One Moonlit Night (Moonlight Square: A Prequel Novella) (6 page)

So was Lord Hayworth’s. Only, his was more of a murderous glare.

Gable felt his stomach clench when he noticed the older man watching his every move. Usually, Hayworth was busy leering at the debutantes and making all the young girls uncomfortable, but at the moment, Gable could practically feel the drunkard’s hatred aimed at him like a spear.

Right,
he thought with a slight, grim gulp, instantly aware of what was coming.
Ah, well.
Obviously, he had brought it on himself.

His cool smile wavered only for a moment as he continued dancing with the fair Katrina, saying nothing about the unpleasantness that he had a feeling was about to descend.

He scanned the ballroom briefly and noted that Lady Hayworth wasn’t there. Could it be the old goat had found out and finally put his foot down with his lusty wench of a wife?

Ah, damn. Why me?
Everybody had dallied with Lady Hayworth. Having hit her early forties, she was having all the fun she could cram in before her beauty faded. But it seemed that Gable was to be the lucky chap who had caught her lord and husband on the day the old drunk had had enough of her antics.

How the devil had Hayworth found out, though? Gable wondered. Had they been seen? Or had the marquess perhaps intercepted the earring when he had sent it back to her? Of course, it was possible they’d got into one of their famous rows and she had told her husband everything just to throw it in his face.

However it had happened, Gable shuddered at the whole bad business. With marriages like that all around him, was it any wonder he was in no rush to wed?

With the final bars of the music stretching out, Katrina curtsied to him, and he bowed as the song ended. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles through the white satin of her gloves.

“Thank you for the dance,” he whispered.
“Ciao, bella.”

He tried, he really did, to get away from her before the ugliness exploded, but he failed. Hayworth wanted his blood, and came pushing toward Gable through the crowd before he’d put much distance between himself and Trinny. The instant he was in arm’s reach, the marquess drew back his hand to strike Gable across the face with the traditional glove.

Gable caught his wrist in midair. “Sir—please, don’t do this,” he ground out in a low tone.

“What, you’re a coward as well as a dishonorable cur?” the marquess slurred in red-eyed fury, then flicked a disgusted glance over him. “No accounting for taste.”

Gable quirked a brow, but refrained from pointing out that Lady Hayworth
had
married
him
.

Unfortunately, the angry husband read the irreverent humor in his look and lost his mind, shoving Gable in the chest. “You find this amusing?”

Gable took a step back, catching himself. “Don’t touch me, old man,” he warned quietly.

“I’ll kill you, is what. You are without honor, Roland! Your father should be ashamed. Name your second, and we’ll settle this at dawn.”

Gable glanced grimly across the crowd at Netherford. His friend gave him a regretful nod. Both of them had served in the capacity of seconds for each other before. “Netherford.”

“Figures,” Hayworth muttered, then spun about a trifle drunkenly and stormed off, pushing curious gawkers out of his way.

Netherford extracted himself from the knot of females surrounding him and left the room. Gable avoided the many aghast stares, but when he, too, took a step toward the exit, a hand clamped down on his arm. Still half expecting some attack, he jerked away roughly and pivoted, ready to strike.

Instead, he found Katrina.

“What was that about?” she cried, staring up at him in alarm.

Jaw clenched, Gable shook his head. “Not here.”

# # #

Still in shock after what she had just witnessed, Trinny lurched into motion, hastening after Lord Roland. He strode ahead, the stunned crowd parting before him. She followed, her stomach in knots.

She did not wish to deepen this newfound scandal of his any further by involving herself, but she was panicked by the thought of him dueling. On the other hand, how much more scandalous could it get, considering who he’d chosen for his second?

Trinny spotted the dark-and-dangerous Netherford waiting for him on the landing outside the ballroom.

She caught up to Gable there herself, but got hold of him before he reached his friend. “Wait a moment, would you? Please!”

He stopped and turned to her, his chiseled face taut. “I apologize for that bit of unpleasantness, but I must bid you adieu for now, my lady.”

“What just happened in there?” she exclaimed.

“I thought you saw the whole thing.”

“Does this have to do with the earring?” she whispered.

Gable looked away.

Disappointment filled her.
How could you?

She swallowed the reproachful words, but he caught the dismay in her gaze and scowled. “I don’t have time for a lecture right now, so if you’ll pardon me—”

“Wait. I’m not going to lecture you.” She took a step closer. “Please listen, just for a moment. You gave me your advice the other night whether I wanted to hear it or not, and now I shall do the same for you. We all know this lady’s reputation. Whatever mischief you got up to with her, it’s not worth dying for, surely. You must apologize.”

When his gaze flicked to hers, she was taken aback to find it steely. “No.”

“But you’re in the wrong!”

“Exactly. It would be dishonorable to grovel now and pretend I’m sorry, just because we got caught. So, no. I knew what I was doing. It was stupid, but I did it anyway. I shall delope, of course. That is apology enough.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll do the same. You could be killed!”

“I play for high stakes, darling. If you’ll excuse me.”

She huffed, at a loss, when he simply walked away, joining his friend. The two rakehells immediately headed for the stairs.

“Let me know how it goes—if you’re still alive!” she called after him angrily.

He sent her a sardonic glance over his shoulder, but he made her no such promise. Trinny got the feeling his kind never did.

As he went striding off with Netherford, she stared after him, then shook her head, throwing up her hands.

I don’t believe this! I finally meet a nice fellow, and he goes off to get himself killed.

On second thought,
nice
fellows didn’t
get
called out to duel against outraged husbands in the first place. Just another reminder that, as smooth as he was, Lord Roland was a rakehell.

