The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  CHAPTER 6

  DUET

  A musical composition for two vocal or instrumental performers

  He must like pain. Wolfgang paused before the stairs. There could be no other reason to be at her door.

  He must want a broken bone or two to go along with the black eye, the scratch, and the ache in his groin. The black eye maybe he deserved, but the scratch was another matter. He had felt her stiffen, heard her say no, and he’d stopped. Damnation, he’d stopped and she’d scratched him anyway. If he had any sense at all, he would walk away and never seek her out again. Sighing, he put a foot on the bottom step. He wasn’t known for his good sense, was he? Perhaps he should do as he’d threatened and help her find just the husband she wished for. In a year or so he could look her up. When she was ripe with boredom and dissatisfaction. He took another step. Lucifer’s scaly skin, it shouldn’t be so difficult to think of her with another man.

  He sighed again. If she agreed to see him today, would he try to make amends or continue his mad pursuit? Damned if he knew.

  Wolfgang’s fingers were at the knocker before the door swung open. The little butler’s clairvoyant powers were slipping. No, today’s guardian of the inner sanctum was a tiny redhead.

  “My lord, she’s not in.” Wide green eyes furtively scanned his face. “No one is home unless young master Fleetwood is still abed.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “My lord, Miss Zel and Mrs. Stanfield are walking the dog in Hyde Park.” She looked hesitantly up the street, then pulled farther back into the house. “I don’t know as you should try to see her. She’s still angry.”

  “Angry?” Wolfgang smiled innocently. “At me?”

  “Oh, my lord, please stay away, at least for a few days.” He noticed the faint yellow of an old bruise on her jaw and cheek and tried to catch her gaze.

  “I’ll take a turn in the park.” He handed her his card. “If I happen to miss her, please let her know I came by.”

  The sky was dotted with clouds, the air had that just-washed freshness only a spring shower can bring. A pleasant day for a walk in what would be a nearly deserted park. Clearly Zel walked for the exercise, as it was far too early to be seen. And much of the fashionable crowd would still be in Paris. He fingered the dog treats in his pocket. Thanks to his valet, when he met up with that beast she called a dog, he’d be prepared.

  After an hour of circling the park he had not spotted her. Wolfgang leaned against a tree, closing his eyes. He could still envision her as she’d looked last night, her supple form draped in liquid blue, her eyes effulgent with gold flame, the exposed upper curves of her breasts softly translucent. He’d played the gentleman as long as he could, but he wanted to touch her and he chose not to deny himself. When she parted her lips under his mouth and pressed the length of her body into his, desire had burst over its banks. Carried away at flood tide he had moved too far too fast and terrified her. But damming up the passion, a mighty struggle, had still not calmed her.

  He rubbed the raw abrasion scoring his cheek. The sleek, sable feline had claws. Pushing off the tree, he strode for the main path. Satan’s small clothes! He’d seen enough of Hyde Park to last a month.

  Thunder roared from a nearby stand of trees, followed instantaneously by a soft buzz as pain seared his right temple. Wolfgang stumbled to his knees, pitching forward into the soft mud. Dazed. Sticky liquid running down the side of his face.

  He lay there, minute after minute, conscious of his own breath moving in and out, keeping cadence with the arrhythmic thud of his heart. That part of his mind trained by war listened but heard only bird cry punctuated by the chatter of squirrels. The shot had come from the trees on his right. The oak he had leaned on was the only cover in range, and it was a good ten paces away. He’d never make it, and the little dagger in his waistcoat was a feeble defense against a pistol or rifle.

  Every muscle in his body tensed, ready for battle, as he forced himself to lie quiet and motionless as death itself. The minutes lengthened. Mud oozed damply through the layers of his clothing, chilling his skin. He supressed a shiver. The park was quiet save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the soft, soothing calls of animals.

  Wolfgang ran his fingers surreptitiously up the side of his face, through the trail of blood. The wound seemed slight, a parting of the skin over the right temple. Remembering how copiously the mildest head wounds bled, he pushed up to his knees. His head felt suddenly light, his vision spotty. He knelt, in silence, still nothing but the usual sounds of the park about him. The dizziness passed. Raf would be back from France, his home only blocks away. Wolfgang stood, yanking out his handkerchief, wiping blood off his face and mud off his jacket and waistcoat. He made his way through the park, drawing a few curious looks, but the scowl on his face kept at bay any offers of help.

