Page 53 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)
Chapter Two
“ T ake it back, you damned liar!”
The shout rang out from somewhere beyond the hedgerow, slicing through the summer air like a thrown gauntlet. It was immediately followed by the rustle of silk-lined coats and the scrape of polished boots on gravel.
Thomas paused mid-sentence, his head cocked. “Oh, now that sounds promising.”
Before Lysander could object, Thomas was already veering off the path, pushing past the flowering laurel with the enthusiasm of a boy chasing a cricket ball.
“Come on, I want to see this.” Thomas wiggled his eyebrows.
Lysander knew better than to protest when Thomas had that look in his eyes. He picked up his pace as Thomas ran toward the commotion and quickly caught up with his friend. They passed through the bushes to find two young lords arguing.
“Two roosters trying to out-cluck each other, that’s all,” Lysander pointed out.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than one of the lords grabbed the other and shook him by the collar.
Thomas clasped his hands together in amusement as the argument escalated.
“Say that again!” the lord warned, shaking the other man.
“I speak the truth,” the second man spat.
“Take it back!” The first man gave the other a shake that would have thrown the other lord to the ground if the first lord hadn’t gripped his collar so tightly.
“I smelled bergamot, Hollinger!”
Hollinger shook the other lord with more fury. “I swore on the house floor that I supported the embargo. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing French hair oil. This is English oil. English oil!”
Thomas turned to grin at Lysander, looking positively giddy.
Hollinger suddenly pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the other lord.
Gasps erupted from the small crowd that had gathered to witness the argument. Most of the ladies and a few of the men took a step back. Someone looked around and shouted for a constable.
“Oh, blast this!” Lysander cursed. “Someone will be hurt if this continues. I don’t care about those fools, but there are too many people around.”
“The Duke of Windermere to the rescue!” Thomas chanted, his finger in the air, as Lysander approached the squabbling gentleman.
“This stops now!” Lysander commanded. “Let him go and point your weapon at the ground. Now.”
Hollinger looked over at the approaching Duke, and his grip on the man’s collar weakened when he saw Lysander had no intention of stopping. His opponent pulled himself away from Hollinger, falling backward to the ground and scrambling away.
Hollinger looked at his gun. He had a weapon, which meant he had all the power.
Or he should have had all the power.
“He’s the one who insulted me,” Hollinger shouted, waving the pistol.
Those gathered took a quick step back.
All except for Lysander, who walked over to the man waving the pistol around. “I don’t care what he said to you; we are gentlemen, and this is not the way. That is, unless you are challenging your acquaintance to a duel.”
“Well… I-I mean,” Hollinger stuttered.
Lysander stepped right up to Hollinger, almost going nose to nose with him. “If you draw a gun, you had better be willing to use it. Are you willing to use it, sir?”
The gun hung limply at Hollinger’s side.
“I shan’t be offended like that,” Hollinger said.
“We are in a public place. Either put the gun away or shoot your friend for insulting the smell of your hair oil. Perhaps it is not bergamot, but there is a floral aroma.”
“Lavender,” Hollinger offered.
“Hmm.” Lysander looked the man in the eye and lowered his voice. “They are all watching. If you don’t do as I ask, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.”
Hollinger swallowed and quickly concealed the gun, the crowd gasping in relief as he did.
“Good man,” Lysander said.
“I-I’m sorry,” Hollinger mumbled.
“What is the meaning of this?” a constable demanded as he neared the scene.
Lysander glared at the pistol-wielding lord.
“Ah, nothing but a friendly squabble among friends,” he told the constable. “A mere disagreement on how Napoleon should be dealt with. I’m sure we’ve heard the end of it. They were about to shake hands right before you arrived.”
Lysander looked between Hollinger and the lord sitting on the grass. Hollinger hesitated, and Lysander shot him a glare, tilting his head slightly toward the constable. Hollinger then pursed his lips and begrudgingly approached the other lord, offering a hand and pulling him to his feet.
“Ah, there you go,” Lysander announced. “If only all of our problems were solved so easily.”
Everyone froze as if caught in a painting—the crowd holding its breath, waiting to see what would unfold; the two lords clasping hands in an uneasy truce; the constable watching closely; and Lysander, standing at the center of it all.
“Very well,” the constable nodded, “Good day to you, sirs.”
Satisfied, the constable turned and walked away.
