by Anna Bradley
Atherton had knocked him down, and now he’d disgraced himself by shooting ahead of the signal. It didn’t matter whether it was done by design or accident. Either way, Robyn needed no further justification to lodge a bullet right between Atherton’s eyes.
Atherton had insulted Lily—grievously insulted her. Robyn tightened his finger on the trigger, and yet still he hesitated as an image rose in his mind.
Lily, her face white, begging him not to duel with Atherton.
If he killed Atherton, he wouldn’t be the only one to carry the burden of the man’s death. Lily would carry it, too. Could he do that to her? Justified or not, this was murder, pure and simple. How could he ever deserve Lily if he had Atherton’s blood on his hands?
Even if he never held her again, he wanted to deserve her.
Mere seconds had passed since Atherton had taken his shot. Was that all it took, then? Seconds? It seemed a pitifully brief amount of time for a life’s worth of mistakes and regrets to drift through his mind.
Yet it was enough.
Robyn knew what he had to do, and he’d no longer hesitate.
He pulled his spine straight and focused on Atherton’s left eye, his touch on the trigger so light, delicate, no more than a whisper, but enough, just enough . . .
Crack! The sound ripped through the quiet morning, but Robyn didn’t hear it. The pistol kicked hard in his hand, but he didn’t feel it. He focused only on his opponent. Atherton’s head jerked back with the force of the bullet. He looked stunned as his knees gave out from under him and he toppled forward.
His face hit the ground.
Robyn let his arm fall to his side. He held the pistol loosely in his fingers. Stafford and the surgeon leapt toward Atherton, then hovered over the prone body.
Robyn waited. It was a long time before Stafford stood. When he did, he turned to Robyn, an unmistakable look of admiration on his face.
Then he and the doctor helped Atherton to his feet.
“You missed,” Atherton hissed when Robyn drew close enough to hear him.
Robyn stepped forward until his face was inches from Atherton’s. He flicked a dispassionate eye over the bloody wound where his bullet had grazed Atherton’s cheekbone.
“I never miss,” he said, his voice soft, deadly. “That’s going to leave a nasty scar, Atherton. Let it be a reminder to you, and a warning. If I ever hear you breathe a word against Miss Somerset, I’ll challenge you again. I won’t miss then, either.”
Atherton’s face drained of color.
Satisfied, Robyn turned to walk back to Archie and Alec.
That’s when he saw her.
Lily, on her knees on the ground, face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Without a word, he strode over to her, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the carriage.
* * *
Alec did not look happy. He stood next to the carriage, shaking with a combination of rage and fear.
“What in the devil possessed you to . . . a dueling field, Delia? One of the most dangerous stunts . . . damned foolish . . . and with my child, no less!”
Alec was so incensed, he could hardly string a sentence together, but Delia seemed to understand him easily enough. She placed her hands on her hips. “I couldn’t very well leave your child behind, could I?”
Alec gaped at her, then stomped forward and snatched open the carriage door. “Get in. We’ll discuss this—” He seemed surprised to see Lily and Robyn already seated in the carriage. “What the devil—”
Delia took her husband’s arm with a heavy sigh. “We’ll travel in yours, my lord.” She dragged him toward the carriage he and Robyn had arrived in. “Archie, you’ll meet us at Lady Catherine’s? She’ll be frantic until she sees Robyn with her own eyes.”
Robyn reached forward and slammed the carriage door closed. “Lily.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his lap. “What are you doing here?”
He rubbed his hands over her back. So many conflicting emotions washed over him at once, he couldn’t tell how to disentangle one from another. Anger, yes, because she’d so carelessly risked her safety, but gratitude, as well. She was here—she’d come here for him. Joy, so profound it stole his breath, but also a paralyzing doubt. She was in his arms now, but how long would she stay there?
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his throat.
Hope.
“I made a terrible mistake,” she gasped against him. “I’m so sorry, Robyn, so—”
He eased her backward on his lap and tipped her face up to his with gentle fingers under her chin. “Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Yes, that’s it. Now tell me.”
