When You Wish Upon a Duke (35 page)

“You will offer your apology to my wife by noon tomorrow, Andover,” he said, “else my friends will call on you by one.”

He took Charlotte’s hand and kissed it. He bowed to their shocked hostess, and then with his head high he led Charlotte from the room and the house, and into the greatest scandal in anyone’s memory.

It wasn’t supposed to come to this.

With his hands clasped behind his back, March stood by the window in the long drawing room, staring out at the park without seeing any of it. Behind him sat Charlotte, her eyes red with weeping and her hands clenched in her lap. Brecon, tight-lipped and tense, sat across from her. Tea, coffee, wine, and biscuits were set on the table between them, as if any of them could muster an appetite. There wasn’t any conversation, either, and the only sound in the room was the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, relentlessly counting the minutes until noon.

It was all his own fault, of course. March knew that. If he hadn’t let himself be ruled by anger, if he hadn’t jumped at Andover’s taunt, if he hadn’t spoken so rashly before so many witnesses, if he hadn’t challenged that smirking scoundrel and demanded an apology for Charlotte …

If, if, if.

Now it was too late, and growing later still with every tick of the clock. Andover wouldn’t present himself here at Marchbourne House, and he wouldn’t apologize, either. Andover never apologized to anyone; it wasn’t his way. He’d nothing to risk in this. No wife, no children, no reputation, and he’d long since gambled away his income and his estates. For Andover all that was left was the excitement
he could wring from dangerous situations. A duel was only another part of the game of seducing other men’s wives. For Andover to be able to stake his own wretched, empty life against that of a duke with rank, wealth, and power second only to royalty’s: what greater thrill could there be than that?

It would be the easiest thing in the world for March to withdraw his challenge. He was a duke. He could as much as do what he pleased. In some quarters, he’d be praised for obeying the empty laws against dueling, laws that no other gentlemen ever paid much heed. He might even win the approval of the king, who’d been vocal about how much he hated the practice. Most of all, he’d please Charlotte and spare her from the anguish that, one way or another, she was sure to endure on account of him.

But then it was precisely for her sake that he couldn’t walk away now. She’d been slandered and dishonored by a man with no right to be called a gentleman. March had to defend her. He wanted her to be proud of being his duchess and the mother of his children, and he wanted those children to be proud of him, too. He didn’t want anyone telling Charlotte she’d married into a family bred from bastards, or that she was no better than Nan Lilly simply because she shared his bed.

There was his own honor and name to protect as well. Charlotte was the bravest woman he’d ever known, and he didn’t want it said that her husband was a spineless coward who issued challenges only to back away. If people whispered behind his back now about his family’s background, then they’d do it a hundred times more because he’d only confirmed their worst suspicions. He’d be a gentleman without honor and a disgrace to the peerage. He would, in short, become an outcast.

And Charlotte deserved far better than that. Her love
had been his salvation. The least he could do for her in return was to defend the honor of that love.

He started when the clock began to chime, solemn and slow, twelve times. He waited until it was done before he took a deep breath and turned to face Charlotte and Brecon.

“Very well, then,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “It’s decided. Brecon, you’ll call on Andover on my behalf. Make whatever terms are customary.”

“Andover will choose pistols,” Brecon said, his face grim. “He always does.”

“All the better,” March said. When it came to the duel itself, he felt strangely confident, trusting both to fate and to his own abilities as a marksman. He had fought two other duels before, again over Nan Lilly’s legacy to his family. The first time had been with swords. He’d been nineteen and terrified, yet he’d escaped with only a scar on his arm so insubstantial that Charlotte had never noticed it. The second was by pistols, and again he’d been the victor, with his opponent likely carrying the ball in his thigh to this day. Now, with so much more at stake, he could only pray that his luck held.

“We’ll be using my pistols,” he said, “the French pair, and they’ll be like old friends in my hands.”

Clearly worried, Brecon shook his head. “I’d always rather trust my fate to a blade and skill, especially now that you’ve settled on accepting first blood. Gunpowder’s as likely to misfire as not, and then you’ll—”

“No more!” Charlotte rose abruptly. “Enough of this—this
foolishness
, March. Guns versus swords! What manner of question is that, when both can only lead to bloodshed? You must stop this
now
.”

Brecon nodded, though his expression didn’t change. “You have heard all my arguments and those of your good lady as well. You will not be persuaded?”

March sighed. He
had
heard all the arguments, from
Brecon and Charlotte both. There couldn’t possibly be anything left to say.

“I thank you for your concern, Brecon,” he said gravely, “but you know my decision.”

Brecon bowed. “Very well. I’ll go to Andover and present your compliments, and make the other arrangements as well.”

He reached out and patted March’s shoulder, an old and familiar show of affection between them. “Take care, cousin, and spend this time with your lady well. Good-bye, Charlotte, and be easy. This is a serious affair, yes, but I believe we can trust in your husband’s aim and God in his mercy that matters will go well.”

Charlotte didn’t answer, which was never a fortuitous sign with her. Brecon realized it, too, and the look he shot March as he left the room was so brimming with male commiseration that, under other circumstances, March would have laughed aloud.

But there was nothing to laugh at now with Charlotte. March wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. At first she was stiff against him, her anger with him and his decision like a palpable barrier between them. Gently he threaded his fingers into her hair at the back of her neck, below the bristle of her hairpins and above her nape, and rubbed his fingers in small circles, the best way he’d discovered for calming her.

“I know you’re unhappy with me, sweet,” he said softly. “I know you’re angry about this duel. And I know you believe me the greatest ass in Christendom for sending Brecon off to act as my second.”

