Page 107 of His Forsaken Duchess
Thirty-Seven
“Well,” Belleville said, “if Lord Rashford intends to test our patience further, perhaps we should set up a picnic. A duel at dawn implies punctuality, does it not?”
Cedric didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the faint light of early dawn began to crest over the fields. The chill of the morning air clung to his skin, but he barely noticed it. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched at his sides. The pistol at his hip felt heavier than it had ever been.
Belleville sighed dramatically, brushing a bit of nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “No response? Haremore, this stoicism of yours might make you seem like a hero in some cheap romance novel, but it’s dashed boring for the rest of us.”
Cedric turned his gaze toward him, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Must you always talk?”
“Always,” Belleville said brightly. “Otherwise, you might forget I’m here. And then who would you have to ensure that this mess doesn’t end with your head on a pike?”
“I should like to remind you,” Cedric said sharply, “that it was your idea to act as my second.”
“And I stand by it,” Belleville replied smoothly. “Though I must confess, I didn’t expect the cad to keep us waiting. Not exactly sporting, is it?”
Cedric didn’t reply, his attention snapping back to the horizon. Two figures emerged from the faint mist, their forms growing clearer with each step. Rashford and his second approached with deliberate slowness, as if the longer they took, the more Cedric’s anger would simmer.
It didn’t work. His fury was already at a boiling point.
Belleville adjusted his cravat with an exaggerated flourish. “Ah, finally. And here I thought we’d have to duel ourselves to pass the time.”
“Stay here,” Cedric said curtly, his boots crunching against the frost-covered grass as he stepped forward to meet his opponent. The sound of his footsteps echoed in his ears, steady and deliberate, grounding him against the chaos swirling in his mind.
The seconds exchanged formalities, their voices low and clipped as they negotiated the rules. Thirty paces. Turn at will. One shot each. It was standard protocol, though Cedric noted Rashford’s smug expression with a sharp pang of mistrust.
Rashford’s second stepped forward, holding out the pistols for inspection. Cedric took his, its cold weight settling into his hand like an old companion. He met Rashford’s gaze, his own steely and unyielding.
“Ready when you are, Haremore,” Rashford said, his tone light as if this was nothing more than a gentlemen’s game.
Cedric said nothing, his grip tightening on his pistol. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when the fury coursing through him threatened to spill over. Instead, he took his position, his boots digging into the damp earth as he waited for the signal.
“Gentlemen,” Belleville’s voice rang out, unusually sharp, “on my count.”
Cedric inhaled deeply. He thought of Audrey—her voice, her touch, the way she had looked at him with such quiet hope. He thought of her words, her pleas, her tears.
And then he thought of how he had failed her.
“One,” Belleville called.
Cedric’s jaw tightened.
“Two.”
His fingers flexed around the pistol.
“Three.”
He stepped forward, each step measured and deliberate. The frost crunched beneath his boots, the sound loud in the otherwise still morning. He felt the weight of the pistol in his hand, the tension coiling in his chest with every step.
At step twelve, a shot rang out, the sound shattering the quiet. Cedric froze, his heart leaping to his throat as a cloud of dirt exploded near his foot. He looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing on Rashford, who stood smirking with his pistol raised.
The bastard had fired early.
Belleville swore loudly behind him, but Cedric barely heard it. His blood roared in his ears, his anger sharpening to a dangerous edge. Without hesitation, he lifted his pistol and fired.
The shot was clean, grazing Rashford’s thigh and eliciting a sharp cry of pain. Rashford stumbled, his hand clutching his leg as he glared at Cedric with shock and fury. But before Cedric could react, Rashford straightened, his hand moving to his coat.
A second pistol.
