Page 7 of His Stolen Duchess
Or he should have had all the power.
“He’s the one who insulted me,” Hollinger shouted, waving the pistol.
Those gathered took a quick step back.
All except for Lysander, who walked over to the man waving the pistol around. “I don’t care what he said to you; we are gentlemen, and this is not the way. That is, unless you are challenging your acquaintance to a duel.”
“Well… I-I mean,” Hollinger stuttered.
Lysander stepped right up to Hollinger, almost going nose to nose with him. “If you draw a gun, you had better be willing to use it. Are you willing to use it, sir?”
The gun hung limply at Hollinger’s side.
“I shan’t be offended like that,” Hollinger said.
“We are in a public place. Either put the gun away or shoot your friend for insulting the smell of your hair oil. Perhaps it is not bergamot, but there is a floral aroma.”
“Lavender,” Hollinger offered.
“Hmm.” Lysander looked the man in the eye and lowered his voice. “They are all watching. If you don’t do as I ask, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.”
Hollinger swallowed and quickly concealed the gun, the crowd gasping in relief as he did.
“Good man,” Lysander said.
“I-I’m sorry,” Hollinger mumbled.
“What is the meaning of this?” a constable demanded as he neared the scene.
Lysander glared at the pistol-wielding lord.
“Ah, nothing but a friendly squabble among friends,” he told the constable. “A mere disagreement on how Napoleon should be dealt with. I’m sure we’ve heard the end of it. They were about to shake hands right before you arrived.”
Lysander looked between Hollinger and the lord sitting on the grass. Hollinger hesitated, and Lysander shot him a glare, tilting his head slightly toward the constable. Hollinger then pursed his lips and begrudgingly approached the other lord, offering a hand and pulling him to his feet.
“Ah, there you go,” Lysander announced. “If only all of our problems were solved so easily.”
Everyone froze as if caught in a painting—the crowd holding its breath, waiting to see what would unfold; the two lords clasping hands in an uneasy truce; the constable watching closely; and Lysander, standing at the center of it all.
“Very well,” the constable nodded, “Good day to you, sirs.”
Satisfied, the constable turned and walked away.
Lysander heard Thomas whistle beside him and felt his friend pat him on the back.
“Well done, soldier,” Thomas whispered to him.
Lysander kept his eyes fixed on the two lords, who quickly released each other’s hands and walked off together, continuing to bicker. The crowd gradually dispersed.
“Neither of them has seen real fighting,” Lysander muttered, his voice low and unimpressed. His gaze stayed fixed on the lords squabbling in the distance. “They wouldn’t be posturing if they had.”
Thomas glanced at him, about to speak, but Lysander’s eyes narrowed slightly as a few women approached, whispering amongst themselves.
“I’m not here for gawkers,” he said, cold and flat.
Thomas clapped a hand on Lysander’s shoulder. “Walk it off. I’ll handle the ladies.”
Lysander gave him a dry look. “You always did enjoy martyrdom.”
