Page 118 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I’m not dining, but celebrating,” Wormleighton said. “But I doubt His Grace would take kindly to just anyone taking one of his bottles.”
“Anycivilian, perhaps, sir,” the footman said, gesturing to Stephen, “but a soldier, and fellowveteranusof Waterloo, could never be described asjust anyone.”
“Very well, then,” Wormleighton said. “I’ll take advantage of being in the company of a hero and take a bottle. But I insist it’s put on my ledger.”
The footman bowed, then disappeared, and returned shortly after with two glasses filled with a pale liquid, within which a stream of bubbles ascended in a straight line from the bottom to the surface, where they dissipated around the rim. Wormleighton plucked a glass eagerly from the tray and took a sip.
Stephen followed suit. “What are we celebrating, other than the fact that we’re both escaping London?”
Wormleighton’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Kitty is expecting our first child.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s long overdue,” Wormleighton said. “We’ve been married almost three years, and we despaired of having a child of our own.”
“And now you have an heir on the way.”
“Whether we have a son or daughter matters not to me,” Wormleighton said. “All I wish for is a healthy child.”
“And Katherine?”
“Kitty wants a son—I think because she felt her father’s resentment of her sex until her younger brother was born. Lord Tate’s desperation for a male heir is not something I share.” His eyes took on a faraway look, as if he could see, over the horizon, a state of ultimate bliss. “To think,” he said, sighing, “I’ll soon be holding my child in my arms. I cannot think of anything a man could wish for more than that. Save, of course, a loving wife—and I’ve already been blessed with my sweet Kitty.”
“I envy you,” Stephen said before taking another mouthful of champagne.
“It’ll be your turn soon. Weren’t you courting that Hawke girl—Lady Portia? I’ll wager that before the year is out, you’ll be holdingyourchild in your arms.”
The image swam before Stephen’s mind—a tiny child in his arms, with a head of thick, dark hair and wide, brilliant blue eyes, curling a fat pink fist around his forefinger.
Then he shook his head. “I think it’ll take a little longer than that.”
“Rejected you, has she?” Wormleighton shook his head. “Foxton always was one who set too much store on rank, but I thought Lady Portia had more sense. At least she’s sensible enough not to have been taken in by Sir Heath Moss’s charms.”
Stephen’s breath caught as he tightened the grip on his glass. Had Sir Heath broken his promise to remain silent about Angela?
I swear, Sir Heath, if you say one word about my sister, I’ll cut off your—
“Lady Cholmondeley-Walker is his latest conquest,” Wormleighton continued. “Almost cost him his life.”
“I beg pardon?”
Wormleighton’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward. “You’ve not heard? It’s all over White’s.” He glanced over his shoulder to the clubroom’s other occupants, then lowered his voice. “Sir Heath’s sporting an injured leg—he’s been limping about Hyde Park to elicit sympathy from the fairer sex. Apparently a woman unable to apply reason finds an injured man damnably attractive.”
“No matter his character or honor?” Stephen said. “Is he badly injured?” he added, tempering the little voice in his head that issued a cheer.
“Most likely it’s just a scratch,” Wormleighton said. “Of course, if you ask him, he’ll say he was on the brink of death. But at least he fared better than his opponent. Cholmondeley-Walker is, by all accounts, preparing to meet his maker.”
Dear God!
A series of tuts and the rustling of newspapers told Stephen that he’d spoken aloud.
“I daresay he’ll survive—he’s a resilient chap. But it wasn’t a certainty yesterday, by all accounts.” Wormleighton shook his head. “That’s what happens when unskilled men engage in a duel. A stray bullet can cause irreparable damage. It’s a pity the Farthing seems to have disappeared. Had he been present, I daresay the duel would have ended in one combatant sustaining a slight scratch and the other the loss of fifty pounds.”
“Surely you’re not condoning theFarthing?” Stphen said.
“Why not?” came the reply. “He’s fought countless duels—at least ten, I’d reckon—all with the purpose of ensuring that nobody is hurt, at least no more than superficially.”
“You speak nonsense,” Stephen said, suppressing a shudder at the notion of Portia placing herself in danger on so many occasions.
