Lord Will & Her Grace (19 page)

Jack flung a reticule at their loutish heads
and connected with the nephew's head in fine fashion. Mrs. Tickle's
snarls sounded above the jeers of the workingmen who thronged the
spectacle.

"All right, man, you've had your moment of
glory." William shrugged off the arms holding him and fingered his
bruised face. "Tomorrow you'll have your moment to wish to hell
you'd left well enough alone." William spat out a fair amount of
blood and wished, not for the first time, that he had chosen to
live his life in France instead of among these oh-so-noble
English.

Tolworth had the temerity to call honor the
deceit he had employed while attempting to foist off an ugly,
stupid daughter. The French were an altogether more cunning race.
Oh, they might have made the devious attempt to rid themselves of
an unsightly daughter, but they would have retreated when
outmaneuvered and then found new prey.

Momington shouldered his way past the
onlookers to retrieve William and Jack. The trio found Charles'
carriage and headed for the Mornington townhouse, Tolworth's
carriage hard on their wheels.

William, suffering from an all-consuming head
and jaw ache, endured his friend's alternating exclamations of joy
on his betrothal and horror over William's two affaires of honor.
It effectively put an end to his heady thoughts of waltzing with
Sophie.

"No, Mari, I shan't listen to you for another
moment," said Sophie, attaching her veiled riding hat to her
coiffure with a long jeweled hat pin. Her cousin and Karine hovered
about Sophie's elegant dressing room, filled with evidence of last
night's masquerade ball.

"But I promise you it's true. Charles insists
his friend loves you." Mari twisted unmercifully a handkerchief in
her hands. "Perhaps he did involve you in a deceitful manner in the
beginning, but he has well and truly changed."

"Your fiancé, as fine a man as ever there
was, cannot be counted on when it involves Lord Will—a man who has
shown he can maneuver people and events to suit his every whim,"
Sophie retorted. She leaned forward in her seat before the looking
glass and tried to pinch some color into her cheeks. She had had
less than four hours of fitful sleep after the masquerade and
looked all the worse for it. Only Mari looked fresh, the excitement
of her betrothal had forestalled the ravages of a sleepless
night.

"But aren't you worried? Charles shielded me
from the ugly scene in the card room, but I'm sure those gentlemen
began brawling as soon as I was shooed away."

Sophie stood up and waved at Karine to
arrange the veil over her face. "I'm not concerned or surprised in
the least. Lord Will has the delightful habit of inciting anger
wherever he goes."

"Well, I think," Karine said, never once
minding her place, " 'tis time you made a decision to accept one of
the lot of them before something goes wrong." She brushed away lint
on the back of her mistress's deep green riding habit. "You've
stretched your ability and mine to the limit and I see nothing but
un disastre
looming if you don't make your choice
immediatement
."

"She has a point, Sophie," Mari said with a
worried look on her face. "Personally, I don't know how you've kept
up the charade."

"And I still think you should choose Lord
Will no matter what you say," Karine said with a pout.

"I agree," Mari chimed in.

"Lord Drummond would be a better choice for
he, at least, is an honest man. Or I shall choose Lord Coddington
to please Aunt Rutledge," Sophie retorted.

Karine continued. "Really, you are being so
foolish, mademoiselle. It's obvious to us that Lord Will is the one
you most fancy no matter what you say. And Lord knows he will be
the one who will bring you the most pleasure, in and out of the
bedchamber."

"Mademoiselle Karine!" Mari said in shocked
tones.

"Well, it is the truth and she knows it first
hand," Karine said, smugly.

Mari whirled around to confront her. "Is this
true? You have been with him? Oh, Sophie, what have you done?"

"It is no one's affair but my own and it's
beneath discussion by you or anyone." Sophie gave a pointed look to
her maid and picked up her intricately tooled horsehair riding
crop. "Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with Lord
Drummond and my groom. If I dally any longer the sun will be up and
I will have missed my chance for a secret gallop."

Sophie left the room before Mari could start
a harangue on the total want of morals and propriety Sophie had so
lately adopted. She was not in the mood to agree with her
cousin.

Despite the controlled front she exhibited,
Sophie couldn't halt the flood of memories assaulting her senses.
She had almost crumbled under his intense scrutiny while waltzing
with him only a few hours ago. She was wavering, unable to tamp
down the feelings that had escaped last night from the deep
recesses of her heart.

She had tried so desperately to forget him,
and she had failed miserably. A familiar little voice told her that
perhaps, just perhaps, he did care for her just as Mari and Mr.
Mornington insisted. Another voice told her she was still the
fool.

In her mind's eye, she could still see his
expression as they had waltzed—intense, and filled with something
indefinable. Was it love? The first voice fairly screamed "yes" in
her mind, asking why she wavered. She shook her head and wondered
how she would respond when his inevitable card was brought to her
on a silver salver later today. She wondered if her newly minted
pride would play a part in her response.

Past the long carpeted stairway, and central
hall, Sophie accepted the greetings of the sleepy footmen and
exited the townhouse.

It was dark and cool outside. The whirling
mist enveloped her form. True to his word, Lord Drummond awaited
astride his chestnut horse. Sophie's groom led two horses, a small
bay gelding and large gray mare outfitted with a ladies'
sidesaddle.

Within moments the groom assisted Sophie onto
the mare and mounted the other. She assembled her reins and set
forth up the street.

"I say, Miss Somerset, Hyde Park is this way,
don't you know?" Lord Drummond was his usual jovial self despite
the early hour.

"Correct," Sophie said. "However, as we are
off to Regent's Park, it is the opposite direction," she said
trotting northward, not bothering to make sure both men followed
her.