Please keep him safe, Lord. Yes, yes, I know he’s a wicked sinner and doesn’t deserve it,
she thought,
but please…

Surely Gable was sensible enough to swallow his pride when it came down to it. If not, she could only hope the marquess was so drunk, he’d miss.

Abigail came rushing over to her side just then. “What was all that about?” she asked breathlessly.

Distraught with worry for her wild new friend, Trinny merely shook her head.

Chapter 3

The Rake’s Progress

G
able watched the sunrise and wondered if it would be his last. His palms were sweaty, but his pistol was loaded. The medic stood by, and all that remained now was the waiting. He refused to pace, instead standing immobile, arms folded across his chest.

It was a hell of a thing, he reflected.
Nice girls like Katrina Glendon out there, and I’m about to die over a harlot.
He shook his head.
Bloody ridiculous.

Well, Father had always warned him it would end like this…

The pink blush of the dawn sky glowed behind the screen of the black trees, reminding him of Katrina’s cheeks last night while they were dancing.

He hoped Society would be kind to her. He regretted that he might not be there to see her triumph in her own eccentric way.

Netherford came stomping over to him, disturbing his thoughts.

“This is damned unfair,” the duke growled as he joined them. Their friend Viscount Sidney followed a step behind. “We’ve all been with the woman. Why did he suddenly focus in on you?”

Gable shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Jason.”

“Doesn’t matter?” the duke exploded. For all his faults, Netherford was terribly loyal, at least to his male friends.

But Gable really did not wish to spend what might be his final moments on Earth soothing the duke’s fiery temper. Instead, he grasped for his usual dry humor. “So how does the club’s betting book rate my odds?”

Sidney flashed one of his famous sunny grins, even now, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Fifty-fifty, ol’ boy. Myself, I have total faith in you. But don’t worry. If he shoots you, I have plans to do the old man a vile treachery of some kind. I’m considering all sorts of nasty options.”

“Oh, I rather think vile treachery is what got me here in the first place,” Gable muttered. “But thanks anyway. You’re a mate.”

Then Netherford was summoned to hear the instructions from the worried-looking gent acting as the neutral party.

As if they did not already know how the movements of this grim ritual played out.

“I cannot think what must’ve got into Lord Hayworth to start caring about his wife’s indiscretions at this late date,” Sidney mused aloud in a tight voice, continuing Netherford’s conversation of a moment ago in an effort, Gable suspected, to distract him from thoughts of his imminent doom.

“No idea,” Gable said quietly. “But I do know what got into Lady Hayworth.”

Sidney snorted at his jest and offered him a flask.

“Bit early for whiskey, inn’t it?” Gable said, but took it anyway. He swallowed a mouthful and handed the flask back to his friend. “Give me a moment, would you?” he murmured.

Sid nodded with a pensive smile and walked away.

Apologize…
Gable found himself brooding on Katrina’s advice. After all, she had taken his.
Maybe
you’re
the one who should listen this time,
his brain suggested. But what was the point?

He blew out a restless exhalation and stared down at the grass, then gave in to the pacing in spite of himself.

What do I do, what do I do?

He knew he was in the wrong. And if you knew something was wrong, you ought not to do it in the first place, he reasoned, but if you did it anyway, then you had no right to try to weasel out of the consequences afterward by saying you were sorry. You took your just comeuppance like a man. That much was clear.

But was his refusal to apologize really down to honor, or was this just his pride talking?

He looked over at Lord Hayworth, who was likewise pacing back and forth on the other side of the field, a middle-aged man with his gray-haired, paunch-bellied friends around him. The lot of them could be found chasing skirts on any given night, as though they were still Gable’s age—under thirty, instead of over sixty.

Is that how
we
end up, too?
he wondered.
Netherford and Sidney and me and all the rest?

Because if that was his fate, Gable wasn’t sure he really cared about surviving today. It all seemed so petty and pointless.

“Nothing new to report,” Netherford said as he returned, his dark, fiery eyes looking even blacker than usual. “Twenty paces, fire at the same time, as you requested, rather than by turns. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Gable looked at his friend for a moment.

“Tell Hayworth I want to talk to him first,” he said abruptly.

Both his fellow rakehells turned to him in surprise, but Netherford nodded and went to convey his request to the enemy.

Gable drummed his fingers on his arm as he waited for another moment, and then walked through the wet grass to the center of the field for a brief parlay with the old man he had callously wronged.

Sid and Netherford followed. The marquess’s friends trailed him as well.

And so, with their seconds hovering nearby, Gable met Lord Hayworth in the middle of the field.

As he scanned the marquess’s hard, lined face, he noted the scruff of the man’s salt-and-pepper beard. Hayworth looked a bit more sober than he had last night in the ballroom, but his eyes were still bloodshot.

He’s the one who should be worried,
Gable thought.
I’m younger, I’m stronger, I’ve got excellent eyesight. My hands are much steadier than his, and I’m a damned good shot. Besides, his wife was the one who wanted
me
. The whole damned thing was her idea. I just went along with it.

Then a startling thought slid through his mind out of nowhere.
Maybe he’s trying to kill himself.

I might, too, if I were in his shoes. Made a laughingstock like that…

“Well? What do you want?” Hayworth demanded in a gruff tone.

Gable dropped his gaze as a wave of pity washed through him. He cleared his throat. “My lord: I wish to offer you my deepest apologies for what took place,” he said in a clipped, formal tone.

Hayworth’s eyebrow arched high.

“It was, er, a moment of weakness for which I am truly sorry.”