blackguard, had never been a whole man. It would be simple justice to let the world see it at a glance.
His finger was almost on the hair trigger. It would take only the slightest pressure. Hugo took one last look up at the sun and the sky, and fired.
Emma sat up in bed with a start. She had been dreaming, and—
She was alone.
No, not again! He could not have left her again!
She sprang out of bed, forgetting her nakedness until forcibly reminded by the cool morning air on her skin. She dragged her wrapper around her body, fumbling with the fastenings.
She needed to be able to see. This gloom was almost oppressive.
She flung back the shutters. Sunlight streamed in, temporarily blinding her. She found there were tears in her eyes.
She wiped them away impatiently. It was only the sudden glare. She was not crying. She would not cry.
It was a beautiful day. And he had left her.
She leant wearily against the shutter, gazing out across the empty square. Nothing moved. It was much too early. The solid wood pushed into her arm, as if trying to remind her of its presence. Mechanically she folded the shutters back into place. Someone had undone them last night, closing them so that her bedchamber would be dark when she came there, in her husband's arms. Someone knew she preferred the dark, even though her husband did not. Someone? Hugo?
She ran her hand caressingly down the smooth wood. There was no need of darkness now. If Hugo preferred the light, she would not deny him. Not now. There was nothing she could deny him now.
She had to find him.
He must have gone back to his own bedchamber, his own bed. She would find him, tell him. She took a deep breath and made for the door. Yes, she would tell him that she wanted—needed—him to be beside her when she awoke. She trusted him completely. She would tell him that, and more. She was no longer afraid.
The sound of Hugo's shot broke the stillness. He remained absolutely still, his contemptuous gaze fixed on Forster, his arm pointing at his target. Then he threw the pistol to the ground. "Killing is too good for you," he said venomously, turning to walk away.
The snarl sounded like a wounded beast, but it came from Forster's lips. Hugo continued to walk. He would not deign to look back at such a man.
Behind him, he heard the scuffling sound of several pairs of running feet on the grass and then Kit's voice, crying out in anger.
Hugo turned.
Forster was face down on the ground, only ten yards away. And Kit was on top of him, wrestling with him for possession of a small silver pistol.
Hugo strode back towards them, ignoring the fact that the pistol was meant for him. The other seconds had almost reached the pair on the ground but Hugo calmly held up a hand to stop them from interfering. He could deal with Forster without any help from anyone. He bent to wrench the pistol from Forster's grasp.
Kit leapt to his feet, automatically brushing grass and dust from his coat. His features were fiercely set.
Hugo smiled down at the wicked little pistol in his hand. "I do not think it is safe for you to carry a loaded weapon, Forster," he said, taking aim.
A third shot rang out.
"It throws a trifle left," Hugo said nonchalantly, dropping it.
The bullet had hit the same tree as Hugo's pistol shot, but some two inches to the left. Forster's seconds gazed at Hugo in awe. Then they looked down at their man, and their expressions changed to disgust.
"Come, Kit," Hugo said, putting an arm round his brother's shoulder. "We have nothing more to do here."
Kit grinned. "He could have killed you, you idiot," he said.
"Oh, I doubt it," replied Hugo. "You seemed to be getting the better of him. I had every faith in your ability to subdue him." He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. Forster had been dragged to his feet and was being propelled towards his carriage. "I must say that your technique leaves something to be desired, though, Kit. I'd take some boxing lessons if I were you."
Kit choked. "I'll have you know, brother—"
Hugo stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother. "You don't have to say it," he said quietly. "You saved my life, and we both know it." He gripped Kit's hand. "And I am grateful." He paused. A wicked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose you expect some kind of recompense? Like calling off your banishment, perhaps?
Kit punched Hugo's shoulder with his free hand. "Oh, you can do so if you like," he said airily, "but I fancy I shall go in any case. I have a notion I am going to enjoy Vienna."
The curricle was taking much too long to get back to town. "For God's sake, can't you go any faster?" Hugo said impatiently. "Let me drive."
"No," said Kit. "You are in no fit state to do so. And you know perfectly well that even you could go no faster, unless you were prepared to mow down all these people." He nodded in the direction of the thronging traffic on the road, now that London was up and about its business. "You would do better, Hugo," Kit went on kindly, "to do something about all that blood. Emma will have a fit if she sees you like that."
Hugo blanched. He had not stayed to allow the doctor to tend his wound. It was only a scratch, but it was bleeding sluggishly. He took out his handkerchief and rubbed it vigorously across his forehead.
"There's blood in your hair, too," Kit said, glancing sideways at him.
"Thank you," Hugo said politely. "I think I can manage." Then he laughed ruefully. Now he could feel the crease where the ball had grazed his forehead and his scalp. "I shall probably have another scar, right alongside the sword-cut. Poor Emma. What a pitiful specimen of a husband she has taken, to be sure."
