Alessandro growled deep in his throat. “I will see you on the field of honor for that,cerdo.”
“No,” Leonora cried out, hastening forward in an effort to separate her husband and her brother, to defuse the situation before Searle could accept her brother’s challenge. She had no wish for a duel to be fought between the two men, regardless of how much hurt and humiliation she had endured at the marquess’s hands. “You will not fight a duel in my name. The two of you will settle whatever rancor lies between you in some other fashion.”
“Name your second,” Searle said, ignoring her.
There was a fire in his eyes she had never seen before, a finality to his tone. He had planned this as well, she realized. The satisfaction in his voice could not be mistaken, for she had heard it often enough to recognize. There was no question. Searlewantedto fight her brother in a duel.
Her desperation reached a new crescendo, and as she increased her pace, determined to break up their glaring match and standoff before it was too late, her injured leg gave out on her. She fell to the carpet in a mortified heap of muslin and petticoats, her humiliation complete. Pain radiated from the old break, shooting up her leg.
“Leonie.”
“Leonora.”
Two men fell at her side, and she had to choose which one of them to seek for aid. Which one she dared to trust. She turned away from Searle, arms reaching toward her brother instead.
Chapter Fourteen
His opportunity forrevenge had arrived sooner and swifter than he had anticipated. Morgan should have been well-pleased. Rayne had challenged him to a duel. They would meet on the field of honor. Morgan could put his bullet between Rayne’s eyes, precisely where it belonged. He could end his quest for vengeance.
But as he sat alone in the study that still looked as if his hateful father may walk over the threshold at any moment and demand Morgan vacate his chair, he felt none of the satisfaction he ought to feel. Instead, he stared at a half-drained brandy snifter, still wearing his riding clothes though they had long since dried upon his person. No, he did not celebrate the achievement of his goal, success so close.
He should be thinking of the return trip to London on the morrow, the duel he would fight several days hence. He should be sending word to Monty, who would act as his second, asking him to prepare his pistols. He should be happy, envisioning the look of surprise on Rayne’s face as he took his last, halting breath.
But all he could think about was the sight of Leonie in a heap of skirts upon the floor. Her leg had given out on her, and she had collapsed, had been in physical pain to rival the emotional pain he had already inflicted upon her, and he had wanted nothing more than to soothe those aches. Of course, she had not turned to him for aid. He had not been the one whose hands she clasped. He had not been the man who gently helped her to her feet and escorted her from the chamber.
No, that honor had gone to the Earl of Rayne. Her brother. His nemesis. The man he was going to kill.
He lifted the brandy to his lips and took a long, satisfying draught. His plans continued to unfold with flawless, almost effortless precision. Forcing Rayne into challenging him had always been his plan. In truth, he had supposed such an accomplishment may have required a more extensive foundation to be laid by him. He had not imagined the earl would be so easily manipulated into taking action.
Nor had he imagined how badly it would hurt to see his wife’s reaction as her facile mind quickly and cleverly surmised the ugly truth he had done his best to avoid since wedding her. He had not married her with good intentions. He had sought her out, hunted her down much as his hated father had done with countless game. And how easily he had routed her. How effortlessly.
She had danced with him, been alone with him, and with her reputation at risk, she had capitulated instantly, agreeing to become his wife. What had happened after their vows had taken him by surprise, however. He had never intended for her to develop tender feelings for him, and nor had he intended to become so besotted by her that the sight of her hurt caused him a physical pain, as if someone had gutted him with a bayonet.
Their earlier ride and subsequent idyll in the gamekeeper’s cottage seemed a world away now. She had told him, once again, that she loved him. He had never wanted to hear those words. Nor did he wish for those words to affect him as they did, settling deep inside him, finding their home in a place he had no longer believed capable of emotion.
He drained the remnants of his brandy and rose from his desk, stalking across the Aubusson to pour himself another. After securing the next futile attempt at abating the guilt threatening to drown him, he grasped the ormolu bell pull—crafted in the likeness of a fox, also chosen by the former Marquess of Searle, naturally—and rang for Huell Senior.
The faithful retainer appeared promptly. “How may I be of service, my lord?”
“Did Lady Searle accept the tray I sent to her chamber?” he asked.
Leonie had refused to dine with him, and he had been forced to share a demoralizing meal with no one but himself for company. Rayne, too, had eschewed the meal, but Morgan did not give a damn if the bastard perished from starvation. His only thoughts were for his wife. When he had inquired after her welfare, he had been told she had not wished for sustenance, that her ladyship was feeling ill.
An illness he had caused.
He wondered if her love for him had already withered and died, turning into hatred. Should Rayne somehow get lucky with his aim when they met on the field of honor, she would likely not even mourn his death.
“It was declined, my lord,” Huell Senior replied.
Damn it. Surely, furious with him though she was, she must possess some hunger.
“See that another tray is taken to the marchioness’s chamber, and this time make certain the servant who delivers it insists that it is taken inside.”
She needed to eat, and he refused to allow her to make herself ill because she was being stubborn. She could already be carrying his babe, and if she was, she needed to keep her strength. An idea occurred to him then. “And Huell? See to it that strawberries are delivered with the meal, if you please.”
“Of course, my lord. Will there be anything else, sir?” Huell Senior was expressionless as ever. If he noted a disparity between the flushed, happy marchioness who had returned with Morgan from their ride earlier and the pale, joyless woman who had retreated to her chamber as if it were a shield behind which she could hide, he did not show it.
“That will be all, thank you,” he forced himself to say, waiting until the domestic had gone once more to drain the remainder of his brandy.