  When he reached Rafael’s town house, the perfect, never ruffled butler escorted him to a small salon. “His Grace will be down shortly.” Crompton spared a short look at his face. “Do you require a physician, my lord?”

  “No, just send in Mrs. Saunders to help me clean up.”

  He flung himself on the nearest sofa, lowering his bleeding head into his hands. Mephisto, he felt tired, dulled. Was he injured more than he realized? His brain refused to work.

  “What kind of muddle have you gotten yourself into now?” Rafael Langford, the duke of Ridgemont, stood beside Wolfgang, his cultured voice more clipped than usual. Raf’s deceptively slight form bent smoothly over him while thin, immaculately groomed fingers pushed aside his matted hair to examine the wound. “You look like the devil himself, but it’s not much more than a flesh wound. I thought you had given up dueling.”

  “You know I haven’t even thought of dueling in years.” A frisson of anger constricted his throat. He swallowed it. Rafael, his friend since schooldays at Eton, was only trying to help in his sardonic manner. “Someone shot me in the park.”

  “A stray bullet?” Ridgemont’s golden brows rose.

  “No, Raf. I believe someone is trying to kill me.”

  The brows edged higher, but the sculpted face remained cool as marble. “This isn’t the first attempt?”

  “No, the first was nearly two weeks ago. I was attacked by footpads outside of Brooks’s.”

  “I’ve always told you those Whigs at Brooks’s are nothing but trouble, Wolf.”

  Mrs. Saunders entered, intrepidly sure of her place. Both men were quiet as she made quick work of cleaning the wound and wrapping a bandage around Wolfgang’s head. After she tucked in the edge of the cloth, Raf ushered her out the door, thanking her for her labors.

  “You believe the footpad attack was not a simple robbery?” Rafael seated himself gracefully on a carved ebony chair.

  “Between my coachman’s cudgel and my dagger, we convinced them that flight was the most judicious course.” Wolfgang rubbed at the bandage. “But as they fled, one complained that they’d better get the promised pay for the night’s work.”

  “I see your point, footpads are normally paid by the proceeds of their work. You think they were hired assassins?” Raf’s excessively handsome face revealed none of his internal cognition, but Wolfgang knew he was rapidly piecing together the puzzle, placing it into an ordered pattern.

  “I was suspicious enough to hire a runner, but as he turned up nothing, I began to doubt my assumptions.” Wolfgang swung an ankle up to rest on his knee. “Now this. Raf, the park was deserted. A stray bullet is too much of a coincidence.”

  “I agree, Wolf.” Rafael scratched his head, sending his carefully ruffled Brutus into wild disarray. “I’ll bring in a few of my best men. You can meet with them tomorrow, tell them all you can of both attacks. One will stay with you, install him as a footman. And alert your ex-army staffers.” He paused a moment. “Whom do you suspect?”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought. The list is longer than I care to admit.” Wolfgang rose, stalking to the fireplace. “There are, of course, my relative
s, who aren’t too happy that I’m head of the family. There’s Rosalind’s brother. He never approved of our marriage.” He traced the elaborate scrollwork along the mantel with his forefinger. “He was the first to accuse me of her death.”

  “And we can’t forget the cuckolded husbands, spurned lovers, and bested rivals.” Raf’s sarcastic tone had a bite. “Who would bear a serious grudge, and be capable of murder?”

  “The devil and his hellhounds! This is worse than I imagined. I haven’t been careful or kind.”

  “Then perhaps you deserve to be shot.”

  Wolfgang turned from the fireplace, glaring at him.

  “That scratch looks evil, and is that the remnant of a black eye? I hear you’ve been tangling with more than footpads and assassins. Now you’re taking on virgin bluestockings.” Rafael gave him an appraising look. “Tell me the whole story.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Wolfgang sighed broadly. He’d never win against Raf’s relentless questioning, so he might as well surrender now. “I suppose you’ll torture me if I don’t confess. I met her at the Selby’s house party, you know, the one you insisted I attend. The one to start me on the path of improving my standing in society.”

