Days of Rakes and Roses (9 page)

“My honor has been slighted, Your Grace. This man has besmirched the woman I intend to marry and will pay the price.” Berwick’s jaw was set like stone and his hands opened and closed at his sides as if he barely controlled himself from punching Simon once more. Simon would almost welcome the chance to take on his rival, until he remembered that Lydia’s reputation hung by a thread.

“Grenville, I’m… I’m so sorry,” Lydia said, in that same muffled tone Simon had heard her use to her father in the hayshed. He’d never forgotten it; it still made his skin crawl. Even in the torchlight, he could see that her skin had turned so pale, it seemed transparent. Around the fragile stem of her neck, the rubies glinted malevolently, as though they sucked her life to feed their bright color. “Please forgive me.”

With extreme difficulty, Simon bit back the urge to smash his fist into something hard. Not, unfortunately, Berwick’sface. The pity of it was that the man was justly aggrieved. Even through rage and misery, Simon recognized that he should never have mauled Berwick’s betrothed at a society event where anyone could discover them.

“Lydia, come with me. I’ll fetch the carriage around and we’ll go home,” Cam said quietly, although Simon heard the suppressed anger in his voice.

Who could blame him? He’d wanted his sister’s engagement broken, but with a minimum of fuss. Simon was unbearably alert to the hundreds of eyes watching avidly from inside the house.

Tonight’s events promised to explode into the on-dit of the year. The old tales about Lydia’s mother and Simon’s wildness as a younger man would add seasoning to the scandal broth. Delicious fodder to spiteful gossips.

“It was my fault, Grenville,” Lydia said, slipping away from her brother and addressing her fiancé with her hands outstretched. “My fault, not Simon’s.”

“I shall call on you in the morning, madam, to discuss our future,” Berwick said coldly, stepping out of reach. At that moment, whatever justice Berwick might have on his side, Simon loathed the weasel more than he ever had before. “To my disappointment, you are not the chaste woman I believed you were. You have deceived me.”

“Don’t you damn well dare speak to her like that,” Simon said hotly, surging forward, ready to repay the earlier blow, although this was neither time nor place. His bruises protested the sudden movement. His jaw hurt like the very devil and his body ached from where he’d hurtled onto the flagstones.

Berwick shot him a contemptuous look and straightened, obviously prepared to thrash Simon out here on the terrace if he had to. “You insolent puppy!”

“Grenville, no!” Lydia rushed forward to stand quaking between Simon and Berwick. Berwick cast her a glare of utter contempt and she took a nervous step back without clearing his path to Simon.

“Stop it! All of you. This behavior is unbecoming.” Cam was completely the duke. “Simon, go home. Now.”

Simon refused to back down, in spite of that tone of unquestionable authority. “Will you act as my second, Cam?”

“You damned fool,” he said, catching Lydia and bringing her back to his side. Simon heard affection, fury and piercing anxiety in his tone. “I’ll be your second, if it comes to that. I hope to God it doesn’t.”

Berwick didn’t budge. “I will under no circumstances withdraw my challenge, Your Grace. It still remains to be seen whether this scoundrel has the nerve to take it up.”

“I’m at your disposal,” Simon said equally coldly. He glanced across to where Lydia sagged against her brother. Her face was blank with horror and remorse. He’d never forgive himself for putting that glazed, hopeless expression into her eyes twice in one lifetime.

Cam’s arm tightened around his sister and he murmured something to her which Simon couldn’t hear. “I’ll accompany Lydia back to Rothermere House then come to your rooms, Simon. Sir Grenville, once you’ve selected your second, we can make arrangements.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Ignoring Lydia, Berwick bowed to Cam, then turned to Simon. “Let us see if you play the man on the field of honor as eagerly as you play the rake in the boudoir, Metcalf.”

Simon bit back a savage response, grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. His impulsiveness had already caused enough trouble. He should have left England after Lydia gave him his congé following the Plaistead Ball. Hell, he should never have come back in the first place. Better he wandered forever than broke Lydia’s heart a second time.

