Page 15 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)
CHAPTER 15
I n the early hours of morning, shortly before sunrise, Johnathan turned to Maximilian Ashcombe, Duke of Hastings, and said, “Your timing is impeccable.”
“I could scarcely stay away. William’s letter was most intriguing.” He took a swallow from his flask, then tucked it nonchalantly into his coat.
Johnathan turned a speculative gaze on William.
“Once I realized my mistake, I knew we would require help. Mores the pity Hastings did not arrive sooner,” William said.
Johnathan gave a nod of appreciation then turned back to Maximilian.
“Word is spreading,” Maximilian murmured, tightening the buckles on Johnathan’s coat. “A few of Cranford’s allies have gone conspicuously silent. One even resigned from his club the day after you absconded with Frances.”
Johnathan gave a grim smile. “Even rats know when a ship is sinking.”
“Especially when it smells of scandal.”
“You are certain of the location?” Johnathan asked, tightening the strap of his glove.
“Secluded. Quiet. And far from anyone with authority,” William replied, his tone flat. “You do not want a magistrate at your back.”
Maximilian grunted. “We will leave no second-guessing. Just bruised pride and a story no one dares repeat too loudly.”
“And if I kill him?” Johnathan asked, voice cool.
“Then we pray his friends like you better than they liked him.”
Johnathan stepped onto the frost-slicked lawn just as dawn split the horizon.
The wind stilled, as if the earth itself paused to listen. Not a bird stirred, not a leaf rustled.
Cranford was already there, dressed like he was attending a bloody garden party—gloves immaculate, cravat starched, face composed into the same aristocratic mask he wore at Parliament and salons. But his eyes—they were cold. Icy shards of calculated fury.
Two pistols rested on a velvet-lined case between them.
Johnathan’s gut churned.
He had fought before. Fought duels over debts, slights, insults to women’s honor. Once over a bottle of brandy and a bad poem. But this was not sport. This was something else.
This was Frances.
And the future they had built on stubborn hope and midnight whispers.
A steward stood between them, looking half asleep and entirely unfit for the role of second. William stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Cranford with undisguised contempt. His jaw flexed every time Cranford smirked.
Johnathan’s gaze, however, went to the carriage waiting by the tree line.
Frances peeked out the curtain.
He knew she would watch.
The rules were laid out with clipped efficiency. Ten paces. Turn. Fire. If both missed, pistols reloaded and repeated. If one fell, the matter was resolved.
Resolved.
As if life were so simple.
Johnathan stepped into position. His grip tightened around the pistol, the cold metal biting into his palm. His fingers twitched slightly under its weight, as if the burden of choice pressed against his very bones. Not in weight. In consequence.
Cranford turned to his steward. “If I fall, kill him.”
The man paled. “My lord?—”
“I said what I said.”
Johnathan did not blink.
He simply turned his gaze forward and waited for the count.
“One,” said the steward.
Johnathan took a step.
“Two.”
Another.
They walked in rhythm, their boots crunching against grass, each pace a heartbeat, each heartbeat a drumroll.
“Nine.”
Johnathan’s fingers adjusted on the pistol grip.
“Ten.”
They turned.
Cranford raised his weapon immediately.
Johnathan hesitated—just a second.
Long enough.
The shot rang out, sharp and brutal, echoing through the morning stillness.
Pain exploded through Johnathan’s shoulder, but he did not fall.
He raised his pistol, despite the scream of muscles and the warmth of blood sliding beneath his coat.
And he aimed.
Cranford stood, arrogant and composed.
Johnathan looked at him, saw every cruel word, every cold command, every choice that had stolen Frances’s agency.
He saw himself in Cranford—not as he was now, but as he might have become. If he had never left his father’s home. If he had let bitterness rule him. If he had never remembered what it meant to love without possession.
Johnathan slowly lowered his pistol.
The hush fractured with soft gasps.
The steward stammered, “You—you are not firing?”
“I have already won,” Johnathan said.
Cranford’s mouth twisted into a furious snarl. “Coward.”
“No,” Johnathan said, turning away. “I have nothing to prove.”
He took three steps toward the carriage, blood dripping from his sleeve.
Cranford raised his weapon again.
“Johnathan!” William shouted.
But Frances had already opened the carriage door.
“Do not,” she called out.
Cranford froze—pistol half-raised.
“If you shoot him in the back,” Frances said, her voice clear and unflinching, “you will confirm to the entire world what you truly are. A man who cannot win without cheating. A man who could not keep a woman, so he tried to destroy her.”
Her voice never broke.
“Choose wisely, my lord. There is an audience.”
Cranford’s hand trembled.
Then—slowly—he lowered the pistol.
He simply turned on his heel and disappeared into the mist like the ghost of a man who had already lost everything.
Johnathan turned back toward the carriage.
Frances met his gaze.
And in that moment—bloodied, breathless, shaking—he smiled.
Because he had never been more certain of anything.
