Page 32 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“ I do not want you present at a duel. It is not appropriate for a woman. Besides which, you may witness your own brother's death,” Damien barked as he strode across the stable yard.

Emma followed close on his heels, skirts lifted just enough to keep pace. The sun had not yet risen; the world around them was painted in shades of pewter and ash. A hush lay over Redmane Park like the held breath of a false dawn. Only the scent of dew-soaked hay and the distant clatter of hooves broke the silence.

Except, it was not the peaceful sort.

It was the kind of silence that lingered after something had cracked. The sort that followed a revelation too large to fit into daylight just yet. Emma had not spoken of Harold this morning, and neither had Damien. But the truth hung between them like fog—something in their marriage had shifted, and she wasn’t sure it would ever be put back.

“Then deny me a seat in the trap, and I will follow on horseback. You will not keep me away!”

Charles had ridden out moments before to the appointed place. A heavy mist cloaked the ground. Damien stopped, whirling to face Emma so suddenly that she nearly walked into him.

“No,” he said, voice low and brittle. “I forbid it.”

Emma raised her chin, meeting his glare with her own. “It is not for you to refuse. You cannot refuse me the right to stand by my own brother. Do not try.”

“I am your husband,” he bit out. “I can command you.”

“I am your wife, not your servant or your property. And if you believe commanding me will grant you peace, you are gravely mistaken. We are wasting time.”

She looked pointedly at the pocket watch Damien hid in the refuge of his waistcoat. A long pause passed between them.

He sighed in frustration and then finally nodded.

“Very well. The Regent will doubtless be scandalized but have your way.”

The trap was being prepared at Damien’s instructions and Emma waited impatiently for the two-horse team to be harnessed. She folded her arms and looked out into the mist. Her breath came soft and steady now, but her heart was less cooperative.

“Elsie says that Harold has improved this morning. But will require constant care to weather the storm,” she said in a quieter tone.

“That is well,” he replied, stiffly.

She nodded, the silence stretching like a taut ribbon between them.

“Do you still intend to renounce your title in favor of your brother?” she asked.

“It is the right thing to do. At last. I have listened to him for too long when I knew it was wrong.”

“And if he does not wish to be Duke. As he did not when your father died?”

“Are you so reluctant to give up the title of Duchess?” Damien suddenly snapped.

Emma blinked. “You think that’s what this is?”

The horses were harnessed and bridled. The stable hands stepped away, not looking at their master and mistress who were clearly arguing. Damien climbed up and took the reins. Emma took the seat next to him. He lashed them and the two-horse team trundled forward.

“Do you think so little of me that you think I argue simply to maintain my own comfort?” she retorted.

“No. I merely worry that the title is your only reason for remaining by my side,” he muttered back.

Redmane Park rolled by, mist lapping at the wheels of the trap.

Damien steered them down the road towards the designated spot for the duel. It had been agreed that it would take place between the Fitzgerald estates. Redmane belonging to Damien and Greystone belonging to Isaac. Greystone had been their father's house, the traditional home of the second sons of the Fitzgerald line while the first inherited Redmane. With the supposed passing of Damien’s elder brother, the estates had been shuffled, with Greystone now belonging to his cousin.

A line of ash trees appeared, flanking the road. Damien turned the trap down a lane before coming to a halt before a gate. Greystone Hall was visible below them, nestled in a vale. A copse of ash and birch grew beyond the gate and Emma could see the silhouetted figures of two men in the mist between the trees.

Damien opened the gate and offered his arm to Emma. As they approached the copse, a third figure appeared, walking towards them. Then a fourth.

Emma had not spoken since Damien's last remark. A silence had fallen over both of them, punctuated by the rattle of the trap, the snort of the horses, and the severity of the occasion. His words had cut her to the quick though, and she did not trust herself to speak yet.

They ambled through dew-soaked grass, mist clinging to the soil. She looked up at Damien as they walked and saw the armor he had hidden himself behind. She thought she detected pain in that rigid face though.

Pain at what he has said to me. Doubting me now when we have both acknowledged what we mean to each other?

Every time Emma thought on it, her eyes filled with tears. They were words that were sufficient to make her feel that her world was coming to an end. Just as she had come to feel that there was solid ground beneath her feet, it seemed to be crumbling.

She tried to force her mind to the moment before her. The moment when her brother would attempt to clear his name and that of his family, with his life if necessary. Emma caught at Damien's hand, forcing him to halt. The mist swirled around them, blanketing them. He looked at her quizzically.

