Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (26 page)

Rowland felt like he was in some sort of ridiculous, cliché-riddled play on Drury Lane as he crossed the distance to Michael. He could only hope it was a comedy, all the while knowing a tragedy was much more in keeping with the tenor of his life.

“You’re lucky we’re here.” His brother muttered an oath. “Damned near shot him myself for taking so long at his
toilette
.” Michael’s voice might have been relaxed, but his expression was not. “Are you still intent on this wretched idea of—”

“Michael, do join the other ladies in the hemlock gallery, won’t you?” His request held all the cool insistence of a block of ice.

His brother grasped his shoulder and pulled him a few feet away. “Look, you don’t have to do this. In fact, you should not do it. He’s a dead man anyway.”

It took all his willpower to allow his brother to speak. He did it as a favor, to ease the other’s conscience.

“Prinny will have him executed, or at the very least transported for life. Colonel Winters will see to it—is seeing to the formal report this morning. In fact, the colonel will be furious that you’ve denied him his own chance for retribution. He has even more of a right to justice than—”

“Michael?” Rowland interrupted. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“This will only hurt you. Your position, your title, has not even been…” Michael’s voice slowed, and resigned, he finally released Rowland’s shoulder.

Helston and Ellesmere now rejoined them, a pistol in the marquis’s hands and a glum look on the duke’s face. “Pymm chose pistols.”

“Of course he chose pistols,” muttered Michael, his ill ease returned.

“A fine lot all of you are,” Rowland muttered. “I shall remember to call on Tremont next time. He may be useless, but at least he’s silent.”

“There won’t be a next time, unless you tell us you’ve had a bit of target practice since the last time we witnessed your, ahem,
talents
with a pistol.” Helston studied him under heavy-lidded eyes, no doubt recalling when Rowland had merely grazed Michael’s
arm while standing less than six feet away from him last spring.

The enemy approached.

“Change of heart?” General Pymm asked loftily, confidently. “We would all of us understand, Manning. These gentlemen and I never expected one such as you to go through with this. Why, it galls me to no end to think you have the audacity to ask me to meet on a
field of honor
.”

Rowland swept a glance at the entourage. “Perhaps you’re right, General,” he said softly.

Pymm visibly relaxed.

The man was such a coward. When Rowland had sent his brother to the Pulteney Hotel last eve to tender a challenge, he had not allowed Michael to tell the general about Colonel Pierce Winters’s reappearance yesterday. Rowland had not wanted to chance Pymm slipping through the cracks of the huge hotel upon receiving such devastating news. But the time for such tidings drew near.

Rowland cleared his throat. “Actually, I think you misunderstand. I was having a change of heart about doing this honorably. Why waste powder and shot when I’d enjoy it all the more using my hands instead?”

Pymm stiffened. “Bluster all you like, mudlark. It is you who shall be warming your heels in hell today. That is where all mongrels such as you end up, is it not?”

If there was one thing for which he could be grateful to his past, it was his immunity to insult. “The day waxes, General. Shall we?” His fingers itched to shoot the man where he stood—honor be damned.

The starter motioned toward the slight rise a few steps away. “Gentlemen? It shall be ten paces upon my signal. You will then both turn to face each other. After I am assured you are each of you ready, you shall have until the count of three to fire.”

“Did you understand that part, Manning?” Pymm sneered. “You are not to fire until
after
the signal.”

“What was that, General?” Rowland raised the pistol and peered along its sight line in an awkward fashion, as if testing it. He directed it at the general’s heart. “Sorry, I don’t hear that well—must be the muck in my ears.”

Pymm stumbled sideways, furious.

A moment later they were back to back. The general’s body radiated heat against his own. Icy calm replaced every trace of foreboding in Rowland’s body. “Oh, I almost forgot something of importance, Pymm,” Rowland tossed softly over his shoulder.

The starter’s brow wrinkled. This was apparently a first.

“What is it, you bastard?” Pymm sneered. “Postponing the inevitable yet again?”

“No. Just thought to inform that Colonel Winters has returned in time to give the eulogy. I wouldn’t want you to think that a murdering, blackmailing lunatic such as yourself would not have a proper funeral and all—unlike the one for Elizabeth’s father.” He nodded to the starter. “Right then. Go ahead.”

The man began the count. “One…”

“What? More trickery? You are a liar and a—” Pymm sputtered.

“Two.”

Rowland continued pacing.

“Do you want a delay, General?” the starter’s voice rang out.

Rowland stopped, yet refused to give in to the urge to look over his shoulder. Instead, he cocked his pistol.

Pymm’s odd voice was low, yet traveled to his ears. “You’re the fool, Manning. You don’t understand today’s game. The only reason I came is to make sure you never touch her again.”

Rowland assumed the general nodded to the starter, for a moment later the latter resumed the count. “Three…Four…Five.”

