by Donna Hatch
Tristan mumbled something unintelligible and took another long drink of brandy.
Richard rubbed his hands over his face. Tristan had always been wild. His devil-may-care attitude had gotten him into constant trouble, but with Tristan’s smooth tongue and famous charm, not to mention a great deal of work on Richard’s part, Tristan usually evaded deserving consequences.
Unless Richard acted, his brother could face an enemy’s sword or pistol. He could die. The thought froze Richard’s heart into a solid block of ice. He’d lost his parents. His sister, Selina, painted somewhere in Italy—far out of reach. He couldn’t bear it if he lost Tristan, too.
Dragging in a ragged breath, he ordered his thoughts. As head of the Barrett family, he could negotiate with the Duke of Pemberton and his son, the Marquis of Martindale. If they reached a concession, Pemberton could influence Martindale to refrain from delivering the formal written challenge to duel.
Pemberton’s price would probably be marriage to his daughter. Few dukes would settle on a second son, and an irresponsible lad of twenty-two at that, but under the circumstances, marriage between Tristan and Lady Elizabeth would be the best recourse. It was time his wayward brother faced the consequences for his actions. He must take responsibility.
Yet, who would have thought such a timid creature as Lady Elizabeth would fall for the charms of a rake? In what little Richard had seen of her, Lady Elizabeth had seemed a sensible, if painfully shy, girl. Nevertheless, Tristan’s powers of seduction were legendary, and apparently, even young ladies of good breeding were not immune to his charm.
Or perhaps Lady Elizabeth possessed dubious morals. Too many women had such a failing, as his mother had proved, and as he feared his sister, Selina, may yet demonstrate.
Richard stopped pacing. “I’ll speak to Pemberton in the morning before matters get further out of hand.”
Tristan finally looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I shall convince him to intercede.”
“No.” Tristan straightened, and a determined glint entered his eyes. “If Martindale wishes to issue the challenge, I will accept.”
“Don’t be an idiot. This is no time for misplaced heroism.”
“This is my problem. I’ll duel him.”
“Absolutely not. I don’t mean to stand by and watch you get shot, or stabbed by a rapier. Even though you deserve it.”
Tristan arose and stood remarkably erect considering the amount of brandy he’d just consumed. “You will not interfere. You’ve done that my entire life and I refuse to allow you to do it again. I can look after myself.”
“You aren’t responsible enough to look after yourself. This incident is further proof.”
“I’m not a child. I am fully capable of fighting—and winning—a duel. Stop meddling in my affairs.”
Meddling? Interfere? A dark and ugly force took hold of Richard. He cursed. How could his own brother turn on him? He’d looked after his brother all his life, bloodying noses of boys who bullied Tristan, taking the blame—and often the whippings—for Tristan’s pranks, and protecting his younger brother from himself. That Tristan viewed his protection as meddling twisted in Richard’s gut.
Richard made a sharp gesture. “Fine. Fight your duel. Get yourself killed. I’ll be rid of the headache of pulling you out of a new scrape every week.” Despite his angry words, the thought of his only brother facing such danger left him cold. Dark panic welled up.
Tristan’s eyes took on that cocky, invincible gleam Richard knew all too well. “I’m the best fencer in Angelo’s and I shoot better than the Duke of Suttenberg. I’ll win.”
“Then what? Are you prepared to kill her brother?”
Tristan’s gaze wavered and he wetted his lips. “Neither of us would risk being caught dueling. If we simply fight to first-blood, the authorities will never know, and no one will die.”
“Do you have any idea how many minor wounds can turn fatal? Father’s wound wasn’t much worse than what one might receive from first blood.”
Tristan strode to the dark windows. After resting his hand on the panes a moment, he turned back, his shoulders squared. “I refuse to live in fear of what might be. Do not speak to the duke, do not speak to the marquis, do not intervene in any way. I mean to see this through.”
