Chapter1

The carriage rattled along the cobblestones. The steady clop-clop of the horses and the sway of the vehicle made sleep impossible. Keene Whitmore Davies lifted the shade and a shard of sharply angled morning sunlight pierced the dark interior.

This pure light should have been reserved for saints. He dropped the shade. A saint he was not.

Poor boy, he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and out of misguided nobleness offered to stand second. “Were you able to find pistols for me?”

“Yes, yes. Look at these. The workmanship is very fine.” John opened the walnut box and held it out for Keene to inspect the contents.

Keene gave the matched set of pearl inlaid pistols resting in a red velvet nest a cursory glance. “They'll do.”

“I mean for your father's sake. He has just lost your brother. He should be heartbroken to lose both his sons in so short a space.”

Keene didn't bother to correct John. His father would suffer his loss gladly. His younger brother's death devastated both of them.

John shifted in his seat. “I'm sure Lord Wedmont will extend his apologies for the insult.”

“As you are well aware of your humors, you do not often find offense in other's comments.”

“Give over, John. I know your duty is to talk me out of my intentions, but don't waste your breath.”

“You are not known to demand satisfaction, sir. You are more known to laugh and find truth in other's insults.”

Keene folded his arms across his chest and gazed at his nervous companion. “Dawn is too ungodly an hour to be about. I daresay I often refrain from demanding settlement for want of rising so early in the morning.”

Poor boy, thought Keene. He didn't understand that the insult offered by Victor Wedmont had happened many months ago. Approximately nine to be exact. There was no way to repair the ruin of their best friend George's marriage with a simple apology.

Victor and George had both been part of a group of friends that had ties back to Keene's school days in Eton. They had all been close to each other. Only now was it obvious how much in each other pockets they had been.

An odd expression crossed John's face. “Perhaps.” He looked down at the box that held the matched set of dueling pistols.

Keene watched his companion. “Are they Mantons?” he asked, referring to the guns. Weapons made by the London gun maker were renowned for their accuracy.

John opened the box again. “They are quite beautiful. See the Spanish tooling on the grip. Quite a bargain. Only forty guineas for the pair.”

“Quite,” echoed Keene dryly. “Let us hope that a pistol worth twenty guineas is as capable of killing as one worth twice as much.”

Again that odd look flitted across John's face. Keene made a mental note to have his other second, the one in charge of fetching the surgeon, pack the pistols in case John had any ideas of using too little powder. Keene intended to circumvent any plan to keep the duel from being fatal.

John cracked his knuckles and shifted in his seat. The case slid on his lap, and he grabbed it. Keene flicked his gaze over his second. Odd that John was so nervous, when Keene was the one on the way to fight.

Keene closed his eyes. He didn't want John's nervousness to soften the icy rage that propelled him toward this meeting.

John twitched. “There is a legend that the real winner shall be married to a fine woman and enjoy marital bliss.”

John mumbled, “I know you have maintained these many years that you shall never take a wife as you wanted Richard to be your heir.”

Keene grimaced. He knew John knew. The two had been fast friends. John had been his brother's friend more than his own. Sometimes Keene needed to remind himself that his light-hearted fair brother was gone, snatched away in the prime of his life by a fever. His brother had epitomized all that was good in their mother and like her had found his way far too early into the arms of an eternal Morpheus.

The carriage drew to a halt. Keene swung the door open. The rare sunny morning cast long shadows through the lines of trees. Three other carriages were drawn up beside the lane. His opponent stood apart from a cluster of men.

Rage sifted through Keene. He stared at Victor. The man raised his arm in a half salute, his exposed linens showing that he was prepared to go through with the duel. Keene unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat. The cluster of men approached him.

“Sir, Lord Wedmont extends his most gracious apology. He withdraws any insult he may have spoken and claims he meant not the words as they sounded, but begs your leave to explain his true meaning.”

