“You cannot fight him.” Isabel grabbed his arm. “He is an excellent swordsman. He trains regularly.”
“So am I as luck would have it. I am out of practice, that I will admit, but I rather expect his training is a little different to how I was trained. I brawled enough in my younger years to learn a little more about fighting than merely jabbing a sword around the drawing room.”
Isabel's wide eyes pleaded with him. “Please. I could not bear it...”
Wilde put a hand to her face, caring little that he had an audience for his affections or that all three servants had gone from terrified for him to beaming with pleasure.
“I will not be harmed. Nor will I kill him. I have little intention of living up to my name. But he must be taught a lesson. He cannot go around claiming you are ruined and get away with it.”
She shook her head. “I care little for my reputation. Not when your life is at stake.”
“You may not, but I do. I must protect it.” He removed his hand from her face and glowered at Lighthall. “My sword, man. Where is it?”
“Your Grace—” the footman began.
“Lighthall, fetch my sword.”
Lighthall's shoulders slumped and he hastened away. Mrs. Potter pressed a hand to her chest and drew out a handkerchief to wave in front of her face as Timms paced into the drawing room and peered out of the window.
“They're almost ready,” the butler said. “With all that company, I'll be surprised if he fights clean.”
Wilde snorted. “Those boys do not scare me. One growl from me and they'll scatter.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Potter wailed. “Oh dear, oh dear. You shall be stabbed. Or worse.”
He turned his attention to Mrs. Potter. “What is worse than being stabbed?”
“Beheaded!” she declared.
“I am not going to be beheaded,” Wilde said patiently.
Isabel patted Mrs. Potter's arm then took Wilde by the shoulder and leaned in. “You have nothing to prove to me,” she murmured.
“I cannot back away from a fight, Isabel. It would be cowardly.”
“But you would be safe. I would rather you seem a coward than be dead.”
“I will not die. I will not be painted as a coward.” He gave a gentle smile. “I have spent too long living in fear of the world. Today I shall confront it. I have you to thank for that.”
“Don't you dare. I do not wish to be thanked for encouraging you to duel a man.”
“All will be well, I swear it.”
Lighthall returned with Wilde's sword. Thankfully it had been well looked after by the footman and was as shiny as the day Wilde had acquired it. He had never thought he'd actually have to use it, though. There had been many times when duels had been suggested in his past but somehow, he'd always managed to avoid them. Today, however, he had no intention of avoiding anything. For too long he'd remained hidden away, terrified of what people might say. Whatever they threw at him...beast, wife-killer, murderer...he would not have them say he ran away from a fight.
Chapter Thirteen
As they headed toward the patch of land on which Garth and his friends stood, Isabel had to clamp her hands together to keep them from shaking. Certainly, the duke was larger and stronger, but she had seen Garth practice his swordsmanship and he was skilled. Many of the young ladies in the village liked to talk of his talent—the words no doubt put in their heads by Garth himself.
But there were also his friends to consider. She trusted none of them. They were all as vain and as self-important as Garth and they worshipped him for the title he would inherit one day. What if one of them decided to step up for Garth?
The duke was having none of it though. She could likely drop to her knees and beg him to turn back but, unfortunately, she understood all too well why he wished to do this.
Garth had already removed his jacket and paced back and forth as they approached. Isabel picked up her pace and came to stand in front of Garth. He paused his pacing to puff out his chest and offer a smile.
“Go home, Garth,” she pleaded. “There is no need for this.”
“Let him be, Isabel. He has challenged me and I will not be dishonored,” The duke said.
Garth smirked. “See? The Beast is bloodthirsty. Let me fight him and teach him a lesson. Then we may return home together and announce—”
“I will not be returning with you,” she spluttered. “Garth, I have no interest in you or marriage to you or even riding home with you.”
Garth visibly flinched. He straightened his shoulders after a moment. “This Beast”—he thrust his sword in the duke’s direction — “has turned you against me. For that he must pay.”
“Please,” she tried one more time, “no one need get hurt.”
He smirked. “I will not.”
“Isabel.” Mrs. Potter took her arm and led her away. “These men will not listen to you,” she whispered. “Let them fight. His Grace is an excellent fighter but he will not kill him, you can be assured of that.”
“But his eyesight…” Isabel sucked in what she had hoped would be a calming breath. “His eyes are not what they were when he was younger. Surely that will affect his ability?”
Mrs. Potter merely took Isabel’s hand and gripped it tight. “All will be well, my love.”
The seconds stepped forward and Isabel struggled to swallow the knot in her throat. What would she do if the duke was hurt? Or worse, killed? She had only just come to know him. They had so much more to experience together. Talks in the library, reading books together…why she had even hoped once she had told the villagers of his good deeds that he would come to the village with her. Perhaps even attend an assembly or two. He would come to realize that there was so much of life that he was missing out on. Maybe…just maybe he would even kiss her again. Oh, Lord, she had to pray he did not get hurt.
The duke removed his jacket, handed it over to Timms and rolled up his sleeves. Mr. Lighthall acted as his second and Garth and the duke took their positions. Here on the open grass, there were at least no stone benches to tumble them, only the gently winding river that lead up to the village to their right. Were it not for the spectacle that was about to take place, it would be quite a wonderful day. Beautiful weather, books for her library and a kiss from a duke.