At least Tristan was taking this seriously. For a change. A part of Richard admired the pup’s willingness to take the consequences of his actions—but this was not the time. The stakes were too high. Richard rubbed the space between his eyes where a headache throbbed.
He ground his teeth and delivered the killing blow. “Fight this duel and I will cut off your funds. Completely.”
Tristan swung back around, his jaw dropping. “You wouldn’t!”
Richard folded his arms and glared back, openly daring Tristan to challenge the ultimatum. Though the ruthless tactic made him feel a beast, Richard said nothing. If he opened his mouth, he would tell Tristan just how terrified he was at the thought of losing him.
Fury rippled off Tristan in tangible waves and Richard fisted his hands, bracing himself against his brother’s rage.
After letting out a stream of expletives that would have impressed a sailor and condemning Richard to Hades, Tristan let out a growl. “You win. You always do.” Tristan wrenched the door open and left Richard alone.
Richard’s victory tasted bitter as he stalked the corridor toward his room, cursing his brother, cursing the house party, and cursing women in general. Normally, he avoided house parties. They always proved to be excuses for debauchery or a prelude to the parson’s trap. However, Lord Einsburgh hosted outstanding foxhunts, and hunting was one of the few indulgences Richard allowed himself.
“Richard?” Leticia Wentworth’s familiar voice halted his footsteps.
As he waited for her to catch up, he tried to get his breathing under control.
Still wearing her silk evening gown, she approached. “Goodness, what a frightful scowl.” She briefly brushed her fingers along his forehead in a comfortable, intimate gesture. “Do you fear the worst, then?”
The knots in his chest eased at her touch. “I do. I only hope Pemberton can be coaxed to intervene. I doubt he wishes to see his son duel any more than I wish that for Tristan.”
Leticia nodded with a slight frown. “The grievance is serious, however. Much is at stake.” She let out a sigh. “I have to admit; I’m not terribly surprised. Tristan rarely thinks through the consequences of his actions. I’d always feared his impulsive nature would get him into more trouble than you could get him out of.”
“The duke will probably demand marriage.” Despite Tristan acting like a randy youth, he had reached his majority, so age wasn’t a barrier, though Tristan wasn’t a peer, being born the son of an earl certainly didn’t make him beneath Lady Elizabeth’s status.
Concern etched Leticia’s face. “Will Tristan agree to marry her?”
“He’ll have little choice,” Richard said darkly. “I’ll thrash him, else.”
She squeezed his arm, soothing him the way she had in childhood. Due to Leticia’s height, their eyes met easily. He’d never been presumptuous enough to kiss her. He’d always planned to marry her but hadn’t found the right time. She smiled, and the edges of the ice in his chest thawed.
She tightened her grip on his arm. “You’re worried.”
“Do not concern yourself, Tish. All will be well. I won’t allow my brother to be harmed.”
“I know you won’t. I have faith in you. Good night.” She kissed his cheek before gliding away.
His tension faded as he watched her retreating form. She’d grown from a freckle-faced girl with skinned knees into a lovely, poised, and gracious lady. Yes, she would make a fine countess. He’d see to that before the Season’s end. Now if only he could beat some sense into his brother and marry him off to the promiscuous chit who no doubt deserved him.
In his room, Richard paced, trying to find words to convince the Duke of Pemberton to prev
ent a duel.
Chapter Three
Head bowed, Elizabeth sat in a straight-backed chair in the sitting room of her parents’ guest suite. She wanted to raise her head and stand up to her parents but she deserved their scorn after her actions tonight. No one who lived upon the mercy of others had any right to make demands.
The candles sputtered, casting an eerie, fitful light over the room. The scarlet fabric of the furniture appeared blood red, as if foreshadowing the duel.
In a rage, Father stood over her. “How could you have been so stupid? We’ve taught you better.”
Elizabeth slumped. Disappointing Father pained her more than Tristan’s apparent abandonment. After all, if it weren’t for Father, she’d be a penniless, fatherless orphan.