  Rafael sat a little straighter in his chair. “Am I to blame then for trying to help you reenter polite society, for helping you build your career in the House of Lords?”

  “Stop, I don’t need the lecture. I understand more laws are passed in drawing rooms than in the halls of Parliament.” He slumped into the chair opposite his tormentor. “I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

  “What about your bluestocking?”

  “Our association started on a high note, but has been at the bottom of the scale ever since.” He slouched further in the chair. “Every time I touch her, she hits me.”

  “That’s simple to deal with. Stop touching her. One line of gossip claims she’s your mistress, another that she rejected you, but you won’t give up.”

  “How the devil did you hear anything? You haven’t even been in England.” Wolfgang jumped to his feet. “She hasn’t really rejected me. She wants me, she just refuses to admit it. And she isn’t my mistress, yet.”

  A tiny smile touched Raf’s carved lips. “Wolf, this isn’t like you to pursue an unmarried woman, and an unwilling one.”

  “She isn’t unwilling.” He turned to the window, squirming under Rafael’s stare. “Well, she’s sort of unwilling, but not for long. There’s something between us and I want it. She does too. Once she admits it everything will be fine.”

  “Are you as confused as you sound?”

  “I know what I want. You’d understand if she kissed you the way she kissed me.”

  “You need to leave her alone.” Raf’s voice took on that paternal tone Wolfgang hated. “You’re looking for trouble seducing an unmarried miss.”

  “I won’t be trapped into marriage again. But I can’t leave her alone.” Wolfgang rubbed at his head. It throbbed and the blasted cloth itched. “I tell myself to stay away, but I don’t. I haunt her house. I follow her to parties.”

  “It’s the chase. You’re not accustomed to being refused.”

  “At first, I thought so too, but it’s more than that. There’s a spark—no, it’s more like a lightning bolt—between us, and I’m drawn to it even knowing the dangers.”

  Rafael’s voice went very soft. “Marry her.”

  Wolfgang choked. “Marry her? I’m barely surviving now. Marriage would kill me.” He lowered his tone. “I won’t marry again. Rosalind more than convinced me how unexalted that institution can be.” He left the window, approaching Raf’s chair. “But I’ve made a mess of Zel’s reputation. I introduced her to my aunt, but I don’t think that will help.”

  “Your aunt would be no help.” Raf laughed, a harsh bark. “Bring in the big guns. Introduce her to your grandmother. No one would cut her under Lady Darlington’s patronage.”

  “Perfect!” He pounded Rafael’s shoulder. “I’ll write Grandmama today. She’ll be in town soon anyway to represent me at some of the celebrations.” Wolfgang paused, frowning. “Smoking brimstone! I think they’ll like each other.”

  “Sounds like you’re in even deeper trouble than you think.”

  “You need to arrange for Zel to be presented to Grandmama.”

  “Shouldn’t you make your own introductions?”

  “Zel won’t talk to me.”

  “Wolf, this makes no sense.” He ran his finger across his lower lip. “Or perhaps … What does her refusal to talk with you have to do with those fresh nail tracks down your cheek?”

  “I pushed her too far last night. We made a scene.”

  Rafael moaned faintly. “How big a scene?”

  “No one saw us kissing.” Wolfgang lowered his head. “But several people saw us afterward finishing the fight.”

  “I don’t think I want to know more.” Raf leaned back in his chair, regarding Wolfgang through cool brown eyes. “Maybe bringing in your grandmother won’t be enough.”

  “Miss Fleetwood, may I introduce your dinner partner, His Grace, the duke of Ridgemont.” Lady Netherby presented a man of Zel’s height with pale brown hair and facial features so handsomely chiseled as to be almost beautiful.

  “Charmed, Miss Fleetwood, forgive my late arrival.” His bow over her hand was effortlessly graceful. Ridgemont tucked her hand into his elbow, walking her to the dining hall with the other couples. “I hope you didn’t fear you’d be seated alone.”

