Nicholas would never willingly fail Eliza DeVries.
All the same, he could not deny himself the pleasure of her kiss. He would touch her this one last time. He would let her believe it was lust on his side and no more than that. He would taste her sweet passion one time before he rode to the duel.
And if he was to die upon the field, he would have naught in his life to regret.
Even her kiss taunted him, firing his blood with a desire beyond what he had felt before, yet leaving a part of him hauntingly unresponsive. There was no evading the truth of his situation, not with a willing Eliza fairly devouring him with her kiss and his body failing to respond to the summons.
He was but a shadow of the man he had been, and the truth of it was wrenching.
Nicholas broke their kiss with an effort, placing a distance between them with deliberation. Eliza was flushed and disheveled, as fetching a sight as he had ever seen, yet he might have been dead beneath the waist.
He reached out and touched her cheek with a fingertip, unable to resist one last caress. “Go,” he whispered, feeling his resolve crumble when she might have nestled her cheek against his hand. He did not know how to send her away without injuring her feelings but he knew she had to leave before anyone in the stables noted their doings. He let his tone harden and cursed himself for what he was about to say. “Only Sterling earns his way as a stud, my lady.”
Eliza’s eyes flashed with predictable fire and she glared at him. “You are crude, Captain Emerson.”
“I am a mere soldier. It is our way.”
“You are not and you know it, but I will not argue with you.” Eliza inhaled sharply and retreated. “All the same, I wish you success this morning, Captain Emerson.”
He inclined his head as she spun on her heel and could not deny himself the sight of her furious retreat. It was no moment to regret the past or even to dream of a future he had not yet assured, but Nicholas did both as he returned to the grooming of his horse.
The mist was rising from the common at Wimbleton when Nicholas dismounted. Haynesdale had ridden in the smaller of his carriages and his footman held the door as he descended. He surveyed the field and the sky as if they embarked on a hunting expedition, then continued toward Nicholas. At his nod, the footman took the reins of Sterling.
“You will wait, Thomson,” Haynesdale said to his driver.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The common was deserted, save for a curricle just ahead. A lively pair of bays stamped with impatience to run and Nicholas guessed that Melbourne must be a skilled driver, if nothing else. That man stepped forward, an auburn-haired stranger following him.
“Davidson, I assume,” Haynesdale murmured and Nicholas nodded.
Melbourne’s second was markedly nervous, while Melbourne looked resolute and pale. The pair approached Nicholas and Haynesdale, and introductions were made. Davidson offered a case and Haynesdale leaned his cane against his hip as he opened it. The sun crested the horizon just then, sending a pale light over the land. A pair of matched dueling pistols reposed inside the case, their barrels gleaming.
“Pistols at dawn,” Haynesdale mused, then reviewed the condition of the weapons with his usual efficiency. Nicholas stood by, trusting him completely. Haynesdale ensured that both pistols were clean, taking his time with the task. He then loaded them with familiar efficiency as the other men watched. He offered the choice to Nicholas, who selected one, testing the weight of it in his grip. It was a fine weapon, with chasing on the barrel and mother-of-pearl inlay.
Melbourne lifted the other and Haynesdale returned the case to Davidson.
The four men turned as one and walked to the middle of the commons with purpose. A cock crowed as the morning mist swirled around their ankles. Nicholas was filled with a resolve, calm before the battle.
If nothing else, it would be of short duration.
He stood back-to-back with Melbourne at Haynesdale’s direction, then both seconds retreated to safety. He could smell Melbourne’s fear and took note of it, bracing himself for some unpredictable action on the younger man’s part. The duke, taking ascendance due to both his nature and his rank, began to count and Nicholas paced away from Melbourne.
At the duke’s command, Nicholas pivoted then flinched as a ball shot past his ear. Melbourne had fired early and wide, perhaps deliberately. He now stood, arms at his sides. Even at a distance, Nicholas could see the other man’s terror as he lifted his own pistol and aimed.
He could have killed him, but Nicholas saw the growing stain on Melbourne’s breeches as that man soiled himself. He aimed for his opponent’s left arm instead, for the bone instead of either joint. He would influence Melbourne’s driving skill for a short period as a lesson and that would suffice.
There was no cause to inflict a greater injury in peacetime.
To his credit, Melbourne did not cower or run, but he roared when the ball tore through both his jacket and his arm. He fell immediately to his knees in apparent agony. He gripped his injured arm with his other hand, the blood flowing between his fingers with vigor. Both Davidson and Haynesdale went to him, as did Nicholas, the duke arriving last and leaning on his cane to observe. Davidson pulled away the jacket of the anguished man to expose the injury and Melbourne whimpered in pain.
“A mere flesh wound,” Haynesdale said and the younger man looked up at him in outrage. Haynesdale smiled coolly. “So close to the heart and yet sufficiently far away. Did you taste your demise, Melbourne?” Without awaiting a reply, he turned to Nicholas and shook his hand. “Artfully done, Emerson. It takes skill and mercy to grant a lesson without a lifelong injury.”
Melbourne sputtered in outrage but was ignored.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Nicholas returned the pistol to Davidson. “It is a fine weapon. I hope you never see occasion to use this pair again.”
Dull color rose on Melbourne’s neck. “The wager has been removed from the betting book, sir,” he said, his tone a little less than conciliatory.
