The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series)

"YOU WILL BE TRUE TO ME?"

Keene blinked.

Sophie had the awful sinking feeling she had assumed too much. In her effort to back away, she slid, probably on the same patch of ice that had done her in before. Whenever she was around Keene, her normal grace—or at least normal ability to avoid predicaments—deserted her. Both feet went in opposite directions, and she fought to plant them on the layer of snow-covered ice.

Keene caught her around the waist and jerked her against him. For a second they both wavered as her face plowed into his midsection. Then he raised her upright. She wasn't sure why she did it, perhaps to reassure herself that he was really here, but she brushed her fingers across his cheek. His hand closed over hers, his skin warm where hers was cold.

The moment hung in the air like the white puffs that marked their expelled breath. His dark eyes searched her face and dropped to her lips. He pressed against her, and found her mouth with his.

There was a second of the gentle pressure she expected, but then the kiss changed. His breath mingled with hers. His flavor invaded her mouth. The wet swirl of the kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced. This was no namby-pamby kiss, it was wild. It was scorching. And she loved it . . .

Katy Madison

To my husband Mike who always believed in the dream.

Kindle Edition

Copyright © 2002 by Karen L. King

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This book was originally published in paperback by Kensington Publishing Corp.

as The Wedding Duel by Karen L. King

London, December 1814

The carriage rattled along the cobblestones. The steady clop-clop of the horses and the sway of the vehicle made sleep impossible. Keene Whitmore Davies lifted the shade and a shard of sharply angled morning sunlight pierced the dark interior.

This pure light should have been reserved for saints. He dropped the shade. A saint he was not.

"'Tis a bright morning," said his companion John.

Keene smiled grimly. "Good morning for killing fools."

John shifted nervously.

Poor boy
, he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and out of misguided nobleness had offered to stand second. "Were you able to find pistols for me?"

"Yes, yes. Look at these. The workmanship is very fine." John opened the walnut box and held it out for Keene to inspect the contents.

Keene gave the matched set of pearl-inlaid pistols resting in a red velvet nest a cursory glance. "They'll do."

John ran a finger over the guns. "Perhaps you should not continue this."

Keene arched an eyebrow.

"I mean for your father's sake. He has just lost your brother. He should be heartbroken to lose both his sons in so short a space."

Keene didn't bother to correct John. His father would suffer his loss gladly. His younger brother's death had devastated both of them.

John shifted in his seat. "I'm sure Lord Wedmont will extend his apologies for the insult."

"I shall not accept his apologies."

"P-perhaps your brother's loss has shaken your normal good civility."

"I assure you, I'm not often accused of good civility."

"As you are well aware of your humors, you do not often find offense in others' comments."

"Give over, John. I know your duty is to talk me out of my intentions, but don't waste your breath."

"You are not known to demand satisfaction, sir. You are more known to laugh and find truth in others' insults."

Keene folded his arms across his chest and gazed at his nervous companion. "Dawn is too ungodly an hour to be about. I daresay I often refrain from demanding settlement for want of rising so early in the morning."

John squirmed in his seat.

He didn't understand that the insult offered by Victor Wedmont had happened many months ago. Approximately nine to be exact. There was no way to repair the ruin of their best friend George's marriage with a simple apology.

Victor and George had both been part of a group of friends that had ties back to Keene's school days in Eton. They had all been close to each other. Only now was it obvious how much in each other pockets they had been.

"Are you afraid of blood?" asked Keene.

John threw back his shoulders. "Of course not."

"Good, because I expect there shall be some."

An odd expression crossed John's face. "Perhaps." He looked down at the box that held the matched set of dueling pistols.

Keene watched his companion. "Are they Mantons?" Weapons made by the London gun maker were renowned for their accuracy.

"No. They are not. Legend has it they are from Spain."

Keene frowned.

John opened the box again. "They are quite beautiful. See the Spanish tooling on the grip? Quite a bargain. Only forty guineas for the pair."

