Page 91 of The Duke of Desire
A moment later, his mother walked in. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked sternly.
Memories of her scolding assaulted West. He stopped moving and glowered at her. “Awaiting my second.”
She clasped her hands at her waist. “You can’t fight a duel.”
He clenched his teeth. “I can, and I will.”
“I won’t let you marry that…companion.” She said the word as if it were an obscenity.
“You have no say.”
“I will make sure everyone knows what happened here, and I shall get the truth from Bothwick, which I will be more than happy to share.”
“Not if he’s dead,” West said, not caring if he shocked her, in fact hoping he would. After all, provoking her had been one of his favorite pastimes.
She gasped, and West took a step toward her, his lip lifting in a vicious sneer. “If you do anything to harm Ivy—in body or reputation—I’ll ensure you live the rest of your days in poverty.”
Her eyes widened, and the muscles around her mouth pulled as she severely pursed her lips. “You wouldn’t.”
“If you think so, you don’t know me very well. But then I suppose you don’t. You never have.” He knew he’d never open another one of her letters, if she dared to write any more.
“I know you’re base, self-serving, and sybaritic.”
“We’re quite finished.” He stared at her, disbelieving that this woman had somehow created him.
She pressed her lips together once more and spun about, exiting into the corridor.
West resumed his pacing. Someone else came in and stopped, blinking at him. West went to lean against the wall, where he crossed his arms and waited for Dartford to return.
Several minutes later, Dartford came in frowning. “Bothwick is hoping you’ll change your mind. He doesn’t wish to duel.”
The damn coward.“Then he shouldn’t have behaved like a profligate ass.”
“So you won’t rescind your challenge?” Dartford asked.
“Absolutely not.” West pushed away from the wall and stepped toward Dartford. “If Bothwick had done to your wife the things he’s done to Ivy, you would’ve challenged him too.”
Dartford didn’t blink. “He’d probably already be dead.” He took a breath. “Tomorrow at dawn. I didn’t know where. Do you have a location in mind?”
He didn’t.
“Come, we’ll think about it, and I’ll send a note to Bothwick. He’s expecting to hear from us.”
“Because he hopes I’ll be as gutless as him,” West spat.
They stepped outside into the September evening. It was mild, and the air smelled of the coming autumn—of leaves turning and the promise of long, dark nights.
Nights he’d spend alone.
“Andrew!”
West looked toward the direction of the sound. Two figures were running from Alfred Street, their skirts held up as they dashed toward the Assembly Rooms.
“Lucy!” Andrew strode toward them.
West hesitated. The second figure—Ivy—slowed. She pushed a lock of hair from her face and sucked in air as her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths.
They stared at each other a long moment, and for West, there was only her, standing in the light of a streetlamp, her red-gold hair a bit disheveled and her cheeks pink from exertion. She’d never looked lovelier. His heart ached.
