Page 30 of The Duelist for the Ton
“No!” Nerissa cried.
The acrid stench of gunpowder in her nostrils, Portia continued to raise her arm until the muzzle of her pistol was aimed directly at Lord Maybury.
“The devil fired before the count!”
The ringing in her ears could not completely muffle Sir Heath Moss’s indignant voice.
“How dare you insult me so, Maybury, you bounder!” Sir Heath continued. “Do you have no honor?”
Portia gritted her teeth. How typical of a man! To be more concerned with propriety than the fact that Maybury had cheated and could have taken her life.
Her heartbeat hammering in her ears, she willed her fingers not to grip the pistol too tight. For, as Mr. Greaves had taught her, the tighter the grip, the poorer the aim.
Slow and steady, your ladyship… A true shot is earned by a stable hand.
She drew in a breath then exhaled slowly until her aim was focused on her opponent, who now stood cowering at the far end of the lawn.
Oh, Mr. Greaves, if only you could see me now!
Withdrawing from the world around her, she focused on her breathing and the target. The muzzle of her pistol moved, faintly, in time to her heartbeat.
The right shoulder, I think.
Enough to incapacitate Maybury for a day or two, and ruin his jacket.
I’d like to see you explainthatto your valet—or to Lady Maybury.
On the next heartbeat, she squeezed the trigger.
Slow and steady…
The weapon fired, and she let her arm relax, absorbing the recoil. To flinch in anticipation of the recoil was the marksman’s downfall.
Nerissa rushed to her side. “Oh, La—”
“Hush, Gerard!” Portia whispered.
“I mean…sir, are you all right?”
“A little shaken, Gerard, that’s all,” Portia said, willing her body to stop trembling.
When the smoke cleared, she caught sight of her opponent, bent over, clutching his shoulder.
“You cad!” he cried. “You shot me.”
“Isn’t that rather the point, Lord Maybury?” Nerissa said, her voice laced with loathing.
“Jephson, get your arse over here.Fuck, that hurts.”
Maybury’s second rushed over and inspected Maybury’s shoulder.
“I’m mortally wounded, I know it,” Maybury said, flinging his uninjured arm out in a dramatic gesture. “Tell my wife that I lo—”
“It’s just a flesh wound, Maybury old chap,” his second said. “No need to make such a fuss. Not when you shot before Bodkins finished the count.”
“I didnot!”
“You did,” the adjudicator said. “I had not yet reached ten.” He turned to Portia. “Sir, you’re lucky to be alive.”