Emma opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

This is Charles' moment. I will not sully what might be his last moment on earth with my concerns for my marriage.

But she could not look away from Damien. He seemed to have the same problem. His fingers tightened in hers. They seemed to drift closer, though Emma could not remember moving her feet. Suddenly, her chest was pressing against his hard, muscular body and her fingers were nestled against his lips. Their eyes were locked and a multitude of emotions passed between them without words.

“Did you mean what you said to me?” she wanted to ask.

“No, my love,” she wanted him to reply, “I was angry and afraid that you would find reason to leave me if I had nothing but the clothes on my back. It is not much for a man to offer.”

She wanted to close her eyes and savor the warmth of his lips against her skin but did not want to break the heavy gaze that made her tremble beneath it.

“Don't you see that I do not need a title or money or lands? If you asked for my hand dressed in nothing but rags, I would accept you and be the happiest woman in England. I would live in a hut and consider it a palace .”

Those words remained unsaid.

Emma looked down, unable to hold them in and unwilling to usurp what might be her brother's last moments of life. She stepped back from Damien, feeling his hands tighten for just a moment before he released her. Then she turned and walked away into the mist.

His footsteps were silent behind her. She could not tell that he had followed until he once again stood beside her. Out of the mist, Charles appeared, flanked by Sir Thomas. Charles looked pale, dressed in shirtsleeves and breeches, and carrying a pistol with a rag over its pan to keep the powder dry.

“Emma? What are you doing here? This is no place for you!” he exclaimed.

“I am here to support my brother and the King himself could not stop me.”

She glanced at Damien to emphasize her point. He glowered back, disapproval radiating from him, seeping out from behind his rigid self-control.

“The hour approaches. Are we ready?” Isaac Fitzgerald's voice came through the fog, muffled and flat.

“I am. As are my seconds,” Charles spoke out, bravely.

Emma crossed the space between them quickly, kissing his cheek and squeezing his hand. Sir Thomas slapped his shoulder in good fellowship, smiling tightly. Damien caught his eye and nodded. Emma could feel Charles trembling.

“It is very cold this morning,” her brother shivered.

“Very inclement,” Damien muttered back somberly.

He had not been affected by the temperature during the drive out to this place and Emma suspected he was pretending in order to help disguise Charles' fear. She loved him all the more at that moment, for lying to spare her brother.

Charles nodded and Damien inclined his head, a bow of respect.

Taking a shuddering breath, Charles turned and walked a few yards into the mist. Isaac and Jacob appeared.

“The mist is thinner here by the pond,” Isaac remarked, pointing to his right.

Charles strode straight-backed and with head high as directed. Emma followed with Damien and Sir Thomas to either side. The pond sat at the bottom of a shallow hollow ringed by mist but relatively clear near the water's edge.

“Look out for a trap,” Sir Thomas whispered, “check the ground for anything that might make you stumble or have been left there for that purpose.”

“Surely they would not be so dishonorable?” Charles exclaimed in a whisper.

“You have read the gossip columns. How many of the subjects you read about are men supposedly with honor?” Emma asked.

“Best to assume they have the honor of venomous insects,” Damien snarled.

Isaac had taken a position, standing with pistol raised to the vertical. Charles stood in front of him and the two men turned their backs.

“Walk forward twenty paces and then turn and fire. To draw blood is to be victor,” Jacob said formally.

“And if I am the victor?” Charles asked.

“Our apologies in public to you,” Jacob declared.

“And a signed letter, forgiving all of my debts to you and your brother,” Charles added boldly.

There was a moment's pause during which the brothers looked at each other.

“Very well,” Isaac said while Jacob nodded curtly.

Emma felt Damien take her arm, pulling her back from the sphere of the duel. She reached for Charles and managed to pluck at his sleeve before she was pulled away.

“No!” she hissed fiercely, “I wish to be with my brother!”

“And you would only hinder him and probably get him killed!” Damien whispered furiously, “Be still and let him do his duty!”

Emma rounded on him, putting her face close to his.

“This is not duty! It is something men have contrived and called honor . Something to do with proving that they are men. Duty is marrying a stranger to save one's family. Duty is caring for one's brother even when his wishes are that he be left in a cold tower to die!”

Anger bubbled within her like the throat of a volcano. It was stoked by the conditions that Harold Fitzgerald had ended up in, whether or not of his own volition.