Another held up a slip of paper and began reading, “Lord Wedmont also extends his apologies for any past action of his that might have brought offense to you, sir. He swears that his actions were never intended to offer any harm to anyone, least of all you, a man he greatly respects. He swears his behavior has been directed by a foolish heart.” The speaker frowned.

The four seconds clustered around him waiting for his acceptance of the apology, to declare that he was satisfied. He wasn't.

He peeled back his jacket and waistcoat. The cool December air blew through the fine linen of his shirt.

Oddly, the wording of the written apology fueled his icy rage. Victor gave him a wry smile as his seconds shook their heads. Keene crossed the lawn in long strides.

Keene glanced back to make sure the others remained out of hearing range. “How could you have done it? You've ruined her life. George is ready to blow his brains out.”

Keene wanted to walk away, return home and pretend it was all a bad dream. “I had no plans for marriage.”

Victor's face paled. He looked haunted. “I would have married her. I thought I loved her-”

“Everyone loves Amelia.” Keene struggled against the surge of compassion that threatened to dampen his rage. If Victor had truly loved her, he would have married her.

“I thought I loved her before I knew she would fall into my bed with so little persuasion.” Victor eyed him speculatively. “Is that why you challenged me?”

“I fight for George's honor.” Keene stumbled over the words he intended to deliver with his usual aplomb.

Keene watched the man run a shaky hand through his artfully disordered brown locks. It wouldn't be a fair fight if Victor couldn't hold his hand steady to fire the pistol. Honor tore Keene in a thousand ways. What loyalty did he owe Victor? George? George's wife, Amelia?

“I should do it again. If George has no care for his wife, I shall be pleased to take her into my keeping. She should be happy in a cottage as long as she had my service.”

“That she is not. I have reason to know. Besides 'tis not so uncommon a situation. At least the child is a girl; she shall not be George's heir.”

In that moment Keene hated Victor. There was no dealing with the man. Keene heeled about and crossed the field to the cluster of men where he could make sure the pistols were properly loaded and primed.

“A shame you fight this battle with me, Davies. You should have picked an opponent less willing to shed your blood.”

Keene watched the pistols being loaded, a single shot would have to be enough to quench his thirst. Amelia didn't deserve to be belittled for her weakness or the failure of her chaperones. George didn't deserve the unhappiness of a wife unfaithful to him before marriage. Life would not be so hellish for the offspring if men did not ruin good women and then leave them to make the best of it in a world that did not look kindly on impure gentlewomen and their by-blows.

Keene raised his gun, taking careful aim. He did not wish to miss. At the same time his finger refused to tighten on the trigger. Victor's gun pointed straight at his heart. The burst came from Victor's gun, and Keene held his involuntary flinch to a mere flicker of his eyelids. He waited for the burn of a bullet . . . and waited.

Victor stood his ground as he lowered his gun. How was it the bullet totally missed? Victor was nearly as good a shot as he was. Keene cursed his patient aim. He couldn't kill him. Victor's words echoed in his head. It is not my blood you want. He lowered the nose of the pistol to aim at his opponent's left thigh. He would draw blood and let it fill Victor's top boot.

The shot rang out in the cool bright morning. Smoke wafted away from the barrel of his pistol as Victor fell to the ground, his hand clasped on his right shoulder over the blossoming red stain.

Keene strode toward the fallen man. All his precautions would be in vain if Victor spoke Amelia's name out loud when the other men could hear. “Shut your mouth.”

“You cannot. You cannot shoot a man who has missed you. Damn, Davies, I had every intention of hitting you.”

“I must regretfully inform you that I cannot give you satisfaction at the present,” said Victor.

The report sounded loud to his ears. Victor whimpered. Keene took as much satisfaction from that as anything. Perhaps Victor should feel enough humiliation from that sound as George felt upon learning his wife bore another's man's child.

The shot was high and to the left. A spray of leaves fell from the tree he wounded. He took the second pistol from John's hand and aimed once again for the trunk. The shot didn't hit the trunk, nor did any leaves pepper down.

