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“Watch her, would you?” Jacob murmured, pressing his pistol case into Drake’s hands.

His friend nodded. “Of course.”

“Jacob.” Honoria grabbed his hand. “Please.”

Jacob squeezed her fingers briefly and winked at her. “Don’t worry.”

“Are the terms agreed on?” he asked Drake before striding away.

“As discussed. Twenty paces. Turn. Shoot. One shot only.”

With a nod, Jacob approached the spot designated as the center. Bradshaw met him with a cruel twist of his lips. “Brought your whore, I see,” he sneered. “Just know that once I kill you, she’s coming to warm my bed again—like she did for years.”

Jacob held in his anger, not letting this weasel of a man rattle him. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw,” he said calmly. “I’ll make it quick and painless.”

They turned their backs, pistols in hand.

One. Two.

Jacob started walking to the count of Drake’s voice.

Five. Six.

The breeze tickled his face, cooling his burning cheeks.

Fifteen. Sixteen.

He concentrated on the weight of the pistol in his hand, visualizing shooting Bradshaw straight through the chest. Nothing else mattered.

Nineteen. Twenty.

He stopped.

Pivoted. Then raised his arm in a steady, duelist’s stance—body angled, arm fully outstretched toward his opponent.

With his spectacles on, he could see Bradshaw perfectly—the barrel of his gun aimed at Bradshaw’s chest.

The distance between them seemed both vast and negligible. Time slowed as his finger tensed on the trigger.

“You compare me to him?”

“Only if you act like him.”

Jacob grimaced. In a split-second decision, he adjusted his aim—slightly down and to the left.

Two cracks split the morning air almost simultaneously. Jacob felt the wind of Bradshaw’s ball pass harmlessly over his shoulder, but his own shot found its mark.

A strangled yelp erupted from Bradshaw, more indignant than pained. He toppled awkwardly, landing inelegantly on the damp grass.

Honoria let out a gasp, covering her face with her hands.

“I’m hit! The blackguard shot me!” Bradshaw howled, rolling onto his side.

The bullet had grazed his posterior, ripping through the fabric of his fine breeches. A crimson stain spread across the buff-colored material as Bradshaw clutched at his backside, his face contorted with equal parts pain and humiliation.

“Good God,” Drake muttered, fighting to maintain his composure. “You’ve shot him in the—”

Arse. He’d shot him in the arse.