It could all go so horribly wrong if the duke did not keep the upper hand.
Garth stepped forward first, taking the first lunge. The sword hissed through the air and pinged against the duke’s. The breath stilled in her lungs and she gripped Mrs. Potter’s hand tighter than ever.
The men moved again, back and forth, their metal blades slicing the air. Each crash of them together made Isabel jolt. The desire to run forward and stand between them to stop this madness made her feet twitch.
But they moved too swiftly. Garth’s practiced moves were quick and refined. He gave the duke no time to recover. She noticed that he tried to stay on the duke’s right, where his sight would be worse. Her mouth grew dry. The duke might have no intention of killing anyone, but Garth…she could not say the same. The chances were he would do what he believed he must to save face.
The duke took another lunge, the sword sweeping past Garth’s arm and catching his shirt. Mrs. Potter gasped. Garth recovered from his shock quickly and retaliated hard. His strength did not match that of the duke’s though and the heavy blow did not appear to bother the duke.
In each movement, she saw their skill. The duke fought with heavier, less refined movements, like that of a man who had not learned all his skills by sparring. It gave him an advantage that made her heart hitch into her throat. She lifted her gaze to the skies. Please let this all be over soon.
When the duke had another near miss, his blade glancing Garth’s side as he dodged back, his enemy moved further to the right. It happened in a quick flash of movement. Isabel saw the light glint off Garth’s other hand as he moved it from his belt and it took a moment for her to realize what it was that had caught her eye.
> A knife.
In one hand Garth wielded a sword, in the other, a knife.
Garth deliberately let the duke get close then dodged his blade so that he could come close with the dagger. Isabel raced toward them before she was aware she had begun to move. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs. Potter shouted her name.
“No!” Isabel screamed.
The duke snapped his head around at the sound of her voice and as Garth leapt in with the dagger, his body twisted. A roar of pain left the duke as the dagger slid across his side. Isabel barreled forward, the desperation searing her body, revealing more strength than she ever knew she had. Her body hit Garth’s back and the man stumbled, taking Isabel down with him.
She rolled swiftly away and came to her feet before Garth could recover. Hauling in several deep breaths, she lifted her gaze to the duke. He withdrew his hand from his side and grimaced at the blood.
Lifting his blade to point it at Garth, he took a few steps forward and held the tip of his sword over the man. Garth’s eyes widened and he visibly trembled.
“You have a lot to learn about honor,” the duke said.
“What would you know about honor, Beast,” Garth spat.
“I know enough not to bring a knife to a sword fight.” He removed the point of his sword and jerked his head in the direction of the village. “If you want to live, I suggest you leave now. I never want to see you on my land again.”
Garth glared at him and stood slowly. His dagger and sword were buried in the grass so the duke motioned for his second to retrieve them. Isabel came to the duke’s side and lifted his hand away to eye the wound.
“Just a slice,” he assured her. “No long-term damage.” He pressed his hand back over the cut.
“You fool,” she told him, tears of relief beginning to burn in her eyes.
“Yes, you fool.” Garth snatched the sword from his second and raced toward them. Mrs. Potter screamed.
The duke lifted his sword and smacked Garth’s blade from his grip. He grabbed him by the throat and carried his squirming form with little effort down to the river’s edge. He flung him into the water with a splash and Isabel had a satisfying peek at the man’s shocked face as the water closed in over him.
Spluttering and kicking, he grappled to hold onto the muddy side of the river as it washed over him. It was shallow enough for him to stand but the water flowed quickly and made it hard for him to get to his feet.
“Help,” Garth gargled.
His friends exchanged glances and eyed the duke. None stepped forward. The duke came to the edge of the river, bent over, and gripped Garth by his hair. He hefted him up and considered him for a moment.
“Never come here again.”
Garth shook his head and pawed for purchase on the duke’s chest.
“Never speak to Isabel again.”
He nodded frantically.
The duke held him there for a while before hefting him up and tossing him to the grass as if he weighed no more than a leaf. Garth’s friends remained frozen until the duke retreated and came back to Isabel’s side.
They watched as a soggy and exhausted Garth came to his feet. He ignored Isabel while his friends gathered up their belongings and scurried past.
“I would never have killed him,” the duke said, putting a hand back to the slice on his side.
Tears clouded her vision. “Of course you would not have done.”
“I’m not a beast.”
She smiled and put a hand to his cheek. “I know that.” She glanced down at his side. “We had better get Mrs. Potter to see to that.”
One rough thumb swiped away a tear on her cheek. The duke scowled. “Why do you cry?”
“Because you might not have killed Garth but he had every intention of killing you. I thought I’d lose you.”
“And…” He gulped. “And that makes you cry? The thought of losing me?”
“Of course it does!” She tapped his arm. “I love you, Your Grace.”
A tender smile curved his lips. “I think you had better call me Wilde.”
“That’s your first name?”
“No.” His grin teased. “But you may call me it.”
With a huff, she tapped his arm again. “That’s unfair.”
