Page 94 of The Duelist for the Ton
A lone man stood a little way back, beneath a tree, his features in shadow.
Sir Heath’s opponent—but where was his second?
“It’s about bloody time,” Sir Heath said.
“We’re here at the appointed hour, Sir Heath,” Nerissa said, lowering the pitch of her voice.
“Insolent creature, your manservant is, Mr. Farthing,” Sir Heath sneered. “I’d have thought, given how much you’re extorting from me this time, you’d at least behave like a gentleman and arrive on time.”
A snort came from the lone figure, and Sir Heath let out a laugh.
“Despise me all you like, old sport, but you’re the one who challenged me. If you lacked the foresight to employ the Farthing’s services, then you must suffer the consequences.”
The figure turned and approached in long, slow strides.
A blackened knot of horror twisted in Portia’s gut as her gaze wandered over the form, taking in his gait, the precision with which he took each step…the lean, powerful build, the broad shoulders, and the thick head of hair, softened by the haze of the first rays of dawn light.
And his eyes…eyes that she knew were capable of a warmth that soothed the heart and caressed the soul—eyes that were now almost black, lacking that spark of desire and affection that had captured her heart; eyes that now glistened with pure hatred and the soldier’s resolve to kill his enemy as he glared at her, his mouth set in a firm line.
No. It cannot be…
She blinked, willing the nightmare to recede—but instead, the image of him filled her senses, until nothing else in the world existed except him, the man who would, in less than a few heartbeats, aim a pistol at her with the intent to kill.
Sir Heath chuckled, and bile rose in Portia’s stomach as she fought to temper the nausea.
“I don’t believe the two of you are acquainted,” he said, “though, of course, you may have come across one another at White’s.” He turned to his opponent. “That is, if you stopped hiding yourself away in your lodgings playing at nursemaid and bothered to attend White’s like a gentleman.”
Then he let out a laugh. “It matters not.” He gestured toward Portia. “Mr. Farthing, let me introduce you to your opponent—Colonel Reid.”
Portia bit her lip to focus on the pain to prevent the world from shifting out of focus around her, as Sir Heath confirmed what she’d feared, and what her eyes were telling her, though she tried to deny it.
Stephen curled his hands into fists.
“At the very least, you can shake my friend’s hand like a gentleman, Reid,” Sir Heath said. “Mostunseemly.”
“I’ve no intention of shaking that blackguard’s hand,” Stephen said, his voice quiet and cold. Portia flinched as pure hatred dripped from his words. “There’s little point in acquainting myself with a creature whom I intend to stamp out.” Then he stepped closer, his body seeming to vibrate with pure, unadulterated hatred.
“Make peace with your maker, Mr. Farthing,” he said, his lips curled back in a snarl, “for I intend to ensure that you’ll not live to see another dawn.”
Chapter Twenty
Stephen stared atthe creature before him.
His hands itched to rip the mask off the blackguard’s face, to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat and crush the life out of him. Sir Heath was a rake, and a profligate. But the creature who stood before him now, lacking the common decency, let alone the courage, to face him like a man, instead choosing to hide behind a mask…
The Farthing was an apt name for a creature that cared only for coin. What kind of a man would stoop so low as to earn a profit from the suffering of others—the ruination of innocents?
“Have you nothing to say, sir?” Stephen said.
The Farthing flinched, and a pair of bright-blue eyes glittered behind a black silk mask. For a heartbeat Stephen’s resolve faltered at the shock of familiarity. The image of another pair of blue eyes filled his memory…
Portia, the woman he’d left behind at Rosecombe to race back to London to defend his sister’s honor. His Portia, whom he’d cast from his mind in his desperation to save Angela from a life of misery and ruination.
Sweet swiving heaven, when the messenger had turned up at some ungodly hour at Rosecombe, he’d feared the worst! But he had arrived home to find Angela penitent, ashamed—and terrified of whatever punishment he might mete out. No amount of reassurance on Mrs. Stowe’s part would placate his anger,and though he believed her when she’d assured him Angela was still a maiden, he’d still tossed the woman out of the house, promising to expose her as the chaperone who facilitated the ruination of young girls.
And only now, on the brink of defending Angela’s honor and destroying the man who’d forced him to take arms once more, did his mind wander to where his heart lay.
To her. His beloved Portia.