Duchess sat, grim-faced, opposite her. Disapproval radiated off her. Her white knuckles and heaving chest foretold of Elizabeth’s looming punishment. Waves of dizziness encompassed Elizabeth. No doubt, she would have to take to her bed and pretend another illness while she recovered from the lashing that would surely come the moment they returned home. Worse than the looming punishment, the pain of Tristan’s abandonment eclipsed all else. The memory of his retreating back twisted her stomach into knots upon knots.
A single ray of hope edged into her heart; perhaps he had retreated to afford them time to find a solution. She clung to that idea. She loved him. She’d be a poor wife if she doubted him at the first test of their love.
Elizabeth glanced at her brother, searching for signs of his thoughts. Glowering, Martindale stood gripping the back of a settee but Elizabeth could not discern whether he was angrier at Tristan or at her.
Duchess made a sound of disgust. “Your sisters never acted with such a lack of sense.”
The unspoken reminder, because they were her daughters, and not children of an actress, echoed in Elizabeth’s head. Those same words lashed her ears each time Elizabeth knelt, bared and trembling, while the duchess punished her. Duchess always repeated her warnings to Elizabeth not to be a fallen woman like her mother, to be more grateful to the ducal family for their kindness in taking her in and presenting her as a legitimate daughter, castigating her for failing to be more like her sisters, and threatening her if she failed.
Father continued to rail. “Your rashness has led to your ruin!”
Elizabeth lifted her head. “We didn’t—”
Father turned with clenched fists. Elizabeth flinched and clamped her mouth shut. He stood over her, his face mottled and purple. She’d never feared he would strike her until now.
“You were caught in the arms of a known libertine,” Father raged. “It doesn’t matter what you didn’t do.”
“Perhaps, if Tris—ah, Mr. Barrett, will marry me―”
“Never! No daughter of mine shall marry a disreputable rake, much less a second son.” He turned and resumed pacing. Whether he spoke out of pride, or a desire to punish her, or some other plan he had not yet announced, she could not say, but she wouldn’t so easily give up Tristan. Somehow, she and Tristan must convince Father love was more important than social standing. Besides, a girl could do worse than the brother of a wealthy, powerful earl.
Duchess made a sharp gesture. “You’ve shamed the whole family and you’ve placed Joanna’s future at risk.”
Fighting tears, Elizabeth fell silent. It always came back to her sisters, how she ought to think of them, how they were so wonderful and she was such a failure at everything she did. The only thing she succeeded in doing was bringing continuous disappointment to the family name. Tonight, she brought scandal. If only they understood how wonderful Tristan truly was.
Recalling Tristan’s tenderness gave her courage. If he loved her, she must be worthwhile. She raised her head and squared her shoulders, she appealed to her father. “He’s a good man, Father, honorable, gentle, kind. I love him and he loves me.”
“He’s a rake!” her father shouted. “He’s famous for his love-affairs. I’ll not have our name associated with his.”
“Use your head,” said Duchess. “You’ve known him for five days. He cannot possibly love you. Even if marriage is on his mind, it’s only for your dowry. No respectable man will have you now.”
The words “because you have nothing else to offer” went unspoken, but Elizabeth heard them all too well; words they’d hurled at her each time she’d perform poorly on her harp, and when she couldn’t overcome her shyness enough to make witty conversation, and too many other instances she refused to face at that moment. She should be used to it, yet her heart broke a little more each time she failed to find approval. She wondered why she tried.
Father made a sound of disgust. “I can’t believe you would be so foolish. If you had to set your cap at someone, you should have chosen the elder brother. Not only is he an earl, but his moral character is spotless. Lord Averston is a great deal like his late father. The younger brother has absolutely nothing to recommend him.” He growled and turned away.
Elizabeth seldom cried in front of her parents but tonight, all her strength went to holding her tears at bay. They didn’t know Tristan at all. Underneath that flirtatious exterior was a warm and intelligent man. He, of all people, saw in her a person of worth.