“Is it?” He leaned in and wrapped his arms about her. “If I kiss you, is it still unfair?”
Behind Isabel somewhere, Mrs. Potter let out a screech of delight.
Epilogue
Wilde tugged on his waistcoat. He pushed a hand through his newly trimmed hair. A knot gathered in his throat and it had little to do with how tightly his cravat was tied.
He caught Timms’ eye in the mirror and pointed to his beard. “Is it…?”
Timms nodded. “You look perfectly respectable, Your Grace.”
Wilde blew out a breath. He had new clothes, new servants, shorter hair, and a clean house, but he could not quite bring himself to rid himself of the beard entirely. Timms had helped neaten it up but he hoped Isabel wasn’t disappointed it had not been removed entirely for their engagement ball.
“You had better make haste, Your Grace. Your guests shall be waiting, as will Miss Beaumonte.”
Miss Beaumonte…but not for much longer. Soon she would be Her Grace and at his side every day. An unfamiliar grin stretched across his lips.
“Very well.” He clapped his hands together. “Let us get this over and done with.”
“You never know, Your Grace. You might enjoy yourself.”
Wilde merely lifted a brow. A ball, full of people and noise. He was not sure it would be anything enjoyable but it was part of his duty—a duty he had neglected for far too long. Now he was coming out of his stupor, it was time for things to return to how they always should have been.
He came across Mrs. Potter and Lighthall peeking out of one of the upper hallway windows. He gave a cough and they both whirled, a guilty look sweeping across their faces.
“Is she here yet?” he asked them, knowing full well who they were looking for. It had been several days since Isabel had last visited and preparations for the ball had kept them all busy.
“Haven’t seen her, Your Grace,” Lighthall said.
“It won’t be long now,” Mrs. Potter assured him.
He narrowed his gaze at the housekeeper. Blasted woman understood all too well how much he needed Isabel at his side, particularly while confronting an event such as a ball.
“I had better greet our guests,” he muttered as if it was something he could get away with not doing.
“They’re delighted to be here,” Timms said, coming up behind him. “And the house looks excellent, Mrs. Potter. You have done a fine job training the new servants.”
Mrs. Potter beamed and Wilde swung a look at the butler. Wilde should be the one praising her, not Timms. “Do you not have work to do, Timms?”
“That I do, Your Grace.”
He bowed but not before Wilde spotted a sly smile on the man’s face. All his servants seemed to have perpetual smiles on their lips since Isabel turned up on his doorstep.
“Timms is right.” He nodded toward Lighthall and Mrs. Potter. “You’ve done excellent jobs. I shall look forward to seeing what Isabel thinks.”
“As do we,” Lighthall said. He peered out of the window. “And we will not have to wait long. Here she is with her father.”
Wilde’s heart gave a jolt and he forced his expression to remain placid under Mrs. Potter’s watchful gaze.
“Run along then.” Mrs. Potter waved her hand. “Do not keep her waiting, Your Grace.”
With a stiff nod, Wilde turned on his heel and headed downstairs. A steady stream of people spilled in through the open front doors. Every part of the entrance hallway gleamed and he knew the ballroom would be the same. Worn out furnishings had been removed or replaced and the paintings had been rearranged so only the ones in the best condition could be seen here until the others were restored.
“Your Grace!” An old man, his shoulders rounded wi
th age, peered up at him through spectacles. It took Wilde a moment to recognize him as old Mr. Grant.
“Mr. Grant, I am glad you could come.” He took the man’s offered hand.
“Mighty fine of you to invite all the villagers. I don’t recall ever having been to a ball before.”
“It was Miss Beaumonte’s idea mostly.”
“I do not suppose it was her idea to send all those packages though, was it?”
Wilde coughed. No doubt Isabel had taken quite a role in telling everyone of his virtues in an attempt to persuade them all he was not a beast. It certainly made life easier but he wasn’t at all sure about having to deal with everyone’s gratitude tonight. After all, he had his own to deal with.
“I haven’t a clue what you are talking about, I’m afraid, Mr. Grant.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Of course not, of course not. Well, I always did say you weren’t a beast. All those silly stories. Stuff and nonsense, I said.”
“I—yes, thank you.”
“I see your lovely young lady is approaching. I shall leave you be.” Mr. Grant winked and shuffled on into the ballroom.
Wilde peered over the heads of the rest of his guests and his palms grew instantly clammy. Wearing the same yellow gown Mrs. Potter had made for her, Isabel shone like a sunbeam amongst the people milling about the hallway. She said something to her father, gave him a kiss on the cheek and headed in his direction.
Isabel extended her gloved hands and Wilde took them to draw her close. “If there were no guests here, I would give you a kiss,” he whispered.
“You really are a beast,” she said.
“Why?”
“Teasing me so.”
He grinned. “I imagine if I told you that I was having five-hundred new books sent up from London before we are married, would also be considered teasing.”
“I take back everything nice I ever said about you. How am I supposed to wait another two weeks?”
“You can visit when they arrive.”
“Five-hundred new books.” A dreamy look washed over her face. “How wonderful.”
“Perhaps I am not so beastly after all.”
The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Page 8
