Days of Rakes and Roses (11 page)

Dear God…

Her heart lurched with foreboding. She’d urged Simon to escape to the Continent. But surely he wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye. Without asking her to go with him.

Had he deserted her without a word the way he had ten years ago? The frightened, uncertain girl she’d once been might have believed that. The woman who had become Simon’s lover last night knew better. Whatever fate he faced, he’d face it with her at his side. They were united forever.

Yet here she was alone.

A frantic glance around the untidy bedroom revealed scattered clothes. Some, she blushed to acknowledge, were hers, but most belonged to Simon, who’d clearly retained his boyhood untidiness. The flickering candlelight gleamed on his brushes and shaving kit on the mahogany tallboy. If he’d fled for France, he’d abandoned all his personal belongings. Unlikely.

Which meant she could think of only one other reason for his early departure.

Last night she’d relinquished fear. But now fear surged anew, powerful as a king tide.

*  *  *

On this derelict farm near Hampstead, the forces of the law wouldn’t disrupt murderous intentions. Simon stood quietly at Cam’s side and watched the rising sun cast the dewy meadow in pure gold. Or perhaps after his night with Lydia, splendor tinged the whole world.

It had been an agonizing wrench to sneak away like a thief just before dawn. But if he’d told Lydia he still meant to proceed with the duel, they’d have argued. Call him a coward, but he couldn’t bear rancor to stain his last memory of his beloved.

Now, facing death, he’d never loved life so much. Had he left Lydia pregnant? He prayed that he hadn’t, although he’d sell his very soul to see her growing round and drowsy with contentment as she carried his child. He’d sell his soul twice over to make love to her again.

Berwick’s second—for the life of him, Simon couldn’t recollect the fellow’s name—had been speaking in a low voice to the doctor Berwick had brought. Now the man left Dr. West and approached Simon and Cam. “Are you ready, Mr. Metcalf?”

“Yes.” Simon turned to Cam, feeling awkward. So much to say. No time to say it. Painful to summon a farewell to his oldest friend. Even more painful to formulate a request for the care of his oldest friend’s possibly pregnant sister. “If this doesn’t go well, you’ll—”

“Look after Lydia. Of course, old man.” Cam smiled and gripped his arm briefly in unspoken affection. Neither had imagined it would come to this when they’d set out to undermine Lydia’s engagement. The price of interference proved devilish high.

The two duelists strode to the center of the field and faced one another. Berwick’s eyes sparked with outrage when they rested upon Simon, but otherwise his square face remained impassive. Simon had spent most of the last weeks denouncing this man’s existence. But as he regarded Berwick now, fatalistic ice set over his soul. All passion drained away, replaced with a dull determination to have this over and done with, however it ended.

“Ten paces, gentlemen, then turn and fire at will.” Berwick’s second dropped a white handkerchief to indicate the duel’s beginning.

Feeling as though his body no longer belonged to him but operated at someone else’s behest, Simon turned and took one pace, then another. Time seemed oddly stretched out. He was preternaturally aware of the light turning the trees into a tracery of color fit to match the stained glass in his family chapel. The birds sang to greet the spring day. Boots crunched across frosty grass with a relentless rhythm.

Berwick’s second counted each pace, his voice reedy as he shouted across the open space. The gun in Simon’s hand was small and beautiful, chased steel and mother of pearl, one of a pair that Cam had owned since his twenty-first birthday.

“Ten!”

His legs firm, his breathing even, Simon pivoted toward his opponent. Berwick turned more slowly, with deliberate menace, and raised his gun in Simon’s direction.

So this was it. A lifetime of loving Lydia. A handful of good friends. Some amusing hijinks. More experience of the wider world in his thirty-one years than was granted to most men. Now everything reached its end.

As Simon drew what could prove his last breath, the image that flashed before his eyes was Lydia’s face as she lost herself in pleasure. A good memory to die on. With no intention of firing, he raised his pistol. A fellow must go through the motions, he supposed. The bright morning shrank to a narrow tunnel of light linking him with Berwick.

“Simon, Grenville, stop!”

What the devil?

