Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords 3)

They did as Dariell asked.

Valentine cursed inwardly. He felt the warmth of Miss Kendall’s body radiating through his waistcoat. Although he had avoided looking at her figure since she had removed her coat, he felt her soft buttocks pressing against the tops of his thighs.

Good God, how the hell was he to turn around when his cock was ready to burst out of his breeches? How the hell was he to fire a weapon when his fingers shook like those of a man in his dotage?

“I only hope she is worth the trouble,” Miss Kendall whispered.

“Who?”

“The widow you and my brother are determined to marry.”

“Lady Durrant?”

“Indeed.”

In his youth, Valentine had paid court to Portia Durrant, known then as Miss Briscoe. Marriage was presumed to be the inevitable outcome. But how was a man to know his heart when he was detached from all emotion? How was a man to make a lifelong commitment when there was a chance he would turn out like his father? Mad. Deranged. Dangerous.

And so Miss Briscoe had married the decrepit Lord Durrant—out of spite, to teach Valentine a lesson.

“I have told no one of my intentions,” he said, though that was not entirely true. He had made a vow, a solemn promise to his mother that he would take a wife, sire an heir.

“Jonathan said the lady is having a devil of a time deciding between the two of you.”

Valentine did not give a damn what the trout said. Jonathan bloody Kendall could rot in hell for all he cared. Besides, he suspected Lady Durrant enjoyed manipulating events, took pleasure in showing Valentine what he had missed by not taking her as his bride.

“I wonder if the lady prompted my brother to call you out.” Miss Kendall continued to bait him. “Hoping fate might decide the outcome.”

Valentine gritted his teeth. The remark made him sound weak, made him sound like a lovesick puppy eager to sit, to beg, to wag his tail, to do his mistress’ bidding.

“We walk twenty paces and then fire.” Valentine hurled the comment like a ball of ice, hoping the reality of the situation hit hard, hoping she felt the coldness of his words trickle down her spine.

He caught Dariell’s curious gaze. At no time in the last five years had his friend seen him so agitated. Valentine was known for his control under pressure, and yet this lady’s presence ruffled his calm demeanour, gnawed his insides, nagged his mind.

“You may cock your weapons.” Dariell’s words were met with deathly silence, the stillness broken only by the clicks of their hammers. “Twenty paces. I shall count. One. Two …”

As Valentine walked the required number of paces, he considered the fact that he may have made his third mistake. A logical man did not place his life in the hands of a stranger, did not place his trust in a woman. What was to stop Miss Kendall turning on the count of ten and putting a lead ball in his back?

Relief rushed through him when Dariell called, “Twenty!” His friend paused, and they turned around. “Attend. Present.” The Frenchman looked to Miss Kendall. “That means raise your weapon, madame.”

Miss Kendall smiled at him. “Oh! Thank you, monsieur.” The lady closed one eye and pointed her pistol at Valentine’s heart. “When do we fire?”

Valentine raised his arm aloft and fired into the adjacent field—he would rather die than shoot a woman. A loud crack rent the air. Crows cawed as they scattered. A stream of white smoke burst from the muzzle and the sharp smell of sulphur reached his nostrils.

Miss Kendall arched a brow as he lowered his weapon. The corners of her mouth curled up in amusement. Although he had deloped, she did not fire or lower her weapon.

“Did I mention that my father taught me to shoot at the age of twelve?” she said, watching him keenly. “I would line glass bottles on the fence and practise with one eye closed.”

God damn!

Valentine’s pulse pounded hard in his throat. Had Jonathan Kendall sent an assassin in his stead? Had this angel come to do the devil’s work?

“And what do you intend to do now, Miss Kendall? Shoot me?” Pushing aside his nerves, he drew on the arrogance beaten into all aristocrats from boyhood. “If you wanted to kill me, you could have done so upon your arrival.”

Valentine handed Dariell his pistol and stepped forward.

“Perhaps I want to win with honour.” Miss Kendall’s aim remained trained on Valentine’s chest. “Or is it that I want to teach you a lesson, my lord?”

“And what lesson would that be?” Valentine stalked towards her. The imagined drum of a death knell rang in his ears.