Justin reached out and grasped a weapon with no more than a cursory look. His hand shook ever so slightly.
Ashton offered the remaining one to Branford, who took it up casually, letting his hand fall immediately to his side.
“Hartley and I have marked off the paces. You will move to your spots. When I give the signal, you may fire at will. One shot each.”
Both participants took up their positions.
Ashton called “Ready?” and glanced to either side. Both men turned sideways and nodded.
With a muttered oath, he dropped a white handkerchief.
Fifteen
Branford raised his right arm in one swift, smooth motion. When it reached shoulder level, he adjusted his aim with a quick, precise movement and pulled the trigger.
Justin had not yet lifted his pistol above his waist when he heard the sharpcrack. Squeezing his eyes tight, he waited for the inevitable impact. His last thought was of how furious Alex would be at him to let it all end this way.
But truly, for honor’s sake, there had been no other choice.
He almost didn’t feel the rush of air as the bullet whizzed past him, as it was so far off the mark. His jaw dropped in astonishment and it took an instant for him absorb the fact that he was indeed unscathed.
Branford dropped his arm to his side and stood motionless. Even in his black clothes he was clearly visible in the gathering light.
Justin’s pistol was now pointed straight at the earl’s chest. All he had to do was take his time and make sure of his aim.
How simple.
So what is holding him back?He blinked as he sighted down the barrel. Why couldn’t he shake the image of Branford’sface, naked for that brief moment yesterday morning before his defenses had covered up the look of searing pain?
Justin gritted his teeth.Go on, urged an inner voice—the man was a blackguard, a rake, a scoundrel!
Justin jerked his hand slightly to the right and fired.
At the same time, Branford turned straight on to face his adversary, exposing himself more fully to the young man’s aim.
“No!” cried Ashton, taking an involuntary step forward.
The bullet tore into Branford with a sickening sound. He staggered backwards for a step or two, then collapsed on the ground.
“Sebastian!” Ashton sprinted to his friend and knelt to cradle his head as a dark stain began to spread across the earl’s shirt.
Justin threw his pistol to the ground and ran over to Branford’s prostrate form. Hartley came up behind him.
Ashton shouted for the surgeon as he pounded his fist onto the ground in frustration.
“Is he …” faltered Justin.
Branford’s eyes fluttered open. “For God’s sake, Henry, get the lads out of here,” he whispered weakly. “I depend on you—the doctor shall see to me.”
“Sebastian …” Ashton began to argue but the earl had already lapsed into unconsciousness. The doctor pushed him aside and hurriedly applied a compress to the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“We must be away from here,” he cried, his voice betraying his nervousness. “Help me get him to the carriage.”
Ashton called for his coachman and the three of them lifted Branford and carried his limp form to the waiting vehicle. As soon as the door was shut, the coachman tied the reins of the earl’s stallion to the back rail, grabbed up the whip and set the horses off at a gallop.
“In the name of the devil, get moving!” cried Ashton to the others as he retrieved the weapons from the ground. He ran to Hartley’s carriage where he none too gently shoved the two dazed young men up the steps towards the dark interior.
“Spring ‘em,” he snarled at the terrified driver. Then he climbed in himself and slammed the door.
