Page 77 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Illarion did not flinch. He was not without empathy for the man. Percivale had simply fallen in love with the wrong woman. ‘She is too good for most of us.’ Percivale was a cool fellow indeed, his confidence commendable even if he was out of his depth. Men like Percivale did not fight duels more than once in a lifetime. They probably shouldn’t fight them at all. They hadn’t the experience for them, only the honour, and that would be their undoing. That was the damnable thing about it. A man could never back away, even if it killed him. Honour once lost was not easily regained.

Nikolay took the case and the count began. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen… Illarion’s mind began to clear. Percivale might die for honour, but not today. His thoughts centred and narrowed to the next few actions. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen… He would be fast, he would turn first. It was imperative so that Percivale might take his cue from him. Illarion would raise his gun into the air, firing harmlessly at the sky, encouraging Percivale to follow suit, honour satisfied. Five, four, three, everything would be over in the span of seconds…two, one…pivot, cock. The world slowed.

Turn: he sighted Percivale at the end of field.

Pivot: he positioned his body sideways in the classic narrowing stance of a dueller attempting to make the smallest possible target.

Cock: his thumb pulled back the trigger. He raised his gun into the air and fired too late or was it too soon? The timing was delicate if a delopement was to work. One’s opponent had to see them do it and Percivale had not seen him. Dear God, Percivale didn’t understand the shot had been to the sky! Inexperienced and slow, Percivale’s turn had been too late to see him delope. Percivale knew only that the shot had been taken, the sound of the bullet reverberating in the quite morning air. His brain couldn’t register the import of that shot, his body still in motion, his brain concentrating exclusively on making a shot. The shot. It was too late for him to choose otherwise.

Percivale meant to shoot. Illarion imagined he could see Percivale’s thumb pull back the trigger, imagined he could see the ball dropping to the chamber. He would not flinch. He would not try to run. He would stand his ground and let Percivale take his shot. He drew a breath. His last? He wondered. He forced his eyes to stay open, to meet his death honestly. He heard the gun fire. He fixed his thoughts on Dove. She would be the last of his thoughts. He felt the wind of the bullet as it passed. Close, so damned close. But not close enough. He would live.

It seemed surreal that the duel was over, the ending abrupt. One moment he’d been contemplating the end, and the next, he had the future to look forward to. Illarion closed his eyes, allowing the relief of being alive wash over him. He would make good use of that future. At the other end of the field, Percivale had gone into shock, the gun falling to the ground as he realised what had happened.

‘I am sorry! I didn’t see, I didn’t understand.’ Percivale’s apology was an incoherent string of words. The import of what he’d nearly done overwhelmed him. Illarion saw him sag against Heatherly, his words becoming mumbles of disbelief, ‘He deloped, he deloped and I…’ Tried to kill a prince. The horror of that was too much for Percivale.

Illarion could not go to him. Protocol and pride—Percivale’s pride—didn’t allow it. It would only shame Percivale. He will let Ruslan handle that, Ruslan was good at those things. As for himself, he had other business to take care of. He walked straight to the carriage, gesturing for Nikolay to come with him. He would call on Dove as soon as it was decent. He had to know she was all right.

* * *

He waited until ten, although the wait was torture. If it was up to him, he would have gone straight there and awakened the house at six. But there’d been enough scandal already. It was a decision he regretted immediately. He sensed something was wrong the moment he mounted the steps of Redruth House. The door confirmed it. The knocker was gone.

Illarion banged his fist on the door. There was no answer. He banged again. And again. Someone was home. The house had been full yesterday. One did not simply pack up an entire town house, staff and all, in the course of a night. He banged again, louder this time. Then he began to shout, drawing stares from those who were out early. ‘Open up, dammit. I know someone is in there!’ He was fuelled by desperation and by fear. Was Dove all right?

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