The duke folded up like a rag doll and toppled backward. Fortunately, his friends reacted quickly, catching him an instant before his head could hit the cobblestones. When they’d pulled him up into a sitting position, he grinned stupidly up at Dain. Sweat mingled with blood trickled down the duke’s face.
“Apologize,” said Dain.
Ainswood took several heaving breaths. “Beg pardon, Beelz,” he croaked.
“You will also take the first opportunity to apologize to my lady.”
Ainswood sat, nodding and breathing hard for a long moment. Then, to Jessica’s chagrin, he looked up toward the balcony. “Beg pardon, my lady Dain!” he called out hoarsely.
Then Dain looked up, too. Damp black curls clung to his forehead, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his neck and shoulders.
His eyes widened briefly in astonishment when they lit upon her, and an odd, pained look crossed his features. But in the next instant, the familiar, mocking expression was in place. “My lady,” he said, and swept her a theatrical bow.
The crowd cheered.
She nodded. “My lord.” She wanted to leap down from the balcony and into his arms.
One-armed, he had fought his own friend, because of her. He had fought cleverly, splendidly. He was magnificent. She wanted to cry. She mustered a tremulous smile, then turned and hurried through the door Bridget held open for her.
Not certain at first what to make of his bride’s troubled smile, Dain took stock of the situation and his appearance, and ended by making the worst of it.
The smile and the cool composure, he decided, were for the audience’s benefit. It was a cover-up smile, as so many of his own were, and he could easily imagine what she was covering up.
Her new husband was an animal.
He’d been brawling in an innyard like a common ruffian.
He was dirty and spattered with Ainswood’s blood and sweating andstinking.
He was also half-naked, and the torchlights had given her a lurid view of what he’d intended to conceal in darkness: his gross blackamoor’s body.
By now, she was probably clutching a chamber pot, casting up her accounts—if she wasn’t bolting the door and helping Bridget push heavy furniture against it.
Dain decided against washing up in the room. Instead, he marched to the pump, deaf to his valet’s warnings about the night air and fatal chills.
Not to be outdone, Ainswood joined him there. They silently doused themselves while their friends gathered round them to exclaim and argue about the fight.
When the two had completed their cold ablutions, they stood eyeing each other and shrugging their shoulders to conceal their shivering.
Ainswood spoke first. “Wed, by gad,” he said, shaking his head. “Who’d have thought it?”
“She shot me,” said Dain. “She had to be punished. ‘Pardon one offense,’ says Publilius, ‘and you encourage the commission of many.’ Can’t have every female who feels vexed with me running after me with pistol cocked. Had to make an example of her, didn’t I?”
He glanced round at the others. “If one female gets away with shooting Beelzebub, others might start thinking they can get away with shooting any male, on any trifling pretext.”
The men about him fell silent. As they pondered this outrageous prospect, their expressions grew very grave.
“I wed her as a public service,” he said. “There are times when a man must rise above his own petty concerns and act on behalf of his friends.”
“So he must,” said Ainswood. He broke into a grin. “But it doesn’t seem so great a sacrifice to me. That is a prime—I mean to say, your lady is exceedingly handsome.”
Dain affected indifference.
“I should saybeautiful,” said Carruthers.
“Quality,” said another.
“Her bearing is elegant,” another volunteered.
