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“I'm sorry, Daff,” he said, forcing himself to look at her. He felt odd and off-balance, and he could see out of only one eye, but she'd come to his aid, even after he'd rejected her, and he owed her that much. “I'm so sorry.”

“Save your pathetic words,” Anthony spat. “I'll see you at dawn.”

“No!” Daphne cried out.

Simon looked up at Anthony and gave him the briefest of nods. Then he turned back to Daphne, and said, “If it c-could be anybody, Daff, it would be you. I p-promise you that.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, bewilderment turning her dark eyes to frantic orbs. “What do you mean?”

Simon just closed his eye and sighed. By this time tomorrow he'd be dead, because he sure as hell wasn't going to raise a pistol at Anthony, and he rather doubted that Anthony's temper would have cooled enough for him to shoot into the air.

And yet—in a bizarre, pathetic sort of way, he would be getting what he'd always wanted out of life. He'd have his final revenge against his father.

Strange, but even so, this wasn't how he'd thought it would end. He'd thought—Well, he didn't know what he'd thought—most men avoided trying to predict their own deaths—but it wasn't this. Not with his best friend's eyes burning with hatred. Not on a deserted field at dawn.

Not with dishonor.

Daphne's hands, which had been stroking him so gently, wrapped around his shoulders and shook. The motion jolted his watery eye open, and he saw that her face was very close to his—close and furious.

“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. Her face was like he'd never seen it before, eyes flashing with anger, and anguish, and even a little desperation. “He's going to kill you! He's going to meet you on some godforsaken field tomorrow and shoot you dead. And you're acting like you want him to.”

“I d-don't w-w-want to d-die,” he said, too exhausted in mind and body to even care that he'd stammered. “B-but I can't marry you.”

Her hands fell off his shoulders, and she lurched away. The look of pain and rejection in her eyes was almost impossible to bear. She looked so forlorn, wrapped up in her brother's too-big coat, pieces of twigs and brambles still caught in her dark hair. When she opened her mouth to speak, it looked as if her words were ripped from her very soul. “I-I've always known that I wasn't the sort of woman men dream of, but I never thought anyone would prefer death to marriage with me.”

“No!” Simon cried out, scrambling to his feet despite the dull aches and stinging pains that jolted his body. “Daphne, it's not like that.”

“You've said enough,” Anthony said in a curt voice, stepping between them. He placed his hands on his sister's shoulders, steering her away from the man who had broken her heart and possibly damaged her reputation for eternity.

“Just one more thing,” Simon said, hating the pleading, pathetic look he knew must be in his eyes. But he had to talk to Daphne. He had to make sure she understood.

But Anthony just shook his head.

“Wait.” Simon laid a hand on the sleeve of the man who had once been his closest friend. “I can't fix this. I've made—” He let out a ragged breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “I've made vows, Anthony. I can't marry her. I can't fix this. But I can tell her—”

“Tell her what?” Anthony asked with a complete lack of emotion.

Simon lifted his hand from Anthony's sleeve and raked it through his hair. He couldn't tell Daphne. She wouldn't understand. Or worse, she would, and then all he'd have was her pity. Finally, aware that Anthony was looking at him with an impatient expression, he said, “Maybe I can make it just a little bit better.”

Anthony didn't move.

“Please.” And Simon wondered if he'd ever put such depth of meaning behind that word before.

Anthony was still for several seconds, and then he stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Simon said in a solemn voice, sparing Anthony the briefest of glances before focusing on Daphne.

He'd thought perhaps that she'd refuse to look at him, insulting him with her scorn, but instead he found her chin up, eyes defiant and daring. Never had he admired her more.

“Daff,” he began, not at all sure what to say but hoping that the words somehow came out right and in one piece. “It—it isn't you. If it could be anyone it would be you. But marriage to me would destroy you. I could never give you what you want. You'd die a little every day, and it would kill me to watch.”

“You could never hurt me,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “You have to trust me.”

Her eyes were warm and true as she said softly, “I do trust you. But I wonder if you trust me.”

Her words were like a punch to the gut, and Simon felt impotent and hollow as he said, “Please know that I never meant to hurt you.”

She remained motionless for so long that Simon wondered if she'd stopped breathing. But then, without even looking at her brother, she said, “I'd like to go home now.”

Anthony put his arms around her and turned her away, as if he could protect her simply by shielding her from the sight of him. “We'll get you home,” he said in soothing tones, “tuck you into bed, give you some brandy.”

“I don't want brandy,” Daphne said sharply, “I want to think.”

Simon thought Anthony looked a bit bewildered by the statement, but to his credit, all he did was give her upper arm an affectionate squeeze, and say, “Very well, then.”

And Simon just stood there, battered and bloodied, until they disappeared into the night.