Lord Drummond chuckled behind her. "But, Miss
Somerset, why ever are we going there? It's so much farther."

"Because I'm tired of Rotten Row and the
endless stream of gentlemen trying to prove their virility."

Karine's first rule of playing the coquette
was to be difficult and act on every caprice. It had proven its
merits, driving hordes of gentlemen to answer her every beck and
call. The deferential, good-natured girl of her past seemed a dim
memory. Indeed, selfishness had proved to be an easy failing to
adopt.

The pair made their way along the quiet, dark
streets of Mayfair trailed by Sophie's young groom. They entered
the deserted outer circle of Regent's Park and with the flick of
the whip, Sophie signaled her mare into a canter, which soon became
a gallop when Lord Drummond's gelding tried to catch them.

Sophie laughed and enjoyed the rush of cold
air on her face. She had always loved to ride but had never had the
opportunity to ride a beautiful, sure-footed creature such as this
mare until coming to live with her aunt. Her father had only ever
had Dobby, a two-decade-old sweetheart whose gaits could best be
described as slow and uncomfortable.

The mare handily won the impromptu race
ending at Macclesfield Bridge. Sophie turned her head to give Lord
Drummond some good-natured ribbing before she heard a shout from
the groom.

The young man pointed toward something in the
misty distance in the direction of Primrose Hill across the
road.

"They're dueling, miss," the groom, Jemmy,
called out.

"Best if we leave in the event there's a
stray bullet from those fools," Lord Drummond said. "Come on then,
I'll concede your victory, my dear."

"Nonsense," Sophie said already halfway
across the bridge. "Let's go see."

Lord Drummond trotted toward her. "Now
really, Miss Somerset, I must insist. This is no matter for a lady.
It's not at all the thing."

"I'm going," Sophie said.

"No, no. Turn around, my dear. It's an
affaire of honor and ladies are not at all welcome."

"Look at it this way, my lord. Perhaps I'll
faint from the blood and you'll be there to catch and revive me."
She didn't tell him that there was virtually no chance of that. She
had seen more blood and serious injuries than many apothecaries, as
there hadn't been a doctor within sixty miles of Porthcall.
Everyone had turned to her father, Sophie or the midwife when in
need. Bandaging injuries was second nature. "Come along, Jemmy
"

Within moments she discerned they were using
swords. She galloped forward, in plain view of both duelists,
praying one of her party could stop this before someone was injured
or killed.

And then cold fear swept her breath away.
Good God! Her heart leapt in horror. It was Lord Coddington and, of
all people—
William
.

SOPHIE unhooked her leg from the sidesaddle,
jumped down and ran toward Lord Will's valet, Mr. Mornington and a
stranger. Lord Drummond and Jemmy were not far behind her. Mr.
Farquhar grabbed her arm as she tried to dart past, heedless of the
danger.

"Hold still," commanded the valet with a
seriousness she had never heard from the foppish man. Mr.
Mornington grabbed her other arm to hold her back. "Don't break his
concentration," whispered Mr. Farquhar harshly.

"Go right ahead, my dear." The stranger, Lord
Coddington's second, chuckled as he boldly examined the length of
her body. "It's in your honor, after all."

"What?" Her gaze darted to the duelists.

"Hush!" Farquhar's tone demanded
obeisance.

The snick of small swords sliced through the
silent, dark air. The triangular blades swirled so quickly during
the thrusts and parries that they were a blur of motion. The two
men exhibited sophisticated phrasing and blade work amid the clash
of metal on metal.

William's proud, aristocratic stance was
silhouetted against the rising sun that was beating hack the mist.
He held his arm in a firm balanced manner, striking at his opponent
in smooth, fluid movements. Lord Coddington thrust his sword with
more vigorous and active motions.

The tempo seemed to increase in time with
Sophie's racing heart. Oh Lord, please don't let him die. She would
promise anything, just please. The edges of fear and guilt crept
into her breast. God was exacting justice for all her sins.

The two swords clanged together at the hilts
with each man trying to outmuscle the other, and for a split
second, William's gaze took in Sophie.

Lord Coddington pushed with all his weight
and managed to shove William off balance, then thrust his sword
point, plunging into the edge of William's waist.

Sophie's breath whooshed out of her as
William staggered slightly and recovered, breathing hard.
Coddington, his eyes bulging and with exuberant confidence, swung
his sword wildly, grazing William's brow.

"No," hissed the valet, pushing her to the
ground, out of William's line of vision.

The thin razorlike cut on his face teared
scarlet and gushed down William's face, impeding his vision.

Flushed with success, Lord Coddington paused,
his sword hovering indecisively for a moment. Seeing the opening,
William snapped his sword forward like a sapling branch pulled back
and released, piercing Coddington's chest wall.

Coddington lurched, stumbled backward, then
fell to the ground. Sophie pitched forward to her feet and ran to
William.

Breathing hard, Will swiped at his bloodied
face and lowered himself to the wet grass.

Sophie tumbled headlong beside him. She
forced him to lie down then fumbled with his waistcoat and
shirt.

"Why,
chérie
, whatever are you about?"
William asked.

Sophie looked into his laughing yet exhausted
eyes.

"Had I known I could earn your compassion and
attention and loving care by this fashion, I would've drawn blood
long ago." He chuckled before a series of coughs overwhelmed
him.

Sophie examined his wound and exhaled. The
sword had missed William's vitals, having gone in and out of the
edge of his waist. Now it was only a question of whether the wound
would fester and bring on a deadly fever.

Mr. Farquhar sat beside her and opened a
brown leather bag. Sophie took a bandage from the valet's hands and
insisted on binding the wound herself.