Royally Ever After (3 page)

But with Bates's and Miss Renfrew's help, he got her through the goodbyes. There followed several other interesting maneuvers, including flat-out lying to her parents while Miss Renfrew guarded her in an antechamber.

The crowd, the heat, fatigue, combined with strong emotion, had proved too much for Miss Sharp, Lovedon told them. To avoid disrupting the family's remaining commitments for the day, he offered to send her home in his carriage with her friend, Miss Renfrew.

Though initially alarmed, they did not, in fact, have much attention to spare their eldest unwed daughter. He knew they had other engagements this day, including a reception at Windsor, because he was expected to appear at the same events. After only a few mild protests about his lordship's taking so much trouble, they consented.

That done, Lovedon smuggled the drunken bridesmaid down the steep back staircase in the west wing to the ground floor. With him clasping her arm, she was able to get down the narrow stairs more or less unaided. As soon as they came out under the south front's arcade, though, the fresh air hit her—or rather she hit it, much in the way one runs abruptly into a wall.

She tottered backward. He caught hold of her, then wrapped one arm about her shoulder. “Now,
stay
,” he said.

She heaved a great sigh and leaned against him. The top of her head came to his chin. They stood in the shelter of the great arcade, out of sight of anybody happening to look out of the windows. It was a fine opportunity to get up to no good . . . but she wasn't in proper condition. Not to mention that Bates stood only a few paces away, having a terse whispered dispute with Miss Renfrew.

Lovedon stood stoically with his armful of drunken deliciousness and gazed down the driveway, watching his carriage approach through the rain.

“Don't forget,” came a slurred voice from the environs of his neck cloth.

He looked down.

She gazed somberly up at him.

“Believe me, I shall not forget this day,” he said.

“Our duel,” she said. “It was good of you to stop me from falling down, but . . .” She stared at him for a long moment.

“Think nothing of it, Miss Sharp,” he said. “It's hardly the first time I've helped a drunken friend home.”

She wagged a gloved finger under his chin. “Ah, but I'm not your friend.”

“That's what you think,” he said.

“I'll never be your friend,” she said. “Though I will admit . . .” She bit her lower lip. A tiny crease appeared between her delicately arched eyebrows.

She was thinking, obviously.

He pictured thoughts staggering through her brain, trying to find their way.

The carriage neared, and Bates stepped out under one of the arcade's arches to signal the coachman where to stop. A footman leapt off the back, opened an umbrella, and hurried toward them.

After seeing Miss Renfrew stowed safely inside, the footman returned. Keeping a firm hold of Miss Sharp, Lovedon steered her toward the vehicle.

Getting her into it wanted ingenuity and quick reflexes. He could only hope that his broad back in combination with the large umbrella and the rain would prevent any onlookers in the house from observing the performance.

When he'd finally got her foot securely on the carriage step, she said, “I'll admit I might have made a small error of judgment.”

“You made a fatal error,” he said. “You attracted my attention. Now you'll have the devil of a time getting rid of me.” He gave her a push. Miss Renfrew quickly reached out and pulled her friend, who landed on the seat in a flurry of swishing silk. She laughed. “Oh, you silly man.”

The footman closed the door and Lovedon backed away from the carriage.

A moment later, the vehicle rolled away. He watched it go. As it reached the first curve of the driveway, the window went down and a white-gloved hand appeared and gave a jaunty wave.

Battersea Fields, half-past seven o'clock

C
hloe stood by the cabriolet in which she and Amy had arrived. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the marshy wasteland, and she was pretending to be perfectly calm, enjoying the scenery, while Amy and Mr. Bates carried on their fussing about various dueling rules.

Lord Lovedon stood no great distance away, by his carriage—the one that had taken her home last night.

Her face didn't go up in flames at the recollection because it didn't need to. Her face had been burning since this morning, when the ferocious pounding behind her eyes had begun to abate enough to allow her memory to take over the job of tormenting her.

She had remembered, then, every single thing that had happened yesterday afternoon, down to the moment when she'd sent Lord Lovedon a saucy wave from his carriage window.

She'd discovered this morning what it meant to die of embarrassment.

A reasonable man of even minimal sensibility would have realized that she'd suffered enough for her extremely stupid and unladylike behavior.

A man of delicacy and understanding would have the tact to leave her to squirm with shame in the privacy of her home.

But no. He had to rub her face in it.

And now she had this idiot duel to fight, when they both knew that neither of them would do anything but fire into the air.

He probably thought it was amusing.

Everyone said he was whimsical.