Rowland’s breathing slowed as he paced.

“Six…seven—”

Rowland neared the stand of trees in front of him only to doubt his eyes. God, please let it be a mirage. Just an illusion of gargantuan disaster.

She was running
straight toward him
with two others behind her. “Stop!” Elizabeth’s voice sliced through the cool morning air.

It was a goddamned sodding nightmare come to life. In that hair of an instant, he foresaw every last bleeding detail of the tragedy in the making.

Pymm would wheel about prematurely at the sound of her voice. He would see Elizabeth, and also Pierce Winters, the lone witness to Pymm’s chilling crime. There would be no telling what the bloody general would do. The sole matter of importance was that his wife, his beloved, was in Pymm’s line of fire.

And so, Rowland did the only thing he could do. He ran toward her, blocking her with his arms spread wide, his back still to Pymm.

Her horror-struck eyes told him his vision had been utterly correct. Her hand reached to cover her mouth in abject panic.

The sound came before the pain. A blast, and the almost sickening sound of flesh being pierced. He saw a cry leave her lips and his animal nature took hold fully to protect her. Turning, and with the precision borne of a desperate man, he took aim and fired.

Smoke filled the early morning gloom of the clearing. His head spinning, he saw Pymm falter and stagger back.

The reports of several other shots echoed, and Rowland was falling, falling. It felt as though he was slipping through clouds.

Fear set in. It did not hurt enough for it not to be mortal. His head fell back and her face was above him. A halo of smoke enveloped them both.

“Is he…” he rasped.

Her face was stark white. “Oh my God…don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare
leave
me.” She was struggling with his shirt linen, as several shouts rang out.

Hands were everywhere, grasping, ripping.

“He’s saying something,” she cried, leaning forward.

“Hold…my hand,” he whispered.

Her fingers were so warm in his cold palm. His view spun wildly, careening toward darkness. Despair grabbed at him, trying to pin him down. He had to know. Had to know if he’d finally succeeded where in the past he’d failed. And had to tell her…tell her…

T
umbling through clouds was a novel experience. He reached out to touch the illusion of spun sugar. Sparks of light darted past, and he longed to follow them. He glanced down past his feet, and noticed he was traveling fast.
Far too fast
. And then he remembered…

He was shot. But there was no pain.

He was dying…

He tried to care, but he did not. There was just such joy, such peace in the air, cradling his bruised and battered body.

But something nagged at him, irritating his tranquility.

Fighting the fog of serenity with such doggedness, images of a woman flickered in his mind.

Oh Lord, nooooo
…

He fought the ever-growing lightness of being like a wildcat caught in an avalanche.
No.
He could not leave her. Would not leave her. He loved her. Loved her with an intensity too strong to extinguish.

He fought happiness. He didn’t want peace. He…he wanted…
her
. He didn’t want anything else. He
wanted all the pain, all the sloppy, mucked-up misery and joy life had to offer.

And like the arc of an object thrown skyward, his ascent slowed; he hung motionless among the stars for what seemed an eternity.

Then, with the speed of a lightning strike, he hurtled backward. He was in the clouds again—now past them.

It was going to hurt when he crashed. He didn’t care. Pain was good. He would endure it all to hold her in his arms again. He was not finished with life. He had left something terribly important undone.

At the last possible moment, as he glimpsed the verdant canopy of the treetops, his form slowed, like a feather wending its way earthward. A crowd was gathered over his corporeal body. Elizabeth was rocking and he looked too still, too pale.

In that instant, pain slammed into him. A cacophony of sound returned.

He forced back his lids only to find beauty before him, the pale glint of tears streaming down her dusty face.

“Elizabeth…” No sound came out of his throat.

“Rowland?” Her voice was but a whisper. “Rowland!? Oh my God! Oh please…don’t move. Don’t try to speak…Doctor?” There was such pleading in her voice, and he wanted to reassure her. But he could not make his mouth move properly, so he closed his eyes, trying to reclaim his strength.

“Stay still,” a stranger’s voice said, pressing against the blazing pain on his side. “You cannot afford to lose any more blood. The ball is out. I’ll stitch it as soon as the bleeding slows.”

Damnation. He had so much to ask—to say. He squeezed her fingers, only to feel a lock of her sweet-smelling hair fall onto his cheek.

“What is it, my love?” she whispered.

“Is he…” he rasped. “Are you…”

“Shhh…you mustn’t struggle,” she pleaded.

“I think he’d rest easier if you explained, lovey.”

Ah…Lefroy was here. His eyes would not leave the sight of her face to confirm it.

“You killed him, Rowland,” she whispered. “You took all of the blast, not me.”

“Other shots…” He grunted with pain, but he had such certainty that he would pull through that he didn’t care how much it hurt.