Shock held Simon motionless. He must be dreaming or going mad. He could swear that was Lydia’s voice ringing out across the field.

“Good God, man, take care!” Cam shouted.

Cam’s warning seemed to come from another universe, clashing with Lydia’s terrified cry. Wonderingly Simon veered toward his friend.

As he shifted, a pistol fired.

Something crashed into him with the force of a charging elephant. He staggered under a blow that at first he didn’t understand. Then excruciating pain streaked through him, left him stumbling.

“Simon? Simon, are you all right?”

He wasn’t going mad. That was definitely Lydia. As he struggled to maintain his balance and control the waves of pain, a palpably physical presence twined an arm around his waist. Immediately her warmth flowed into him, restoring life and hope.

For one dizzying moment, he closed his eyes, wondering if he was about to make a complete fool of himself and collapse on top of his beloved. Who clearly hadn’t joined him in the afterlife. He was alive, all right. As if to confirm that welcome realization, his euphoria faded and the wound in his right arm flared to a blinding pitch.

“Lydia, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked with difficulty, opening his eyes through throbbing agony. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of the shabby hackney carriage she must have hired to bring her out to the meadow. He’d been so focused on Berwick, he hadn’t heard its arrival.

On a groan, he bent and buried his face in the thick auburn hair she’d piled into an insecure chignon. Her grip tightened and he felt her turn toward him. “Trying to save your life, you fool.”

He bit off a choked laugh and muttered through his pain. “I love you too.”

“Not enough to stay safe,” she retorted, even as she angled herself to support his ungainly height.

Stubborn wench. If she had an ounce of sense, she’d have stayed away. If she had an ounce of sense, she wouldn’t strive to hold up a man who must weigh twelve stone. He tried to tell her so, but he couldn’t get the words out. His surroundings retreated in an alarming fashion, making his head swim. His arm felt like it was on fire. Sticky wet warmth saturated his right sleeve. Quickly he glanced down at the sodden scarlet linen covering his arm and closed his eyes, praying for strength.

“Damn you, Lydia, you shouldn’t be here.” Through the thickening fog in his head, Simon heard Cam’s uncharacteristic cursing.

Despite his best efforts to stand on his own feet, Simon leaned more heavily into Lydia. He wasn’t going to be able to save himself from fainting, blast it. “I think… I think I need to sit down.”

“What in blazes is going on?” Berwick demanded from behind him, the question echoing oddly in Simon’s ears. “Lady Lydia, I must protest. A duel is no place for a woman.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lydia snarled, making Simon laugh again. For about two seconds until pain swamped amusement. “You shot him, you toad.”

“Madam, I beg your pardon!” Berwick growled.

“I’m sorry, Lydia, but I can’t—” Clumsily, with more haste than grace, using Lydia as a crutch, Simon lowered himself to the ground.

As he slid downward, the meadow developed a disconcerting tendency to whirl around him. His stomach revolted at the reckless waltz. He squeezed his eyes shut, but lack of vision only worsened the vertigo. He started to breathe hard and heavy through his mouth, fighting the urge to crumple into unconsciousness or cast up his accounts at his inamorata’s feet. With a shaking hand, he laid his pistol on the grass beside him.

Berwick’s voice still pricked at the outer limits of Simon’s fading awareness. “Of course I shot the scoundrel. If he imagines your presence to plead his case will make me relent—”

“Don’t be a dashed idiot, man,” Cam said impatiently from somewhere above Simon’s left shoulder. “The affair is over. You’ve drawn blood. Honor is satisfied.”

“Mr. Metcalf, I insist upon inspecting the wound.” It was the doctor, a small, rotund man in a black hat that sat low over his brow. He’d struck Simon as an officious weasel when they’d met and his pompous manner now confirmed that impression.

“Of course.” Simon leaned back upon Lydia, who seemed to have settled herself on her knees behind him. He kept losing odd seconds, although now that he wasn’t struggling to stand, he felt more alert. He wanted to warn her that she’d be covered in mud if she wasn’t careful, not to mention getting blood on that deuced elegant green gown, but the world receded before he could speak.