Kit shook his head in mock despair. He was laughing, too. "I am sure Emma knows that she had the best of the bargain," he said. "You will make a much better husband than I, provided that she will let you near her after this." He gestured towards Hugo's bleeding head. "She is bound to find out now, Hugo. What will you tell her?"
Hugo was no longer laughing. His hand stilled, holding the handkerchief over his wound. "The truth, perhaps. Or—" He shook his head. "I don't know. I–I'll know when I see her. For heaven's sake, Kit, can you go no faster?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Emma was standing in Hugo's bedchamber, staring hopelessly at the empty bed. Hugo was gone. The bed had not been slept in. It was just as before.
She could not bring herself to go near it. She could not touch it. She felt hollow inside. She had given her heart into his keeping, she had trusted him, and he had left her without a word. Where had he gone?
Terrible, wicked thoughts rose in her mind. She did not have the strength to fight them off. He was leaning over the gambling table, staking her fortune on the turn of a card. He was clasped in the arms of a faceless harlot, groaning with pleasure. He was…
Her knees started to buckle. She ought to sit down. The bed was nearer but it repelled her. She stumb
led towards the window, holding on to the back of the chair for support. She noted, absently, that the writing table was strewn with papers. How strange. That did not seem like Hugo at all. Her husband was a methodical man. Her husband…
Her husband had left her alone.
She needed to sit down. Only for a moment. Then she would go back to her own room and prepare to face the day.
With shaking hands, she pulled the chair out a little way and sank gratefully on to it. She leant forward, pushing aside the jumble of papers to make room for her hands. She clasped them together, and closed her eyes. She pulled her knees together to stop them shaking.
There was something on the floor, under her bare foot.
It was a letter. And it was half open.
She bent down to pick it up. It had been clumsily folded, and the wafer had not stuck properly. She started to put it away from her. She could not read someone else's letter.
Her own name shouted up at her from the page.
With white, shaking fingers she spread the crackling paper and began to read. Hugo and Forster. Hugo branded a coward. All those men dead. She could hardly bear to read on. When she came to the end of his explanation, she was suddenly cold with fear. Hugo had gone to fight a duel with Forster. For the sake of a hundred dead men who must now be nothing more than bones. Why? Nothing could bring them back. Why must it be Hugo? The cry screamed through her head. He had gone from her. And he might never return.
She could hardly bring herself to look at the paper again, but she knew there was more. Tears were pouring down her face. She could barely make out the words.
It was difficult to decipher the last few lines. They must have been written in a great hurry. She wiped her eyes, trying to focus. And then she saw what he had written.
A great sob rose in her throat and burst forth. She crushed the letter to her breast, holding it as if it was the most precious thing she had ever owned. Then she smoothed it out again, desperate to reread those last, loving words. He loved her. And he had gone. At any moment, some servant would knock at the door to bring her the news that he had fallen, dead of a murderer's bullet.
She looked towards the door to the corridor. Silence.
She rose, clutching the letter, and moved across to the bed. Hugo's blue silk robe lay across it. She reached out, touched it. Then, overcome with the horror of her loss, she seized it and hugged it to her, breathing in his scent.
It was all she had left of him.
A soft knock on the door to the corridor sent a shiver of terror down her spine. She heard a voice say something, but the words did not register. She recognised that voice. It was Hugo's valet, come to tell her. She must be strong. She must not disgrace his memory.
She turned towards the opening door.
"Emma."
This voice came from behind her, from the door to the sitting room. It sounded like Hugo's voice. But that was impossible, wasn't it?
She turned, saw, and sank to the floor in a dead faint.
Hugo rushed across to catch her, but he was too late. He knelt to take his wife in his arms. She was deathly pale. He was not sure that she was breathing.
His valet seemed to appear from nowhere. "Sir," he began, "I came to see if you wanted—" He broke off at the sight of that white face. "Shall I fetch madam's abigail?"
"Out!" Hugo cried furiously, raising his eyes from Emma's face for only a second. "Leave us!"
The valet scuttled for the door.
Hugo pulled Emma into his arms and swung her from the floor. He felt as if he had the strength of ten as he carried her across to his bed and laid her tenderly on top of the covers. His precious wife. She must come back to him. She must forgive him.
He prised his robe from her grasp but, when he tried to take the letter, he could not. She held it fast. How cold she was. He put his hands over hers, willing the warmth from his own body into her freezing fingers. It was not enough. He pulled the covers out from the far side of the bed and wrapped them round her. She was shivering now. And her eyes were closed.
It was not enough.
He dragged himself out of his coat and tore off the rest of his clothing, ignoring the sound of ripping cloth and popping buttons. Then he slid between the covers and took her in his arms. Still, it was not enough. He slid his hands down her silken wrapper until he found the belt. He pulled it apart and drew her naked body into his, covering her with his limbs. At last, her shivering began to wane.