Lysander heard Thomas whistle beside him and felt his friend pat him on the back.
“Well done, soldier,” Thomas whispered to him.
Lysander kept his eyes fixed on the two lords, who quickly released each other’s hands and walked off together, continuing to bicker. The crowd gradually dispersed.
“Neither of them has seen real fighting,” Lysander muttered, his voice low and unimpressed. His gaze stayed fixed on the lords squabbling in the distance. “They wouldn’t be posturing if they had.”
Thomas glanced at him, about to speak, but Lysander’s eyes narrowed slightly as a few women approached, whispering amongst themselves.
“I’m not here for gawkers,” he said, cold and flat.
Thomas clapped a hand on Lysander’s shoulder. “Walk it off. I’ll handle the ladies.”
Lysander gave him a dry look. “You always did enjoy martyrdom.”
Thomas grinned. “Glad to be of service.”
Lysander didn’t linger. He turned and walked away without another word, leaving behind the bickering lords, the gawking women, and all the useless noise.
A snap from his right made him whirl around. He saw a small child with a pop gun, grinning as he reloaded the cork back into his weapon.
Pray you never have cause to handle a real one.
Lysander walked away from the noise, his strides long and swift. He needed space. Quiet. A place to sit and clear his head before the pounding in his skull drove him mad.
He found a small lake tucked away from the crowd, its waters still and dark beneath the midday sun.
Without a second thought, he rounded it to the far side, where the trees were thicker and there wasn’t a soul in sight.
He crouched quietly on the grass, shutting out the distant hum of voices and the laughter that grated on his nerves.
For a few blessed moments, there was nothing but his breath and the soft rustle of the wind.
Then—movement.
A sudden flash of ivory against the dark green of the trees caught his eye. A young woman stumbled through the nearby bushes, her skirts snagging on the branches. She kept glancing back, frantic, as though something or someone was chasing her.
Lysander straightened, every instinct sharpening.
She broke free of the brush with a gasp, but her gaze remained behind her, never once looking ahead.
She didn’t see the slope. She didn’t see the lake.
She stumbled forward too quickly, her feet slipping on the grass.
“Stop!” Lysander barked, surging to his feet.
But she didn’t hear him.
“No!”
His voice thundered across the clearing as she teetered on the edge. Time seemed to stretch, the scene unfolding slowly; her arms flailing for balance, her foot slipping again.
Without thinking, Lysander lunged forward, his hand outstretched, as if he could snatch her back from the brink in time.
But she was already falling.
Her foot landed where she expected solid ground, but there was nothing. Before she could catch herself, her body pitched forward, momentum carrying her over the bank’s edge.
She crashed into the lake with a violent splash, the chilly water swallowing her whole.
The noise yanked Lysander back to the battlefield.
The mud and dirt exploding around him, cries of men who would be haunted for the remainder of their days.
Suddenly, he was a child again, back in the boat with Augustus. Watching his brother fall out, unable to stop him from hitting the water.
Instinct propelled Lysander forward. He tore off his coat and plunged into the cold lake, swimming hard toward the spot where she’d disappeared beneath the surface.
The water was murky, swallowing the light, but he held his breath and dove deep, his eyes straining through the darkness. His hand swept blindly until it brushed against something soft.
Her dress.
He found her struggling near the bottom, her limbs weak, her dress caught beneath some jagged rocks. Without hesitation, he grabbed her waist and legs, pulling desperately to free her trapped dress from the rocks. With a sharp tear, she broke loose.
Lysander wrapped his arms around her and kicked powerfully toward the surface.
They both broke through the water, gasping for air. She coughed violently, sputtering as he held her steady.
“You’re all right,” he said as he swam with her back to shore. “Breathe.”
He reached the bank and hauled her onto the grass before pulling himself up. Lysander stood over her, the soaked fabric clinging to her curves, her chestnut brown hair plastered to her face.
She trembled silently, a low whimper escaping her lips.
“Steady now,” Lysander said, crouching beside her.
He pulled her close enough to share some warmth, brushing the damp strands from her eyes with a rough hand.
And froze.
She looked up at him with wide, honey-brown eyes—soft, vulnerable, almost pleading. Her features were delicate and pure, and her full lips caught the light, tempting him in a way he hadn’t expected.
She didn’t move, only held his gaze, as if the shared moment had woven an unspoken bond between them.