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.
Lovedon House
18th June, half-past eleven o’clock
Madam:
I shall expect to meet you at dusk this day at Battersea Fields for the purpose of defending my honor against the charges of being a coward and no gentleman. I shall supply the weapons, and Bates will act as my friend, whether he likes it or not.
A ticket porter has been engaged to loiter in the vicinity of your home. A written reply given into his keeping will make its way both discreetly and speedily to me.
I have the honor to be,
Madam,
Your obedient servant,
Lovedon
Portman Square
18th June, one o’clock
My Lord:
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your lordship’s letter, which is thoroughly ridiculous. If your lordship thinks I propose to be hanged for killing a peer—and I ought to point out that I am an excellent shot—I recommend your lordship think again. Yesterday, as your lordship is well aware, I was deep in my cups—and it is perfectly beastly of your lordship to remind me of the fact.
I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s obedient servant,
Chloe Sharp
Lovedon House
18th June, half-past two o’clock
Madam:
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of one o’clock. Does this mean you retract your words and apologize?
I have the honor to be,
Madam,
Your obedient servant,
Lovedon
Portman Square
18th June, three o’clock
My Lord:
I would rather hang than apologize to you. For anything. Ever.
I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s obedient servant,
Chloe Sharp
Lovedon House
18th June, half-past three o’clock
Madam:
Your having declined to give the reparation which I consider myself entitled to receive, I now call upon you to give me that satisfaction for your conduct which a gentleman has a right to require, and which a gentleman never refuses to give. I shall expect to see you at Battersea Fields at seven o’clock this evening.
I have the honor to be,
Madam,
Your obedient servant,
Lovedon
P.S. I dare you.
Portman Square
18th June, half-past four o’clock
My Lord:
The satisfaction which your lordship has demanded, it is of course impossible for me to decline.
I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your lordship’s obedient servant,
Chloe Sharp
Battersea Fields, half-past seven o’clock
Chloe 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. B
ates 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.