She was his.
Frances did not wait.
The instant Cranford vanished like the coward he had always been, she was moving—skirts lifted, boots flying, heart pounding.
The sharp morning air hit her cheeks like ice water, but she did not care.
Johnathan stood in the field, blood blooming across the sleeve of his coat, his dark hair mussed by wind and sweat. He opened his arms to her, and his eyes—God, those eyes—found hers and held.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she closed the distance.
She collided with him, wrapping her arms around his middle as gently as she could, mindful of his injury but desperate to feel the solid truth of him.
“I told you not to get shot,” she murmured into his chest.
“I told you not to surrender to maniacs,” he rasped into her hair.
“Touché.”
He kissed the top of her head, his hand curving protectively around her waist despite the blood staining his cuff. “It is over.”
She leaned back. “Indeed, it is.”
William approached from behind, his voice dry. “The steward’s already bribing the stable master. I suspect by noon, no one will remember anything except that the Duke of Hargate faced a duel and walked away the better man.”
“Do I look like the better man?” Johnathan asked, grimacing as he shifted his shoulder.
Frances scowled. “You look like a man who needs stitching and a week’s rest with a physician and a decent brandy.” Her gaze moved to his shoulder.
“With you?” He offered a roguish grin.
“That depends on whether you let me bandage that wound. I hear I am quite handy with a needle.”
Johnathan chuckled. “It looks worse than it is. The bullet merely grazed me. Stitches are not necessary.”
William cleared his throat. “Maximilian and I will prevent Cranford should he attempt to follow. We will assure you have at least a half-day head start if you ride now.”
“Indeed,” Maximilian said, “Though I daresay Cranford will not wish to show his face anytime soon.”
“Thank you,” Johnathan said, turning to his old friends.
William gave a faint smile. “You will forgive me one day.”
“I just did,” Johnathan said.
Frances squeezed his hand. “Come on. We have a wedding to reach.”
They rode toward Gretna at a steady pace, stopping briefly to tend Johnathan’s wound, then following the main roads. Frances kept stealing glances at him—at the way he sat a little too stiffly in the saddle, at the pale sheen on his face—but he never complained.
She did not speak either.
They did not need to.
When Gretna Green came into view at last—a crooked sign, a squat stone building, the unmistakable clang of metal striking an anvil—Frances felt her throat tighten.
They dismounted slowly, hand in hand.
The blacksmith, a broad-shouldered Scot with a sooty grin and a pipe tucked behind one ear, looked up from his work.
“Ye are here for a wedding, are ye?” he asked.
“We are,” Johnathan said, smiling through the pain in his voice.
The man set aside his hammer. “Ye’ve got the look of it.”
Frances laughed then—a bright, bubbling sound that caught even her by surprise, spilling out as her shoulders relaxed.
The ceremony was simple—Frances’s fingers trembled slightly as she took Johnathan’s hands, and his voice cracked once before he steadied it.
No society, no pomp—just two souls casting off the weight of expectation, free to choose one another. Only Johnathan and Francis, standing in a warm circle of sunlight inside the forge, the anvil gleaming between them.
“I, Johnathan Seton,” he said, voice steady despite the tremble in his limbs, “take you, Frances Rowley, as my wife. My equal. My future.”
She bit her lip, blinking back tears. “And I take you, scandal and all. For the rest of my days.”
They kissed, and the blacksmith clapped his soot-streaked hands with a grin.
“Now that is a match made in fire.”
That night, they returned to the quiet inn nestled just beyond the Scottish border—a place of soot-smeared shutters and creaky floorboards, where the warmth of memory lingered like smoke in the rafters. The same kind of room as before. The same narrow bed. The same flickering fire.
But everything was different.
Frances stood before the hearth, hair down, cloak gone, watching him with a smile that could undo a kingdom.
He sat on the bed, his shirt open to reveal the bandaged wound on his shoulder, his gaze never leaving hers.
“This time,” she said, “there is no battle to fight.”
“No,” he agreed.
She came to him slowly, her fingers brushing his cheek.
“No more goodbyes.”
“No more running,” he whispered.
“No more pretending,” she said, kissing him softly.
His hand trailed up her leg, taking her skirt with it. Her breath caught as his fingers traced higher, ghosting over her thigh.
“No more doubts,” Johnathan murmured against her lips.
Frances smiled, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “No more restraint.”
She pushed him gently back onto the bed, mindful of his injury. Her hands made quick work of the buttons on his breeches as she straddled his hips. Johnathan’s breath hitched, his good hand tangling in her hair as she leaned down to kiss him deeply.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “I have always loved you.”
“And I you,” she breathed, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “My rogue. My darling husband.”
Their bodies moved together, slow and deliberate, savoring every touch, every sigh. The fire cast dancing shadows across their skin as they explored each other anew, learning the maps of scars and freckles, the secret places that made breath catch and muscles quiver.
And finally—finally—there was nothing between them but love.