She pressed her palms to either side of his face. “I made a terrible mistake. When you told me of the duel I . . . all I could think was I’d lose you, and I couldn’t bear it, and I said terrible things. I do trust you, Robyn, with my life, even, and—”
She wasn’t finished, but Robyn couldn’t keep from kissing her then. She kissed him back with a hunger that made him shake, but before he could coax her mouth to open under his, she pulled away.
“I can’t think when you kiss me,” she said. “I have to say this. I made Delia bring me because I couldn’t let you get hurt . . . I couldn’t let you . . .”
Her voice shook and he knew she was thinking he could have died today. He brushed the hair back from her face. “Shh, love. Hush. It’s all right now. It’s all right.”
She grabbed his wrist. “No, please let me say this. I behaved like a coward, Robyn. I was so afraid I’d lose you, I pushed you away, and I know I hurt you terribly. If you’d died today believing I’d left you, believing I didn’t care for you, I could never have forgiven myself.”
She pressed kisses against his eyes, his cheeks, and his chin, then slid her fingers into his hair and leaned forward to kiss his forehead.
Robyn’s throat closed at the sweetness of it. “Do you care for me, Lily? Do you forgive me?”
She pulled back to look into his eyes. “Forgive you? All the way here I prayed to have a chance to beg you to forgive me. I love you, Robyn, so, so much. Please forgive me.”
Robyn groaned. He closed his hands hard around her waist and let his face fall into her hair. Warm grass, sunshine, and daisies. He’d spend his entire life learning every nuance of her scent. “Ah, my Lily. I love you, too. So much it hurts.”
“No more hurt, Robyn, not for either of us.”
Robyn took her mouth then and let his kiss speak for him, telling her without words of the love and passion he felt for her.
No more hurt, and no more need for forgiveness.
Epilogue
Alexander Robert Henry Sutherland, heir to the Carlisle earldom, was born on a Tuesday, at 4:43 a.m., exactly 8 months and 27 days after Delia and Alec’s wedding.
Robyn leaned his head back against a stack of pillows and swung his legs up on the bed. “Well, that should force more than one high stickler to bite her wagging tongue.”
Lily stuck her head out of her dressing closet. “Oh, they quieted some time ago. They quite lost hope after Delia passed her eighth month.”
Robyn tugged at his cravat. “Odd-looking child, don’t you think? Poor thing looks like Alec.”
Lily had disappeared back into her dressing closet, but at this, she stuck her head out again for a scold. “Robyn! What an awful thing to say!”
Robyn tossed his cravat to the floor, quickly followed by his coat. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how red and wrinkled he is.”
“All babies are red and wrinkled. He’s a beautiful child. In fact, I heard your mother say he looks just like you did when you were born.”
Robyn paused in the process of unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Good Lord.”
Lily poked her head around the corner of the dressing closet again, but she kept her body out o
f sight. “He may be red and wrinkled now, but I think he stands a fair chance of growing up to be as devastatingly handsome as his uncle.”
“If I’m so devastatingly handsome, why are you hiding back there? I don’t care for these large apartments. How can I ever get my hands on you if you’ve got so many places to hide?”
After their wedding, Lady Catherine had insisted they take the master’s apartments at the Mayfair town house until the renovations were complete on their own new home in Berkeley Square. Lily had protested the extravagance of purchasing the house, but her grandmother had insisted upon it, arguing that if Lily was obliged to live with “that scoundrel, young Sutherland,” she at least deserved a lovely home.
“You had your hands on me all morning,” Lily reminded him.
Robyn’s waistcoat hit the floor and he began on his shirt. “That was ages ago, Mrs. Sutherland. Now either you come out, or I’ll come in there and fetch you myself.”
He rose from the bed and advanced on her dressing closet with a growl.
Lily ducked back behind the corner with a little squeal. “I have a surprise for you.”
Robyn stopped, his shirt hanging loose. “Do you? I’m intrigued. What sort of surprise?”
“The kind of surprise you love most. Now, go and lie down on the bed and close your eyes, and if I catch you peeking, I promise you I’ll dash back into the closet.”
Robyn decided any movement toward the bed was a step in the right direction, so he did as he was told. “All right. My eyes are closed.”
He heard Lily creep across the floor. It sounded as though her feet were bare. He hoped the rest of her was, as well.
