Page 25 of The Duelist for the Ton
“A man who serves cowards,” the duke said, his voice laced with contempt. “A duelist who profits from dishonor, acting as a proxy—for a fee, of course—for men who are too weak to face up to the consequences of their actions.”
Stephen shook his head. “A man who takes payment for killing others?”
“Is that not the same as a soldier, colonel?” Lady Portia said.
Ye gods!Perhaps there was some truth in the maxim that a woman’s place was in the home, if she harbored such notions.
“It most certainly is not, Lady Portia,” he said, unable to temper the vehemence in his tone.
She flinched. “I meant no offense.”
“Forgive me, Lady Portia, neither did I—but soldiering is a necessity to maintain the peace. No soldier takes enjoyment from shooting another man, even if that man is the enemy. A soldier who takes pleasure in killing does not deserve his uniform, and anyone seeking to shoot another at dawn in the name of honor does not deserve to be called a man, let alone a gentleman.”
“Perhaps the Farthing’s intention is topreventdeath,” she said.
“I doubt that,” Stephen said. “He sounds like the very worst of reprobates, profiting from such activity.”
“Pay no attention to my sister, colonel,” the duke said. “Women know little of such things. But I must disagree withyou on the matter of fear. A man who fears is a coward, and the militia is not in need of cowards.”
“There’s no cowardice in admitting one’s fear,” Lady Portia said. “Quite the opposite.”
“How so?” Stephen asked.
She turned her sapphire gaze onto him, and a spark of need ignited in his heart.
“Courage—true courage—is admitting to your fears and still sallying forth into battle. I daresay each and every soldier at Waterloo experienced fear at some point.”
They neared the entrance to the ballroom, where the guests milled about the floor.
“Ah!” Foxton said. “The dancing’s about to resume. I trust you’ll not disappoint me again tonight, sister.”
Lady Portia frowned, but Stephen caught a flicker of despair in her eyes.
“Perhaps, Lady Portia, if you’re not engaged, you might partner me for the next dance,” he said.
“Partneryou?” Foxton raised his eyebrows.
“I submit myself to the prospect of your rejection, Lady Portia,” Stephen said, offering his hand.
“Sir Ambrose Cholmondeley-Walker wishes to dance with you, sister,” Foxton said. “That’s why I came to find you. He made such a point of asking me.”
“Then he ought to have askedmefirst, given that you’re not the one who’d have to dance with him,” she retorted. “You may be my gaoler, Adam, but you’re not my owner. Besides, I cannot think of anything worse than dancing with a man with whom it would be impossible to enjoy a conversation.”
“How so?” Stephen asked.
She met his gaze and grinned, and his heart was lost. “With a name likeCholmondeley-Walker, each time I address him, I’llhave run out of breath before I can make my point, and the dance will be over.”
“Portia,” the duke warned. He fixed his gaze on Stephen, disapproval in his eyes.
Stephen backed away. The pain and humiliation of Juliette Howard’s rejection still ached, and, as any professional soldier understood, some battles were lost even before the first shot was fired. A weak soldier still suffering from the nightmares of war was no match for the Duke of Foxton with his reputation for ferocity and strength of will, and nor was he a match for the sister of such a man.
But, before he could withdraw completely, Lady Portia took his hand, and he caught his breath at the fizz of need as her warm fingers slid against his.
“Colonel, it would be my pleasure to dance with you.”
Chapter Eight
The colonel’s eyeswidened in surprise as Portia took his hand. She shot her brother a look of warning, then led her partner into the center of the ballroom, giving Sir Ambrose Cholmondeley-Walker a cursory nod.