Damien glanced around and Emma realized the danger of speaking the wrong words in front of Isaac and Jacob. Fortunately, they had not heard. Both men watched Charles with the expression of snakes observing their prey. For his part, Charles was absorbed in carefully loading his pistol and cocking it.

“I obeyed my brother,” Damien whispered fiercely, “I did not want to leave him in that place but he would have it no other way. The Duke of Redmane must be strong, he said. A man of such poor health and sickly frame as I would never be accepted by the Regent , he said. I wanted no part of it. All I wanted was to be free to...”

His mouth clamped shut and he looked away, jaw clenched.

“Free to what ?” Emma demanded. “Live the life of a rake, perhaps? Free of your duty and responsibility?”

“I have never shirked from duty!” Damien snapped. “My only wish was to seek justice in…”

Again, he seemed to realize that he had said too much. He gritted his teeth and then ground them when Isaac turned to them.

“I would ask for silence or that you withdraw if you must chatter so.”

Emma flushed. Charles stood with his back to his opponent and eyes closed. Sir Thomas seemed to be praying.

And Damien and I stand here quarreling. I am a terrible sister.

She stood in silence and felt the icy talons of fear digging into her flesh. She wondered if this were not the reason she had continued to argue with Damien, an effort to fill her mind with something other than what was about to happen.

“Let us be about this business without further delay,” Charles said in a quavering voice.

“We cannot until our referee arrives,” Jacob noted. “It cannot be me or any of your seconds. It must be someone who is neutral in this disagreement.”

Emma closed her eyes, feeling sick. She went to clasp her hands together and found Damien reaching for one. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. Their quarrel was forgotten as he squeezed her hand. There was strength there and resolve. She bit her lip and squeezed back.

“Who is to be the neutral referee?” Damien asked.

“Why, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent of course,” Isaac replied.

At that moment, the rattle of horse hooves reached them. Many horses. Emma turned to see a procession arriving bearing torches to dispel the mist and light the pre-dawn twilight. In the middle of these riders was the Prince Regent. Turning away his escort, he approached the last few yards alone and dismounted, waving away the bows and curtsy that greeted him.

“I say, we all have things we'd rather be doing this morning, so let us get this show on the road, eh? Either the rapscallion debtor will pay with his blood for his behavior or the insult ceases to be and all is forgiven, yes? On with it.”

There was a moment of awkward silence during which the Regent looked around expectantly. Then, Damien broke the silence.

“Your Highness? You are to start the duel, as the referee.”

“Am I? So I am! Thank you Redmane. Very well!”

He reached into a pocket and the two duelists straightened their backs, raised their pistols, and braced themselves.

“Oh, damn and blast. I haven't got a handkerchief. Can someone lend me a handkerchief?”

The tension snapped. The two men sagged visibly and Sir Thomas hurried to the Regent with a handkerchief. He raised it above his head and the tension returned in the air as though a thunderstorm was about to break. He let the handkerchief drop.

“Proceed!” came the command.

Damien’s fingers interlaced with hers, and Emma instinctively tightened her grip. The damp grass beneath her boots, the chill in the morning air—none of it registered.

Only Charles did.

His stance was rigid—but not rigid with confidence. She knew her brother too well. That was fear in his spine. That was the strain of resolve where certainty should be.

The two men began their twenty paces.

Isaac was first to turn, smiling as he lowered his pistol to the horizontal, aiming carefully. A duck chose that moment to burst from the pond with a splash and a frenetic flapping of feathers.

Isaac jerked.

His pistol fired.

Emma flinched, eyes flying to her brother—

His hat flew from his head, spinning once before it landed in the grass some feet away.

Gasps erupted across the field.

But Charles did not fall. He did not move. He stood perfectly still, pale as the morning mist, gaping ahead as though he could not quite believe he still stood.

And then—slowly—he lifted his arm.

He let out a single, long breath, closing one eye and sighting carefully.

Isaac's color had vanished with his pistol ball. With a choked cry, he dropped to his knees, tossing the pistol aside and clasping his hands together.

“Mercy!” he screamed. “I take it back. I forgive the debt. I forgive the insult—there was no insult! Show mercy!”

Charles slowly lowered the pistol, a look of incredulity on his face.

“Let there be no more talk of debts or insults!” the Regent cried hastily, stepping forward and waving an arm to put an end to the duel. If Emma had not known better, she might have presumed this referee was not so neutral after all. “Divine providence has spoken and House Montrose is vindicated. There shall be no further talk of blood or honor!”