Page 139 of The Duelist for the Ton
“It could be the duke,” Nerissa said, shielding her eyes. “The shooting’s stopped.”
Portia paused, straining to hear the gunshots, but other than the wind through the trees, she could only discern shouting in the distance. Most likely the beaters calling to each other to flush out the unfortunate birds destined to grace the dining table.
Then another gunshot rang out, and the figure paused, seeming to cringe, before resuming.
Tilly held up her hand to her eyes. “Oh my!”
“Can you see who it is from where you’re standing, Tilly?” Nerissa asked.
“It’shim!” came the reply. “What’s he doing here? Mr. Reeve said—” Tilly broke off.
“What did Mr. Reeve say?” Nerissa asked.
“It’s not my place to say. Mr. Reeve said I wasn’t to—”
“Tell me what he said, Tilly,” Portia said, looking up at the maid.
“He’s the one who visited His Grace in London. He spoke to me.”
“My brother spoke to you?”
“No, the gentleman. He seemed kind enough, but when I next saw the duke, his face…”
“Help me up, Nerissa,” Portia said, struggling to her feet, drawing in a sharp breath at the rush of lightheadedness. Her maid took her arm and steadied her while the figure continued toward them, the blurred silhouette morphing into the shape of a man—a man carrying something in his arms.
Then a high-pitched wail came from the figure, resonating through Portia’s bones. She caught her breath and her legs gave way. Two arms caught her and Nerissa whispered in her ear, “I’ve got you, Lady Portia.”
“B-but it’s…” Portia began to shake. “It’s…”
“Who is it?”
The cry came again, and there was no mistaking it. The bond that had formed between them, though weakened by their separation, could never be fully broken.
Stephania…
Clinging to her maid, Portia took a step forward.
“Stephania!”
She took another step, and her maid pulled her back.
“Have a care, Lady Portia. You’re not well.”
“What are you doing with her?” Portia cried. “Who are you to torment me so?”
The figure paused, then resumed his approach. Portia blinked, and tears splashed onto her cheeks. She wiped her eyes, and her vision cleared as the shape morphed into a familiar form: the solid, steady gait she’d have known anywhere—the broad shoulders she had clung to as he’d declared his love, and…
…and the golden head of hair that caught the sunlight like a halo—hair she’d buried her hands in as he’d buried himself inside her to claim her as his.
“Dear Lord…Stephen!”
His features swam into view, and she winced in anticipation of the face that haunted her dreams, its features twisted with anger, dark eyes filled with accusation.
But instead, she saw penitence, regret, and a sorrow to match hers. His eyes glistened with moisture as he lowered his gaze to the precious little bundle in his arms—the soft blanket that contained a piece of her soul.
Then another gunshot sounded in the distance. He stiffened and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she saw a flicker of fear that turned into determination—a determination to protect the child in his arms.
“Wh-what are you…” She gestured toward him, blinking in the sunlight lest he were a mirage sent to torment her.
