Page 28 of A Gentleman's Wager

“Aye, it is, minx, but it sounds—”

“My lord?” She treated him to a petulant pout. “I didn’t think you the sort to leave a lady wanting.”

Lucerne’s gaze returned to the delights of her slick, wet puss. “Nor is it my intention to do so. This will take but a moment, and then we may…”

It would likely take considerably more than a moment. Ivo would not have bothered him with something that could be dealt with so efficiently. Still, he armed himself with optimism as he brushed off the knees of his breeches and straightened his collar.

For her part, Bella remained lasciviously posed upon his desk, flashing him her every delight. She was as willing and wanton as any of the coquettes he’d entertained in London, but seeing he was intent upon attending to whatever drama was unfolding, she gave a sigh, wriggled off the desktop, and shook out her skirts so they respectably covered her legs again. She nibbled her lower lip as she reached for him.

“A moment,” he bade.

But she only smoothed the front of his hair back into place, then held his hand as he walked over to the door.

Lucerne inched it open a crack, then seeing it was only Ivo outside, cast it wider. “What the devil is the matter? Is the house on fire?”

“My lord.” His valet, never one to stint on social observances, dipped into a swift bow. “Captain Wakefield has challenged the marquis to a duel.”

“The devil he has!”

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”

“What?” Bella gasped from behind him. Lucerne glanced back at her to find that intrigue had melted away her sulky pout. Dammit, if her response was anything to go by, his other guests would swiftly gather and encourage this nonsense.

“Where are they?” he barked.

“The drawing room, my lord.”

Of all the devilish things, could he not leave them alone for a moment without them locking horns? He’d thought they’d been rubbing up rather well together. Leastways, they’d been nothing but civil in his presence.

Bella insisted on tagging along as he struggled towards the drawing room. A crowd of nosy servants and guests stood clustered around the door. He tried the handle, but—it was a room without a locking door—someone appeared to be holding it closed from the other side. “Open this door, at once.”

Rather surprisingly, his demand was complied with immediately.

“I do beg your pardon, Marlinscar.” Bella’s brother presented himself in the doorway. “It seemed best to keep anyone not directly involved out of this mess.” He allowed both Lucerne and Bella to enter, casting his sister a curious glance, then quickly wedged a chair under the handle.

The drawing room stood in some disarray. A side table had been knocked over and several ornaments were scattered about. At least one glass or decanter had been smashed, judging by the arch of glass sprayed across the hearth rug. At the epicentre of this disorder stood Vaughan, poised, perfect, a glass of port nestled in the palm of his hand. He was every inch as exquisitely turned out as he’d been gracefully stepping about the ballroom with Miss Stanley on his arm not twenty minutes ago.

Wakefield, on the other hand, was being held captive on the sofa, the weight of Charles Aubrey’s hands upon his shoulders. His face was flushed a shade almost as vibrant as his soldier’s jacket, which was despoiled by a dark purple stain across the front.

It didn’t take more than a moment to envisage the exact sequence of events. As to the cause…

“Lucerne.” Wakefield began. “This despicable bastard—”

“I’ve accepted your challenge, Captain Wakefield, surely there’s no need for further name calling,” Vaughan cut him off. “Do let me know who your second is to be.”

Wakefield lunged, successfully freeing himself of Charles’s grip.

“Frederick!” Lucerne stepped into his path, grasping his arm and jerking him away from Vaughan. With the aid of Joshua Rushdale, he managed to force him back into the chair. “See reason will you? Both of you. I won’t have duelling in my house.” He could hardly believe they’d even consider it. They both knew his family history. Three brothers… he’d lost three brothers to such nonsense. “What the devil is this even about?”

“Ask him,” Wakefield huffed.

Lucerne jerked his head towards the mantle. “Vaughan?”

“I am not the one responsible for the challenge,” he replied laconically. “However, as Captain Wakefield insists, I’m honour bound to accept.”

“The devil you are. You’ve got no honour.”

“Wakefield,” Lucerne snapped, rather wishing he’d stayed in the library. The staccato pulse in his temple was already warning him that his own temper was about to fray. “Both of you. I did not go to the trouble and expense of hosting a ball to waste it listening to your petty squabbles.” He could do that any time.