  “Your Grace.” Why was she, probably the lowest-ranking female at the gathering, paired with a duke—even if this duke, according to Lady Selby, was a friend to Wolfgang? She hoped she had not been a subject of their confidences, but suspected she had. Her suspicions were confirmed when Wolfgang, whom she’d studiously avoided, seated his partner across the table and the two men exchanged a veiled glance. The hostess had obviously not chosen Zel’s dinner partner. But what could Wolfgang and His Grace be plotting? Wolfgang’s companion hovered about him, leaning in so close she might as well be serving her mostly exposed breasts to him on a platter.

  “Miss Fleetwood, I believe you are acquainted with my friend Northcliffe and his dinner partner Lady Canning?” Lord Ridgemont gestured across the table.

  Zel nodded, thankful they were on the opposite side and she would not be required to engage them in conversation. Lady Canning was welcome to him.

  “And the gentleman on your left is Northcliffe’s cousin, Mr. Adam Hardwicke Clayton.”

  She turned to Clayton, offering her hand as she sat. “We have met. Good evening, Mr. Clayton.” Here again was the soft miniaturized version of Wolfgang. A tame puppy to his feral beast, bedecked in padded jacket and shirt points to his cheeks.

  “Miss Fleetwood.” He took her hand, raising it to his lips. She supposed the look he bestowed on her was a leer, but she did not feel at all threatened. Could a puppy leer?

  “Mr. Clayton. How is your mother?”

  “She is well, but had a previous engagement. She’ll regret missing you.” He belatedly released her hand. “A most unusual gown. Not in the common mode, old-fashioned, but enchanting on you.” Adam Clayton smiled at her chest. The Hardwicke family seemed cut from a similar mold, physically and morally.

  Zel looked to the duke of Ridgemont for rescue. He gallantly obliged. “Yes, I believe Miss Fleetwood will revive a previous fashion, with a new flair.” He smiled at her. “But your true flair is your music. I have it on the best authority that you are accomplished on the pianoforte.”

  “I do play with some skill.” She smiled, Wolfgang’s comments to his friend could not have been totally negative.

  “Good, no false modesty. After Lady Netherby’s tenor has assaulted our ears, will you heal us with a few melodies?”

  “Happily, if our hostess so desires.” Zel looked into his beautiful shuttered eyes. The eyes of a man who allowed the world to see only what he wished it to see.

  “Miss Fleetwood, I understa
nd you’ve become a dear friend of my cousin?” Mr. Clayton made a suggestive nod toward Wolfgang.

  “We are barely acquainted. I would hardly call us friends. Let alone dear friends.” She glared across the table where an eavesdropping Wolfgang gagged on his drink.

  “True, he seldom makes friends of women, especially lovely ones.” Clayton looked as though he might wink. Zel looked away, her eyes drawn to Wolfgang. He turned fully to her, watching her with the keen gaze that never failed to unnerve her.

  The scratch lines were red and ugly. He had made no attempt to cover them with bandage or cosmetics. There was also a new wound above the scratch, beginning at his right temple near his eye and disappearing into his thick black hair, just below the streak of silver. Her shock must have been obvious. He smiled, nodding slightly, as if to say, “See, you are not the only one who injures me.”

  Zel turned back to his cousin, confused, wishing she could hold on to last night’s fury. She feared the anger but found herself fearing the emotions that might replace it more. Was it this war of anger, fear, and desire that fueled her parents’ marriage? She tossed back her head. No, she was not like her mother. And she would never be trapped in such a relationship, never entangle herself with any man, never marry at all, except for Robin’s debts. Robin’s debts. That thought must be kept at the front of her mind.

  The duke’s sardonic humor made dinner pass quickly. But afterward Zel sat alone in the drawing room until Ridgemont led the men in to rejoin the women. He sat next to her on a bright gold divan. “I need to speak with you, privately.” The smooth murmur drifted inches from her ear. “There will be a brief intermission. Meet me on the terrace.”

  She twisted on the sofa, ready to archly refuse. But the coolness in his eyes and the ironic smile on his lips were strangely reassuring. She nodded her assent.

  The tenor’s voice was pleasing, his program Mozart, mostly from the Magic Flute. When the music ended she moved quickly to the terrace. Ridgemont joined her, settling them both on a stone bench, overlooking the garden.