"Quite," echoed Keene dryly. "Let us hope that a pistol worth twenty guineas is as capable of wounding as one worth twice as much."

Again that odd look flitted across John's face. Keene made a mental note to have his other second, the one in charge of fetching the surgeon, pack the pistols in case John had any ideas of using too little powder.

John cracked his knuckles and shifted in his seat. The case slid on his lap, and he grabbed it. Keene flicked his gaze over his second. Odd that John was so nervous, when Keene was the one on the way to fight.

"They are really quite beautiful, are they not?"

Keene closed his eyes. He didn't want John's nervousness to soften the icy rage that propelled him toward this meeting.

"Bewitched, they say."

Keene cracked one eye open.

"I say, there is a legend that goes with them."

"Yes, they are from Spain."

John twitched. "There is a legend that, regardless who stands or falls, the real winner shall be married to a fine woman and enjoy marital bliss."

Keene closed his eye. "A rare state."

John mumbled, "I know you have maintained these many years that you shall never take a wife as you wanted Richard to be your heir."

"Richard is dead."

"Yes, I know."

Keene grimaced. He knew John knew. The two had been fast friends. John had been his brother's friend more than his own. Sometimes Keene needed to remind himself that his lighthearted fair brother was gone, snatched away in the prime of his life by a fever. His brother had epitomized all that was good in their mother, and like her had found his way far too early into the arms of an eternal Morpheus.

The carriage drew to a halt. Keene swung the door open. The rare sunny morning cast long shadows through the lines of trees. Three other carriages were drawn up beside the lane. His opponent stood apart from a cluster of men.

Rage sifted through Keene. He stared at Victor. The man raised his arm in a half salute, his exposed linens showing that he was prepared to go through with the duel. Keene unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat. The cluster of men approached him.

"Sir, Lord Wedmont extends his most gracious apology. He withdraws any insult he may have spoken and claims he meant not the words as they sounded, but begs your leave to explain his true meaning."

Keene stared through the man acting as Victor's second.

Another held up a slip of paper and began reading, "Lord Wedmont also extends his apologies for any past action of his that might have brought offense to you, sir. He swears that his actions were never intended to offer any harm to anyone, least of all you, a man he greatly respects. He swears his behavior has been directed by a foolish heart." The speaker frowned.

To be sure, it was an odd apology for an insult.

The four seconds clustered around him waiting for his acceptance of the apology, to declare that he was satisfied. He wasn't.

He peeled back his jacket and waistcoat. The cool December air blew through the fine linen of his shirt.

Oddly, the wording of the written apology fueled his icy rage. Victor gave him a wry smile as his seconds shook their heads. Keene crossed the lawn in long strides.

"Should you wish to settle this with fists, sir?" asked Victor.

"I shall not draw enough blood with my fist."

Victor blanched.

Keene glanced back to make sure the others remained out of hearing range. "How could you have done it? You've ruined her life. George is ready to blow his brains out."

"If I could have, I should have married her, rather than let George have her."

Rage pulsed through Keene's system. "Why didn't you?"

Victor's voice was low. "Why didn't
you
?"

Keene wanted to walk away, return home and pretend it was all a bad dream. "I had no plans for marriage."

Victor's face paled. He looked haunted. "I would have married her. I thought I loved her—"

"Everyone loves her." Keene struggled against the surge of compassion that threatened to dampen his rage. If Victor had truly loved her, he would have married her.

"I thought I loved her before I knew she would fall into my bed with so little persuasion." Victor eyed him speculatively. "Is that why you challenged me?"

"I fight for George's honor." Keene stumbled over the words he intended to deliver with his usual aplomb.

"It is not my blood you want," said Victor softly.

Keene watched the man run a shaky hand through his artfully disordered brown locks. It wouldn't be a fair fight if Victor couldn't hold his hand steady to fire the pistol. Honor tore Keene in a thousand ways. What loyalty did he owe Victor? George? George's wife, Amelia?

"I should do it again. If George has no care for his wife, I shall be pleased to take her into my keeping. She should be happy in a cottage as long as she had my service."