“Open your eyes.”
He opened them to find Lily standing at the foot of the bed in her wrapper. “Are you naked under there?”
Lily giggled. “Not quite.”
Robyn leaned up on his elbows. “I don’t care for surprises that don’t involve you being naked.”
Lily began to untie the sash at her waist. “Indeed? What a shame. I suppose I’ll have to save these for another gentleman, then.”
The knot on the sash fell open, and Lily let the silk wrapper slither to the floor.
Robyn’s jaw went slack. “Are those . . . breeches?”
Lily gave a little wiggle of her hips. “Yes. Do you like them?”
She stood before him clad only in a pair of tight-fitting breeches.
He ran a hand across his mouth. “Like them?”
He lunged for her, but Lily skipped away before he could catch her in his arms and drag her onto the bed. “Is that a yes? Or dear me, is it a no? You must not like them, for you seem quite anxious to get them off me.”
Robyn came to his knees on the bed, prepared to lunge for her a second time. “Where—where did you get them?” He groaned when Lily turned with another little wiggle to show him the back view.
She smiled flirtatiously at him over her bare shoulder. “I had them made a while ago. I’ve been waiting for the right time to show them to you.”
Robyn shook his head as if to clear it, then he began to creep toward the end of the bed, still on his knees. “Is there a . . . wrong time?”
Lily, who was more than ready to be caught, pretended not to notice him preparing to pounce on her. “No wrong time? Well, then, perhaps I’ll wear them to the theater tomorrow night.”
Robyn launched himself at her, grabbed her around the waist, and tossed her onto the bed. He was on top of her in a flash, pinning her with his body. Lily shrieked and laughed and pretended to struggle against him.
“The theater? Oh, I don’t think so, my love.” He ran his hands up her thighs and across her hips. “It would cause a riot, you know, because then every man in London would want what’s mine.”
Lily arched against him as his hands slid from her hips to her bottom. He filled his palms with a generous handful of her curves and pulled her hard against him. She moaned as she felt his other hand tear at the buttons of her breeches.
He caught her moan in his mouth. His tongue teased at her lips, then he pressed his mouth against her ear. “You wouldn’t want to cause a scandal, would you, Mrs. Sutherland?”
Lily slid her hands inside his open shirt to caress his chest. “Scandal? I care nothing for scandal. It’s far too late for that, I’m afraid. I’ve already married the wickedest gentleman in London.”
Author’s Note
There is some discrepancy in the scholarship regarding the year the waltz was first danced at Almack’s. While some date it as early as 1813, others argue the waltz was not danced at Almack’s until much later—closer to 1815. Some scholars credit Lady Jersey with bringing the waltz to Almack’s hallowed halls, whereas others credit Countess Dorothea von Lieven with having introduced the scandalous dance to Almack’s esteemed guests sometime in 1814.
For the purposes of Lily and Robyn’s story, the author asks the indulgence of the reader for taking artistic license and assuming that by 1814 the waltz would have been known at Almack’s and also to English society, yet still considered risqué enough that young ladies who were not yet “out” (had not yet been presented at Court) were prohibited by the Almack’s patronesses from participating in the dance. To dance the waltz without permission was considered a deadly social transgression, one from which Lily’s reputation would not have recovered.
Almack’s patronesses were well known among London society for their strict adherence to the rules of propriety. In Chapter 7, Eleanor mentions to Lily and Lady Catherine that the Duke of Wellington himself would not be permitted to cross Almack’s threshold should he arrive later than 11 p.m. This is a reference to a rumor circulating in London in 1814 that the duke was refused entrance to Almack’s, either because he arrived late or because he was wearing trousers rather than the requisite knee breeches considered the proper attire at Almack’s.
One hopes the duke might have had better luck had he made this attempt after his defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815, but considering the rigid propriety observed by Almack’s patronesses, this is by no means certain.
Anna Bradley is the author of the first Sutherland Scandals novel, A Wicked Way to Win an Earl. She lives with her husband and two children in Portland, Oregon. Visit her online at annabradley.writerspace.com, facebook.com/annabradley472, and twitter@annabradley472.
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