When Simon remained mute under his jibe, Berwick’s mouth lifted in a derisive smile that would strike terror into the heart of a sane man. But Simon hadn’t been sane since the day he’d fallen in love with Lydia Rothermere. Now his insanity wrecked forever the lives of his beloved and his dearest friend.

Damn it, he should shoot himself now and save Grenville Berwick the trouble.

Chapter Six

Two o’clock must be the damned darkest hour of the night.

From where he slouched in a chair by the fire, Simon sighed heavily and glanced around his candlelit parlor. There was a distinct possibility that after this morning, he’d never return here. There was a distinct possibility that after this morning, he’d never return anywhere, unless one counted the family graveyard in Derbyshire.

He tried to repent his wasted life, but facing death, his only real regret was that he’d never see Lydia again. That one bleak fact made his gut cramp in denial.

Cam had recently left to make final arrangements for the duel. Despite the powerful Duke of Sedgemoor’s intervention, Berwick remained set upon his course. He must realize that blasting Simon to Kingdom Come would obliterate any political ambitions. Dueling was illegal, if still a preferred method of settling masculine differences. Bizarrely Simon almost admired the man’s determination to murder him and devil take the consequences. It was the first sign that the fellow wasn’t as cold as a dead haddock. Who could guess that an ardent heart beat beneath that stolid demeanor?

In between berating Simon for his irresponsibility, Cam had let slip that Berwick was a crack shot. With fatalistic grimness, Simon recognized that of course he would be. Simon was no novice with a pistol, but he could hardly shoot Berwick on the field of honor when the fault was indisputably his own. Ever since he’d learned of Lydia’s engagement, he’d wished Sir Grenville dead. But actually killing the bugger? That went too far.

Not to mention Lydia would never forgive him.

Right now, Lydia must be calling him every name under the sun. And rightly so. Kissing her at the musicale had been dangerous. Worse, it had been stupid. No excuse to say passion had made him forget his surroundings. However true it might be. Twice now his unbridled appetite for Lydia Rothermere had ravaged her life. If she had any sense, she’d pray that Berwick’s bullet blasted Simon to Hades where he’d bother her no more.

Simon had shared a brandy with Cam. He rose to pour another, although he probably should abstain for the sake of his aim. But given that he had no intention of firing, he might as well try to drown the ache in his soul. Brandy was paltry comfort, but it was the best available.

He wished that Cam had stayed. Even censorious, he was company.

Simon sighed again and slumped into his armchair. How much more pathetic could he get? He raised the brandy, then lowered his hand before drinking. Three hours before he was due to leave. He had a horrible inkling that each minute would crawl by. He wasn’t particularly afraid to die. He just didn’t want to sit here staring into space and feeling sorry for himself until he met his appointment.

When he heard a soft knock on the door, he assumed that Cam had returned after all to share his lonely vigil. As his manservant had long since gone to bed, Simon placed his glass on a side table, stood and wandered down the short corridor to open the door.

“Haven’t you got a bed to go—”

It wasn’t Cam.

At the sight of the cloaked figure standing on the landing outside, Simon faltered into silence. He, renowned for his eloquence, was rendered speechless with amazement.

“Simon, I had to come. I can’t just stand by and let you risk your life,” Lydia whispered, glancing around to check that nobody had noticed her. “You have to stop this duel. You can’t fight Grenville. Not over me.”

His heart bucking like a half-tamed horse, his mind spinning as he grappled with her astonishing presence, Simon seized her arm and drew her inside. She’d taken such a risk coming here. If anyone saw her, any small hope of repairing her reputation would disintegrate.

Elation made his heart stutter. There was so much he needed to say. He wanted to discover how she’d come to his rooms and whether she could stay. He wanted to apologize for his damnably reckless behavior earlier this evening. Not for kissing her—no man worth his salt apologized for storming the gates of heaven—but for the hellish mess afterward.