“His death will not be on your head,” the colonel’s voice informed gruffly. “I shan’t have it. Yours will not be the only shot reported fired.”

The murderous swine was dead. The heaviness on his chest lifted. Other voices hovered overhead.

“Your aim is improved, Manning,” Helston said, respect tingeing his usual bland tone.

“Don’t know what yer inferin’, Yer Grace. Master’s aim is always perfect-like,” Lefroy muttered. His loyal stable master glanced at Michael’s raised eyebrows. “If ’e had wanted to kill you last spring, ’e woulda put a ball through yer brains like that cove wot’s in the bushes there.”

God. He wished they’d all just go away—let him be alone with her. He closed his eyes again. He wanted to hear her voice. It was such a lovely, lilting slip of a thing. A voice meant for lullabies.

He wanted to assure her he would recover—that he and she would live long, fruitful lives filled with
all the terrible, wonderful events that life had to offer. He knew it without a doubt for he had seen the angels laughing at him on his descent—as if they could see the many chapters of his life unfolding while he fell back to earth.

She wished he would open his eyes again. Each time he did, even in fever’s grip, it had given her hope he would survive. He’d been so restless these last three days that it had been torture to nurse him. He refused to lie still and allow his body the chance to recover. But he’d finally quieted the last few hours and his brow was dry.

She’d taken to talking to him almost without pause. He seemed to be more at ease when he heard her voice. After telling him every last thing about her childhood that she could remember, she’d resorted to retelling the stories of when they had met earlier that summer.

“Darling,” she whispered, “do you remember when I made dinner the first time? I tried so hard to please you. Meat pie, potatoes, carrots…and gingerbread. You appeared to loathe all of it. But I knew you liked it. You see, you have a particular way of wrinkling the space between your eyebrows when you like something—as if you’re angry. I think I’m the only one who has figured out that it’s really just a sign of deliberation. It’s as if you don’t want anyone to know how you truly feel about something. And—”

He came awake the same way he approached life—without hesitation. His eyes opened, pale and clear.

“Oh…you’ve come back,” she said very softly.

He glanced at the glass of water nearby and she immediately retrieved it. Gently, she held his head and introduced the glass to his lips.

She said not a word as he swallowed long and deep. He pulled back and relaxed against the pillows as she replaced the glass on the table.

Elizabeth drank in the sight of him. “I thought you were”—she swallowed—“were gone to me—would never come back…”

His eyes followed her.

She traced a pattern in the white-on-white embroidery of the bed covers. “Rowland, you have to be far more careful in future. I cannot lose you. I’ve lost too much.”

He raised a finger to her lips to stop her.

“No,” she said, “I must have my say. I know why you did it—to save me and to avenge my father’s death. But…it was not worth it. I would gladly live with that monster in this world, but I could not live without—”

“Elizabeth,” he interrupted, his voice very rough around the edges.

“Yes?” She brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead. “You’re still weak. Will you take some broth?”

He shook his head once, his eyes never straying from hers.

“What is it?” She gently straightened his pillow.

“Just sit…there.”

She sensed he wanted something, and she would give it to him. “Maybe a wet cloth?”

“Shhh…” he murmured.

She gave up. And so she drowned in his eyes. She
had not seen his clear-eyed gaze in too long of a time.

Suddenly, the space between his brows crinkled.

Her heart expanded beneath her breast.

“I’m sorry to be so late,” he rumbled.

“Late?”

“In telling you.” He closed his eyes.

“Oh, you’re exhausted. I shan’t leave. I’ll be here when you wake again and then I’ll—”

“For so long,” he whispered, opening his eyes, “I was entombed in a world black, devoid of naught but a millstone of time…grinding ever closer to eternal dust.” He paused. “Until you.”

Her throat tightened.

He struggled to continue. “I did not save you, Elizabeth. It is the reverse. You came along with your abundance of spirit and you made me aware of the cage of darkness I’d constructed in place of a heart.”

She grasped his hand again and squeezed it gently, acknowledging with touch what she could not with words.

“And so it’s decided,” he said. “Henceforth, I choose to be happy, damn it. I will not go on as before.”

“Rowland…” she whispered.

“I love you,” he said simply.

She stared at him, aghast. “I never thought you’d…”

“What?”

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“I know.” He pulled her arms toward him until she was inches from his face. “Was it worth the wait, Mrs. Manning?”

“Yes.” She brushed her lips on his. “Kind of like a soufflé.”

“What? All air and no substance?”

“Not at all.” She laughed. “And how do you know anything about soufflés?”

He cupped her face. “You’ve been reciting bloody recipes for the last two hours. I vastly preferred the stories from your childhood.”

“I love you too, Mr. Manning,” she murmured.

He pulled her into his arms despite the pain. “And thank God for that.”