It had been Keene's experience that John answered questions more than he evaded. “I ought to call you out.”

Keene stalked toward his carriage. “Tell the damn surgeon to attend him.” He paused before ascending the step. “John, return those defective weapons to the place you bought them. I have no wish to keep them.”

Keene allowed the grin that threatened to overtake him to break only when he had shut the carriage door. The little milksop John had bested him. Legends of a winner's wedded bliss indeed. The only curse of those guns was that a man couldn't hit an elephant at six paces. Unless of course he aimed to miss, which was why a shot intended for Victor's thigh hit him in the opposite shoulder.

Keene's grin died as he directed his coachman to George's house and the enormity of what he'd just done and why hit him.

Three weeks later he received a summons from his father. The trip home took a day and a half. After an impassive greeting, the butler led Keene to his father's library.

The old man sat by the fire, his face half in shadows. Keene crossed the room, splashed a healthy dose of brandy in a glass and sat down in the Morocco leather chair opposite Lord Whitley, the seventh baron in a straight line to hold the title.

Keene took a sip of his brandy and told himself to remain civil, no matter the provocation. The silence did not bode well for a prodigal son welcome. But then he had never been the favored son. Keene realized he'd clenched his empty hand in a fist. He splayed his fingers out and forced himself to relax. “You wished to see me?”

“Only one. I was provoked.” Keene took a healthy swallow of his brandy. What would it be now? Would the old man demand he move out of the town house now that Richard was no longer there? Or had he realized that Keene had been without funds since his brother's death?

“I'm sure many would find throwing your oldest son and heir into prison an interesting move.”

Lord Whitly leaned forward. The firelight caught his florid complexion. His light eyebrows furrowed together. He shook a sausage like finger at Keene. “You are a disgrace to my name, with your gaming and whores.”

“Only one and I let her go.” He'd had to. With only his winnings from the gambling tables to support him, he couldn't afford to keep his high-flyer in the style she deserved. But then he preferred discreet liaisons with married women. In the long run they cost less.

“I cannot break the entail, but only the old manor house and ten acres are assigned to it. The rest I have willed to your cousin Sophie Farthing.”

The house in London, the farms that supported the estate, still wouldn't be his. Keene gulped a drink of his brandy. Damn, now the glass was dry. It wasn't that he wanted the money. He was content with very little. Maintaining appearances was another thing. When one was the presumed heir to a rich baronial estate, others expected more.

As a gentleman, trade was not an option, not that he would know how to make his living working. The only thing he cared a fig about was his father's right to sit in the house of Lords, an honor and duty Lord Whitley didn't bother to exercise, but Keene planned to be a sitting member of parliament when his time came.

That and the house in London, which had been his home these last ten years, were the only important things. Otherwise he should have left to seek his destiny far away from here. But a man of his station had obligations and responsibilities.

“Not much has changed then,” commented Keene mildly. Lord Whitley had intended the bulk of his estate to go to Richard.

“Everything has changed. I spoke with my lawyer. He says if you are exiled I might be able to break the entail.”

As far as Keene knew there were no male relatives in line to inherit. “But then the barony should pass into oblivion. Or had you a mind to sell the title?” Or it could revert to the crown to be bestowed on whomever the Prince Regent fancied. A scary thought at best.

“Are you hoping she whelps a boy before your demise? That still will not get you around the rules of primogeniture.” Keene had spoken with lawyers too. He knew that his father's title had to pass through the male line.

“I have decided you shall marry your cousin, or I will have you charged with attempted murder.”

Keene stared into the empty glass. The last time he had seen Sophie she had been sitting in a tree spitting cherry pits. She hadn't been that young either. At least fourteen or fifteen. She was a hoyden. She ran through her father's house. She laughed too loud. He even heard her swearing at an uncooperative fence gate one day. He shuddered and swallowed hard.

A year ago he would have laughed. He would have stuck to his guns that he would never marry. Certainly not that awful unruly girl. Not marrying had been the one sure way he could give his father what he wanted. “If that would please you, sir.”