He put his lips to her ear. "Emma," he whispered, "Emma, my love, my darling, come back to me." He dropped a tiny kiss on the corner of her jaw. "Emma—"
Her eyes flickered and closed again. She pushed even closer into his warmth.
"Emma? Emma, speak to me."
"No," she said, whispering into his chest. "I can't. I want to feel you holding me, to know that you are safe."
He could feel her tears on his skin. And the stiff paper of his letter was digging into his ribs. He eased it out and threw it on the floor, wondering how it was that she had come to read it. He would ask her. Later.
Her tears seemed to have stopped. She was feathering tiny kisses across his chest. When she reached the long scar, she continued her trail, down towards his belly. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. It was too much. He groaned in dismay as his body began to heat even more. They were much too close. Now was not the time.
He made to put her from him, to leave her to recover from her swoon, but she would not let him go. The moment she felt his withdrawal, she clung to him with more strength than he would have thought possible from such a tiny frame. "Emma, let me go," he said gently, trying to remove her fingers from his arm. "You need to rest now, my love. I will come back later, I promise."
She lifted her head from his burning skin and fixed him with a stern glare. "What I need now, Hugo Stratton, is you," she said decisively. He had left her once already this day. She would not permit him to do so again. She lowered her head and began to flick her tongue over his skin, moving slowly down his body. When she reach his navel, he groaned with pleasure. She smiled against his skin and kissed his flat belly.
"Now, Hugo," she commanded.
"Hugo, are you awake?"
"No." He gently pulled her closer, so that her back and bottom curved into his body and she could feel his legs caressing her all the way down to her toes. It felt heavenly to be so loved. He had slept with his arm encircling her waist, but now he slid his hand idly down on to her belly. She turned into him, before he could divert her yet again. She had to tell him.
She touched her hand to his new wound. It was not serious, though there would probably be a scar. Another scar. She ran her finger down the silver line on his face, from forehead to chin, then placed her palm gently over his cheek. She had explained about the letter. That was simple. She had apologised for her hot, hurtful words when he came to her in the garden. But there was something more he had to understand, something much more important. "Hugo, that night in the garden, I—"
"Hush. I know you did not go willingly into Kit's arms."
"But I did."
Hugo went very still under her hand.
"I thought it was you."
The stillness vanished in an instant. Hugo rolled over, taking her with him, so that she lay on her back and he could look down into her beautiful eyes. They were wide and loving and honest as they gazed up into his. "I don't understand," he said softly, the question clear in his voice.
"I thought I was alone. I was daydreaming, I suppose. It was such a magical place in the moonlight, so still, so exotic. I was dreaming that the man I loved would appear out of the gloom and sweep me into his arms. And when Kit appeared, I opened my eyes and…it was you I saw. It sounds so strange, now, though you are quite alike, I suppose."
Hugo stroked her cheek lovingly. "Mmm?"
"And then he kissed me and, in that moment, I knew it was not you."
Hugo laughed deep in his throat. "Kit would be mightily displeased if he ever l
earned that. He thinks himself the most accomplished of lovers."
"Oh," said Emma, blushing. "I—oh, dear."
"Do you know, wife," said Hugo huskily, trailing his fingers down her throat and on to her breast, "you are quite delightful when you blush. It starts on your throat, here—" he kissed the spot "—and it rises into your cheek, here—" he kissed that spot, too "—but, at the same time, it travels down to—" He began to feather kisses down her neck and on to her breasts, both now thoroughly rosy. "Whenever I see you blush in company, I shall know that, under your gown, you are blushing too, in places that are reserved for me alone."
"Hugo," said Emma in a constricted whisper, "how can you say such a thing? I shall never dare to look at you in company if that is what you are thinking. I shall do nothing but blush."
"Mmm," he said teasingly. "I shall look forward to that." He eased himself between her thighs and began to kiss her breasts in earnest until she moaned in response. Lifting his head, he said, "I shall be thinking of things much, much more exciting than mere blushes, my love. And I dare say that, eventually, you will become accustomed."
She tried to hide her face in his shoulder, but he rolled over on to his back, never letting go of her for a second. He lay back on the pillows and laughed up at her as she tried to push herself out of his embrace. She could not look at him.
"By the bye, wife, I have received a letter—from the Duke."
"York?" said Emma, turning back to him in horror. His Royal Highness was Forster's patron. And Hugo had just ruined the man.
"No. Wellington," Hugo said with a grin of triumph. "He wrote to felicitate me on my marriage. He hopes to make the acquaintance of my lady wife at an early date."
"But he already knows me," protested Emma "He has met me on several occasions."
"Ah, but he has not met Mrs Stratton, my love. You forget, perhaps, about the Duke's reputation with the ladies. You may have been safe from him when you were an innocent young debutante, but now that you are married, he will consider you fair game."
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 21