“Because you
are
the greatest ass in Christendom!” she cried miserably, pushing back far enough in his embrace to stare up into his face. “There is no believing about it, but only the same sorrowful knowledge that women have always, always learned of the stubborn, wasteful stupidity of men!”

She’d been so distraught this day that she’d given up blotting her tears hours ago and had instead let them run unchecked down her face. Her eyes were puffy and red with them and her lashes spiky and wet, and the salt and likely the bitterness as well had blotched her cheeks and nose. By most standards, she wasn’t very pretty like this, but because each one of those salty tears represented her love for him, he’d never seen her look more beautiful.

“Charlotte, please,” he said gently. “Please. I wish you would trust me that this is for the best for both of us, to preserve our family’s good name.”

“How can anything as dangerous as a duel be for the best?” she demanded. “What do I care about your good name at the cost of your life?”

He sighed again, and not for the first time with her, he longed for some magical words to explain that she’d accept. “I won’t deny that there is danger, Charlotte.”

“Don’t treat me like a child, March,” she said, cutting him off. “I know what will happen. I’ve sat here while you and Brecon discussed this whole foolish affair, haven’t I? I know that at dawn tomorrow you will meet Lord Andover beneath the two oak trees that mark the beginning of Hounslow Heath. I know that Brecon and Andover’s second will pretend to stop you one last time, and then explain the rules of your idiocy. And I know that you will then both shoot guns at each other with the intention of making the other bleed.”

“It’s called drawing first blood, Charlotte,” he said patiently, “and it means that whoever bleeds first has lost. We’ll only fire a single shot apiece, too. It’s not as if we’ll be hacking away at each other with swords. But this will be as good as having him apologize to you, and it will end the scandal forever. In that way, perhaps it’s even better than an apology.”

“Oh, yes, better, better, better,” she said, drumming her fists against his chest. “He will be aiming at you,
too. What if you are the one who does this ‘first bleeding’ instead? What if you are maimed, or crippled, or blinded, or any other of a score of misfortunes that can occur when a lead ball meets a mortal’s flesh and bone? Pray, how can that be better?”

Why had this made so much more sense when he and Brecon had discussed it in a calm and manly fashion?

“Because it simply is,” he said softly. “For the sake of honor, it is.”

She closed her eyes and didn’t answer, her mouth twisting with silent emotion. He wished there’d been time to bring her mother to town to support her through this. Of course, he’d dutifully written to Lady Hervey, explaining what had happened and assuring her that Charlotte would be provided for, but having her here now would have helped immeasurably.

“I want you to go to bed and rest now,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You’re exhausted, and you’ll make yourself ill. I must go out for a short while, but I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re going to your solicitor’s,” she said forlornly, eyes still shut. “You’re going to make certain your affairs are in order in case you die.”

That was exactly where he was going, among other places, and her prescience was unsettling. He was confident, yes, but he wasn’t so confident as to believe he was immortal.

“It’s my duty to make certain preparations for the, ah, for the future,” he said awkwardly. “Because I love you and our child.”

“If you truly loved me, March,” she countered quickly, “you wouldn’t want to leave me a widow and our child without a father or so much as a memory of one, and—and—”

She couldn’t finish. She gulped, fighting a great, racking, shuddering sob, and sank against his shoulder.

“Oh, my love, my love,” she said through a fresh wave of tears, her fingers feverishly twisting and clutching at the lapels of his coat. “Didn’t you promise you’d never leave me again?”

“I told you, I won’t be gone long,” he said. “I’ll be back so we can dine together.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said sorrowfully. “I meant leave me forever, which is what you will do if Andover kills you.”

“Oh, Charlotte,” he said. “Please don’t.”

“No,” she said, her voice at once soft and fierce. “No. I won’t have it, March. You say you’re acting from love, to protect me, and I mean to do the same. I love you too much to let you go. You’ll see. I’m going to fight for you, March, and honorably or not, I don’t intend to lose.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean, Charlotte?” he asked, frowning down at her. But she only shook her head and slipped free, and before he could catch her, she’d run from the room and toward the stairs.

“Charlotte!” he called. He began to follow her, then stopped. He’d be wise to let her go, off to Polly’s solicitous care and her own bedchamber to rest. There wasn’t anything that, as a woman, she could do to stop the duel now. Her words were brave and blustering, but empty of any real threat, the kind of thing that someday they would laugh over together.

At least he hoped they would, and with that lonely thought and the front of his coat soaked with her tears, he left the house for his carriage, and the offices of his solicitor.

Charlotte paced back and forth across the soft carpet in Aunt Sophronia’s parlor, too agitated to sit. Dusk was beginning to settle on the square outside, and the candles had already been lit. It had taken Charlotte longer than she’d thought to develop her plan and collect
the pieces she’d need, and she was so weary now that she wondered that she could walk at all. Her pregnancy did that to her; she’d no stamina. She’d need her aunt to help her tonight, need her very much, but the sorry truth was that she wasn’t sure her aunt would agree.

The footman opened the parlor door and Aunt Sophronia bustled in, her small white dogs bounding before her.

“Oh, my poor, dear Duchess!” she exclaimed. She paused to curtsey, then seized both of Charlotte’s hands in her own. “I have heard the terrible news. Whatever possessed His Grace to make such an impulsive challenge, and to such a man as Lord Andover?”

Charlotte took a deep breath to steady herself. She had resolved not to cry before her aunt, nor to show any other sign of weakness. If she did, then her aunt would surely refuse her. If she was to be of any help to March at all, she must be strong and she must be confident.

“He believes he is defending my honor,” she said carefully as they sat. “He believes he has no choice but to fight Andover like this, to preserve my good name and our family’s with it.”