Re-gathering her courage, she moistened her lips and steadied her voice. “I acted with exceedingly poor judgment. What I did was inexcusable. I shall, of course, do what I must to rectify the situation, to save our family honor. If, as you say, no respectable man will have me, then it stands to reason that my only choice is to marry the man who will have me, even if he’s a younger son.”
“Be silent,” Duchess snapped, “and leave the thinking to those whose judgment is sound.”
“No daughter of mine shall make such a poor match.” Father made a gesture toward her brother. “It’s in Martindale’s hands now.”
Elizabeth risked a look at Martindale who’d been silent through the entire interchange. He stood scowling darkly, his posture stiff. They’d never been close, but the thought of her brother crossing swords or pistols with an armed opponent made her blood chill. He could be hurt, even killed. As could Tristan. Fear squeezed her heart.
She rose and went to her brother, steeling herself against his look of censure. “I’m sorry.” Despite her best efforts, tears filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Martindale looked at her without expression for a long moment. Disheartened at the realization that she’d find no forgiveness from any quarter, she dropped her gaze.
“I know,” he finally replied quietly. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
What had remained of her control melted at his unexpected concern, and her tears flowed in earnest. “No, of course he didn’t.” She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “Please don’t duel. If you should be harmed…”
Martindale stiffened and drew himself up. “I won’t recant. As promised, I will follow the gentleman’s code and deliver the formal challenge in the morning. Our family has settled sensitive matters such as this successfully for generations. I will uphold tradition.” He patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. “All will be well.”
Nothing would be well. A niggling fear whispered all chance at happiness had perished.
Chapter Four
Richard awoke when his valet Wesley entered his bedroom and pulled open the bed curtains. Surprised he’d slept despite hours of tossing, Richard rubbed his eyes.
“My lord, the duke’s valet brought his master’s breakfast tray to him a moment ago.”
Richard sat up. “Thank you, Wesley. Did you request an audience with the duke?”
“It’s done, my lord.”
Outside, pink and lavender glimmered at the far eastern horizon, leaving the rest of the sky blanketed in blackness. Richard washed and dressed with care, then stood clenching and unclenching his hands. Unable to eat, he drank a cup of tea without tasting it as he awaited a reply from the duke.
Morning did not diminish his concern over the grave situation between his
family and the Pembertons. Nor did it soothe his ire toward his idiotic brother.
Part of the blame lay upon the duke’s daughter. Empty-headed chit. She should have known better than to go off alone with a man, especially a known rake. If she’d had an ounce of sense, she would have refused and they would all have been spared that charming little scene in the garden.
Richard jumped at a scratching at his door. Scrabbling at his self-control, he took several deep breaths and pressed opened palms against his thighs.
Wesley answered the door, and returned. “The Duke of Pemberton has agreed to see you now, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Nerves turned Richard’s stomach to stone as he strode to the duke’s suite.
An elderly valet admitted him into the sitting room decorated in crimson and gold, and bid him wait to be announced. Richard caught himself drumming his fingers on his thigh, and forced his hands to remain still. It would not do to reveal his unease to the Duke of Pemberton. Surely, the duke would be reasonable. However, Richard had dealt with Pemberton during sessions of House of the Lords. While His Grace had always been affable to Richard, he’d also shown a disturbing ability to deal with his opponents with ruthlessness. The thought of failing both Tristan and his family honor left a ragged hole in his chest.
He drew a breath and let it out slowly. Facing his own duel surely would not be as alarming.
The valet returned. “His Grace will see you now.”
Richard drew himself up. He would not fail.
The duke entered from an adjoining bedroom. An imposing man, despite his casual attire in Cossack trousers and a banyan draped stylishly around his frame and tied at the waist, Pemberton eyed Richard without a trace of emotion.
Pemberton’s sandy brown hair had grayed at the temples but his fit form belonged to a younger man. Richard stood a few inches taller than the duke, just above eye level. At least there would be no intimidation on that front.
Richard bowed, and stood unflinching, returning a frank stare of his own. “Your Grace, thank you for seeing me at such an early hour.”
