Benedict slipped his hand around her waist, though his gaze remained focused on the two lords standing in the small courtyard in their shirt sleeves. Both men glared at each other while her father’s coachman inspected the swords cushioned in the mahogany case.
“The irony is that the man who defends me is the one whose actions remind me of my illegitimacy. Tregarth wishes to punish Worthen for his conduct because, as gentlemen, they are equally matched. I fall hopelessly short.”
“After the dreadful misfortune he’s suffered in his life, Tregarth’s biggest fear is that you will die, too. He told me he lives to protect you. He means no slight.”
“No,” Benedict mused as the men took to practising their lunges in the gloomy courtyard. “But I would have preferred to deal with the matter personally.”
“I’m sure the future will hold many opportunities to punish my father.” The earl deserved Benedict’s wrath for arranging the attack, but was living a happy life not the best means of revenge?
“Tregarth is an exceptional swordsman, one of the best. But Worthen knows my father won’t kill him.”
“Perhaps the duel is a means to satisfy your father’s guilt, too.”
Benedict snorted as he raised the sash to witness the proceedings. “Who knows what motivates men to act like fools?”
“In your father’s case, love is his main motivation.” Her father’s reason for attending stemmed from a fear of being branded a coward. “My father has no excuse and has been a fool most of his life.”
“Still, it must hurt to see him brought to this. You must feel torn between two families.”
She considered his remark before turning to face him. “When I said I’m dead inside, I meant it. I’m dead when it comes to caring about my father. Dead to the hundred and one ways he tries to torment me. And I shall never forgive him for the ice-cold fear that encompassed my heart when you battled with those wretched thugs.”
Benedict cupped her cheek. “You might be numb to your father’s antics, but when it comes to expressing passionate emotions, you’re very much alive.”
Oh, the merest touch of his fingers sent sparks of energy racing to every nerve. “I could say that you have reawakened something in me, but that would be a lie.” Love—wild and untamed—burned brightly in her chest. “Benedict, it would be a lie because I have never stopped loving you, not for a single second. I wish I’d fought for us. If only I’d dared to break free from my father’s clutches. To love you as you deserved.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly in his throat. Cassandra was the only word to leave his lips before Tregarth called out and interrupted the intimate moment.
“What shall it be, Cassandra?” Tregarth braced a hand on his hip. “Will we fight for first blood? Will we fight until one of us can no longer stand, or until one of us draws our last breath?”
Her father’s face paled.
Tregarth knew the answer but was determined to milk this event for all it was worth. “Well?” he goaded. “Shall we grant Worthen the same consideration he gave my son?”
“Fight for first blood,” she called before Tregarth got carried away and turned settling a debt of honour into a comedic act one witnessed at Vauxhall. “A nick will deem the matter satisfied.”
Both men resumed a stable stance and stood some feet apart. Both men kept their keen gazes focused. Alert.
“Am I not granted one final opportunity to make an apology?” her father mocked.
“Your offence negates any request for clemency.” Tregarth swiped the air with his blade. “Did you give my son the same consideration when four men decided to teach him a lesson? A lesson that saw him used to exact your revenge on Lord Murray?” He lunged forward.
Her father sidestepped just in time. “Your son ruined my daughter!” he growled through gritted teeth. “Does he not deserve to pay for that?”
Tregarth laughed as he straightened. With an arrogant grin, he stared at his opponent, looking for an opportune moment to strike. “We both know my son is innocent of the crime. When a man loves a woman, he does not abuse her in the worst possible way.”
“Cassandra would never have married beneath her station. Why the devil do you think she refused him in the first place?” Her father lashed out, throwing his weight into an attack that lacked finesse.
Tregarth twirled out of harm’s way—a confident pirouette. He pointed the tip of his blade at her father. “She refused him because you made it impossible for her to accept.”
“Not impossible,” Benedict muttered, bracing his hands on the window ledge. “We might have eloped.”
Guilt, and a pain she feared would remain constant until the day she drew her last breath, sought to plague her mind, torture her soul. “Benedict, you’re the one who professes to not dwell on the past, yet you choose to remind me of my mistake.”
?
??I’m not reminding you of anything,” he said, focusing his attention on the sword fight. “I am merely stating that your father is right, mine is wrong. You wouldn’t have married me had Murray stepped up to the mark.”
The sound of clashing metal in the courtyard echoed her internal conflict. Regret was something she lived with daily. She battled with the turmoil of knowing she was to blame for five years of misery. But she had made an apology. Professed her love. And so refused to dwell on the past any longer.