“What happened to your pledges of eternal autonomy? Were you not the one who said fifty horses could not drag you to an altar?” asked the old man.

Keene stood and crossed to the brandy decanter. He poured a glass full and downed it in practically one swallow. “I am standing here in my dirt.” He pulled the bell rope. “I shall attend you at dinner, where you may inform me of particulars. I assume, as I am willing to do your bidding, that you will see fit to allow me the wherewithal for a wife.”

Keene brushed his sleeve. No that wasn't it. “I am sure that I could find a much more suitable and demure heiress who would accept my suit. Sophie is your choice, is she not?”

Keene moved to the door, fortunately the butler arrived to show him to rooms he hoped had been prepared for him.

He dreaded the coming evening. Without Richard, who had loved them both, to buffer them, it would be an ugly business.

The next day he eagerly climbed into his carriage to travel to the Farthings. As he drew out into the lane, he laughed to realize he was so glad to be free of his father he was actually anticipating seeing Sophie again. The best he could hope was that someone might have taught her the meaning of the word demure in the last few years.

Sophie hitched her skirts up and skittered down the hall. She would have run, but she feared her footfalls would be overheard. Her thin slippers made little sound against the thick carpet. She ducked into her room, pulling the door shut ever so gently.

Sophie rubbed her forehead. “Lord, Letty, you gave me a fright. I didn't know you were in here.”

“I'm not going. I saw Squire Ponsby's carriage. He'll just ask me to marry him again, and I'll have to say no. Then there will be nothing but unpleasantness for the rest of the day.”

Who was foolish enough to send her maid to fetch her? Letty wouldn't have any more success than if one of the carp from the fountain had come calling. Sophie kicked off her slippers. She reached for a pair of shoes and sat on the bed to put them on. “Just tell them that I have gone out and you don't know where.”

That was why they had sent Letty. She was to stall Sophie long enough her mother could find her. Sophie dropped her shoes and sprung off the bed. “Oh, Ludcakes.”

“Dash it all. Is it the vicar? Because I tell you, if he proposes and I refuse, I shall be damned to hell.”

Sophie hardly knew if Letty was protesting her language or her sentiments. She was too busy pacing the room, looking for a hiding place. Her mother would check the wardrobes, and Letty wouldn't be able to contain herself if Sophie hid under the bed. Sophie's gaze fastened on the windows.

“I just can't take another proposal, Letty. Papa is so sure that I am about to wither and die on the vine at the grand age of twenty-one that he encourages any remotely eligible man to propose. Do you remember the widower from Cornwall, Sir Gresham? Papa led the poor man to believe I should be glad to entertain an offer.”

Sophie hoisted a stocking foot up to the sill. There was a ledge of sorts running between the windows.

“I daresay neither the squire nor the vicar would look up. The squire might get a crick in his back, and the vicar's collar is so stiff it should saw a hole in his head. I shall be fine.”

Sophie suffered a moment's qualm as she stared down at the half circle drive in front of the house. Better to not look down at all.

“Sophie, darling, you must come to the drawing room,” called her mother from the hallway. “If you hurry you might change to the peach dress.”

Uh-oh. Sophie nearly hated that gown. Almost every time she wore it, her parents would plunk some poor besotted fool down in front of her. She turned and backed out of the window, searching with her stocking foot for the ledge. Her skirts and petticoats hampered her hasty departure. She pulled them up far enough to get her knees on the sill and made a lunge for the ledge beside the window.

The door clicked open, and Sophie clutched the mellow brick with desperate fingers and inched sideways. Oh lord what if she fell and broke her neck? Why then she wouldn't have to fend off proposals. She closed her eyes, resisting the temptation to peek.

“Sophie, where are you? Letty, isn't she here? The downstairs footman thought he saw her heading toward her bedroom.”

Heavens, why have you opened the windows?” said Sophie's mother. “Shut and latch them now.”