Still the shock of seeing her where he’d dreamed so often and so vividly of holding her in his arms crammed every question in his throat. The oppressive night turned bright with promise. Breathing heavily, he shouldered the door shut and gently but adamantly pushed her up against it. With surprisingly steady hands, he slid the hood of her gray cape back to reveal her lovely face. She looked pale and troubled.

“Simon, are you listening to me?” Tears sparkled in her eyes as she stared up at him. Her voice shook with desperation and strain etched her face. “He’ll kill you.”

Simon couldn’t doubt how frantic she was to stop the duel. Explanations rose like a surging tide inside him. Words like ‘honor’ and ‘the gentlemen’s code’ and a thousand other justifications for his need to face down his rival with a pistol.

Then the wild clamor of words retreated. Words didn’t matter. What mattered was that Lydia had come to him. “Shh.”

He cradled her cheeks in his hands. He had absolutely no right to touch her, but nothing short of the sky smashing down on his head could stop him. She’d entered his kingdom. Years of longing culminated in this moment. Lightly, thoroughly, he began to explore her face, learning her through touch alone.

Annoyance flashed in her eyes, although she made no attempt to avoid the wondering examination of her features. The proud cheekbones. The straight, high-bred nose. The soft flutter of eyelashes. The moist fullness of her lips. Ah, her mouth. One of nature’s masterpieces. He could devote a year to kissing her and consider the time well spent.

“Simon, I know you think Grenville is a joke, but don’t mistake that he means to shoot you,” she said earnestly.

The reminder of Berwick, both as Lydia’s betrothed and as a man seeking his blood, should have dissolved Simon’s enchantment. But his rival’s existence faded into insignificance compared to the burgeoning joy of Lydia’s arrival.

Reverently Simon brushed her hair back from her delicate face, teasing the faint frown lines that appeared between the fine brows. It seemed essential that at this moment, he paid due attention to every detail of this woman he’d loved so long. He’d always imagined that if his chance ever came, he’d be mad with haste, frantic to rush Lydia into his bed before he lost her as he’d lost her once before.

Instead it was as if he had all the time in the world. Time to stroke the softness of her hair, drawing the pins out until a russet curtain fell around her face; time to smooth his palm down her jaw, tracing the fragile bones.

She made a half-hearted and futile attempt to break away. “Simon, stop it. We need to talk!”

No, they didn’t. Right now, they needed to feel. “Shh,” he said again.

The world outside this quiet, candlelit apartment faded to nothing. After years of picturing Lydia seeking him out, she was finally within reach. Even the looming possibility of his death couldn’t undermine his happiness.

“Simon, tell me you’ll withdraw from the duel.” She curled her hands into the loose linen of his shirt and her pleading gaze fastened on his face. “It’s madness for you to chance your life over a few kisses. If you left, nobody would care. Nobody would speak ill of you.”

He hardly heard. “You’re so beautiful,” he said softly, finding his voice. His hands trailed down her slender neck to the engraved silver clasp fastening her cape. He knew he smiled like a lunatic. She was here.
She was here.

She flattened her hands against his chest in an unconvincing effort to keep him away. Fear sparked in her eyes. “Simon, this is important. I couldn’t bear it if Grenville hurt you. Don’t be a fool. You have nothing to gain by fighting him. Go back to the Continent. You’ll be safe there.”

Her furious commands bounced uselessly off the sphere of glowing pleasure that encased him. “All the time I was away, I told myself that you couldn’t be as beautiful as I remembered. But, God help me, you are.”

He paused to swallow a lump of emotion that constricted his breathing. How he wanted her. His body was hard and ready. But more important than desire was the love he’d always felt for her.

With leisurely movements, he slipped the cloak from her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground in a damp heap. It must have started raining since he’d left the musicale. He didn’t care. At this moment, his life was all sunshine.

His voice softened to an awestruck murmur. “You’re more beautiful than I remember. It hardly seems possible.”

Under the cloak, she still wore the pale green dress. Slowly, savoring every inch, he traced one finger across the creamy swell of her breast above the scooped bodice.

She bit her lip. “You can’t stay and face Grenville tomorrow. There’s no time to lose. You have to go now.”