“Simon, how badly are you hurt?” He floated back to reality to hear the effort she made to keep her voice even. The soft body behind him trembled, but she did her best to hide her fear.

Brave Lydia. She was a woman any man would be proud to call wife. As tenderly as a mother cradled a baby, she held him against her, propping him up. Even through crippling pain, he gloried in her embrace. An hour ago, he’d believed he’d never see her again. He still could hardly credit that he’d survived the morning.

Damn it, whatever damage the bullet had done, he intended to cheat death. Twice now he’d parted from Lydia without expectation of a reunion. He couldn’t leave her again.

“I suspect I’ll live.” He grunted as he positioned himself more conveniently and inadvertently jostled his wounded arm.

Hell’s bells.

He bit down hard and stifled the urge to curse like a sailor. Good Lord, he hoped he lived. Suddenly the future offered a thousand glowing opportunities. Turning up his toes at this stage would be such a blasted letdown. For a man who was bleeding like a damned cataract, he felt ridiculously happy.

“Let me be the judge of that, sir,” the doctor said repressively.

Simon’s momentary satisfaction shifted to vermilion agony as the sawbones ripped away his shirtsleeve. Blackness edged his vision and every muscle contracted in protest.

“Oh…” He heard Lydia’s horrified gasp from above and turned his head into her bosom. She clutched him to her as if she never wanted to leave him again. He had no argument with that. He just wished he could get rid of this bloody menagerie of onlookers so he could tell her so.

“Is it that bad?” he asked unsteadily after drawing a breath laden with her scent. She smelled warm and sensual, as she had when he’d so reluctantly left her this morning in his bed.

“There’s… there’s an awful lot of blood.” Her voice was thin. She didn’t sound at all like the virago who had told Berwick to be quiet.

“The bullet appears to have merely nicked you, Mr. Metcalf. You’ve been exceedingly lucky. I need to clean the wound and dress it with basilicum powder before binding. Then I recommend several days of bed rest. Shall I commence?”

“By all means, doctor.” Simon’s answer was muffled against Lydia’s soft breast. Beneath his cheek, the silk was cool and slippery. Even if Berwick’s bullet had found its target, Simon had a fancy he’d come back to life as long as Lydia kept him close.

“Don’t hurt him,” Lydia said, her arms tightening protectively.

“It is not my habit to cause my patients undue suffering, madam,” the doctor said on a snap. Simon raised his head to watch the doctor reach into his bag for a cloth and alcohol.

“Lady Lydia, I cannot approve your actions,” Berwick said, looming over her. “Your behavior, both last night and this morning, reveals a lamentable lack of decorum.”

“This is neither time nor place for this discussion,” Cam said in his ducal voice, but for once, nobody heeded him. Simon beat back the giddiness and reluctantly straightened far enough away from Lydia to present his arm for treatment.

As the doctor fussed, Simon watched Lydia. And watched Grenville for any signs of last night’s dangerous temper. If the blackguard raised a hand to her, murder might yet be done in this isolated field.

“Grenville, I’ve done you so many wrongs, I hardly know where to start,” Lydia said in a rusty voice, staring up at the baronet.

Good God, she couldn’t mean to apologize to the villain, could she? “Lydia, you can’t marry this man, not now,” Simon said emphatically.

His pride revolted at facing his enemy struck low and clinging to a woman. Jerkily, he struggled to stand, although the sudden movement sliced through him like a saber.

“Mr. Metcalf, if you please.” The doctor tugged him back onto the damp ground with a jolt that made his pain spike. Then more pain as the fellow plastered the wound with a wet rag covered in what felt like boiling acid. “And, madam, I would have better access to my patient if you would shift away.”

“Lydia, don’t go,” Simon demanded, ignoring the doctor. He could wait no longer. Privacy could go to Hades. He caught her hand as she moved to obey the doctor’s command. “Do you intend to marry this blackguard?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Berwick huffed, looming over them like a peevish mountain.

“Simon, can we wait until we’re alone?” Lydia asked nervously, glancing at their audience; Cam, the doctor, and the fuming Sir Grenville.