Good grief, would Amy and Mr. Bates never cease bickering?

“They're making quite a project of this,” came a deep, drawling voice from somewhere above her shoulder.

She gave a start and a mortifying little squeak of surprise.

“Was it absolutely necessary to sneak up on me?” she said.

“I'm over six feet tall in my bare feet,” he said. “I'm wearing boots and a hat—and while I'll admit my clothes are uniformly dark, as is de rigueur for a duel, I should have thought I was hard to miss, Miss Sharp.”

“I was not paying attention,” she said. “I was . . . thinking.”

“I observed that you were not paying attention to me,” he said. “That's why I brought myself closer.”

She remembered being swept up in his arms. She remembered the feel of his hand at the back of her waist, keeping her steady. She remembered his arm about her shoulders . . . the warmth and strength of his big body.

The sun was sinking but it seemed to be blazing down on her, on everything, and all the world seemed to be softening and melting.

She didn't want to melt. She didn't want to be one of the scores of women waiting for the exclusive attention he was probably incapable of giving.

Still, she remembered what he'd said yesterday and the way he'd charmed her by degrees without her quite realizing. She recalled the series of witty, provoking notes he'd sent this day . . . and how she'd wished he'd come in person to annoy her, so that she could throw something at him—and at the same time she'd laughed, too, at his absurd messages. And she had very greatly enjoyed composing her answers.

“Amy has never acted as a second before, and she spent two hours studying Papa's copy of
The British Code of the Duel
,” she said
.
“It's her fault we weren't exactly on time—because she insisted that we couldn't proceed without a surgeon in attendance. I told her that was silly. If I kill you, no surgeon can do you any good. If I only wound you, naturally I shall leave you to bleed to death.”

“I'm sure that goes without saying,” he said in a stifled voice.

She looked up sharply. His expression was far too innocent.

“I know you think this is a hilarious joke, taunting me to come out to this place,” she said.

“I wasn't sure how else to get you alone,” he said.

“We are not alone,” she said.

He glanced toward Amy and Mr. Bates, who seemed to having a controversy about the weapons. “This will do. For the moment.”

“Since we are somewhat alone,” she said, “I ought to warn you: I've actually decided not to kill you, no matter how great the temptation. I shall fire into the air.”

“I beg you will not,” he said. “You might harm an innocent bird.”

“I most certainly will not fire at you.”

“It would only be fair,” he said. “Because I most certainly mean to fire at you.”

“No, you don't,” she said.

“I do—and I urge you to shoot straight at me,” he said. “I promise you'll feel better afterward.
Trust me.
”

Amy stomped toward them. “This is most irregular,” she said. “The combatants are not supposed to be enjoying a tête-à-tête.”

“Lord Lovedon was bored,” Chloe said. “He came to amuse himself at my expense, because you and Mr. Bates are taking an eternity.”

“What seems to be the difficulty?” Lord Lovedon said.

“The dueling ground,” Amy said.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Lovedon said. “According to
The British Code of the Duel
, as Miss Renfrew is now aware, the seconds must ‘choose out a snug sequestered spot, where the ground is level, and no natural, terrestrial, or celestial line presenting itself to assist either party in his views of sending his opponent into eternity.' ”

Chloe stared at him.

“I have a terrifying memory,” Lord Lovedon said.

“Well, we've settled it,” Amy said. “Lord Lovedon, would you be so good as to accompany Mr. Bates. Chloe, you're to come with me.”

T
he seconds chose the place where the Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Winchilsea had fought their duel a few years ago. It was the site Lovedon had suggested to Bates—fitting, Lovedon thought, today being the twentieth anniversary of Waterloo. Though Miss Renfrew evidently required persuading, she had to see it was a suitable spot, a stretch of flat ground near the river, not easily visible to passersby.

One had to cross a drainage ditch to get there. Lovedon offered to carry Miss Sharp over it.

“That won't be necessary,” she told him. “Today I'm painfully sober.”

He watched her make the small leap. For a second, her skirts lifted, and he had a glimpse of purple half-boots. He smiled.

It was the one bright element in her attire. She'd worn what he guessed was an archery dress: The dark blue garment's sleeves were not the vast, ballooning ones fashion dictated, but fitted tight, especially along the lower arms. Instead of an immense bonnet festooned with feathers and ribbons and lace, she wore a tiny black hat.

The costume made her a narrower target.

He supposed she'd done it on purpose to mock him. That was more or less why he'd donned dueling dress: uniformly dark clothing, including his neck cloth, which was black. He was mocking himself, as well he ought.