At last his wanderings were over. He’d found his way home into Lydia’s arms.
Chapter Seven
Lydia stirred from the deep, dreamless sleep she’d tumbled into after all the exquisite, unprecedented things Simon had done to her in his bed. The candles on the sideboard guttered low. Outside along Piccadilly, she heard the rumble of early traffic as wagons laden with produce rolled into London from the countryside.
She lay alone and naked. Any virtuous woman would blush red as a tomato, whereas Lydia just felt… loved. She couldn’t muster any remorse over giving herself to a man without benefit of wedlock. Simon loved her. It turned out that he’d always loved her. After accepting such a miracle as truth, she felt revitalized, brave, and ready to take on the world. Only now did she realize how fear had tainted every breath she’d ever taken, with perhaps the single exception of those untrammeled moments in Simon’s arms at Fentonwyck.
And last night.
While conventional morality might dictate otherwise, committing herself to Grenville Berwick had been a craven, dishonest act, whereas loving Simon set her free to pursue her destiny. She loved Simon with all her soul and she could never be ashamed of that, whatever cruel names the world might call her.
Perhaps she was more her mother’s daughter than she’d ever realized.
After last night’s revelations, Lydia finally found it in herself to forgive her mother for seizing what small joy she could, whatever the consequences. Love, it seemed, had its own imperatives.
Love had proven itself more satisfying than she’d ever imagined. And in ten lonely years, she’d spent a lot of time imagining. As her sleepy mind winnowed the glorious events of the preceding hours, she stretched across the rumpled sheets in an excess of lingering physical pleasure. Each beat of her heart spoke her lover’s name. Simon. Simon. Simon.
Simon…
Where was he? Clumsily she rose, winc
ing as muscles she’d never known she possessed protested. When Simon had joined his body with hers, she’d suffered brief discomfort, but she’d trusted him enough to follow his lead. A wave of heat washed through her when she recalled where his lead had taken her.
“Simon?” She tugged a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself.
Her voice echoed around the silent rooms. A horrible presentiment struck a chill down her spine. Hurriedly she leaned down to test the side of the bed where Simon had slept. It was stone cold.
Dear God…
Her heart lurched with foreboding. She’d urged Simon to escape to the Continent. But surely he wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye. Without asking her to go with him.
Had he deserted her without a word the way he had ten years ago? The frightened, uncertain girl she’d once been might have believed that. The woman who had become Simon’s lover last night knew better. Whatever fate he faced, he’d face it with her at his side. They were united forever.
Yet here she was alone.
A frantic glance around the untidy bedroom revealed scattered clothes. Some, she blushed to acknowledge, were hers, but most belonged to Simon, who’d clearly retained his boyhood untidiness. The flickering candlelight gleamed on his brushes and shaving kit on the mahogany tallboy. If he’d fled for France, he’d abandoned all his personal belongings. Unlikely.
Which meant she could think of only one other reason for his early departure.
Last night she’d relinquished fear. But now fear surged anew, powerful as a king tide.
* * *
On this derelict farm near Hampstead, the forces of the law wouldn’t disrupt murderous intentions. Simon stood quietly at Cam’s side and watched the rising sun cast the dewy meadow in pure gold. Or perhaps after his night with Lydia, splendor tinged the whole world.
It had been an agonizing wrench to sneak away like a thief just before dawn. But if he’d told Lydia he still meant to proceed with the duel, they’d have argued. Call him a coward, but he couldn’t bear rancor to stain his last memory of his beloved.
Now, facing death, he’d never loved life so much. Had he left Lydia pregnant? He prayed that he hadn’t, although he’d sell his very soul to see her growing round and drowsy with contentment as she carried his child. He’d sell his soul twice over to make love to her again.
Berwick’s second—for the life of him, Simon couldn’t recollect the fellow’s name—had been speaking in a low voice to the doctor Berwick had brought. Now the man left Dr. West and approached Simon and Cam. “Are you ready, Mr. Metcalf?”
“Yes.” Simon turned to Cam, feeling awkward. So much to say. No time to say it. Painful to summon a farewell to his oldest friend. Even more painful to formulate a request for the care of his oldest friend’s possibly pregnant sister. “If this doesn’t go well, you’ll—”
“Look after Lydia. Of course, old man.” Cam smiled and gripped his arm briefly in unspoken affection. Neither had imagined it would come to this when they’d set out to undermine Lydia’s engagement. The price of interference proved devilish high.
The two duelists strode to the center of the field and faced one another. Berwick’s eyes sparked with outrage when they rested upon Simon, but otherwise his square face remained impassive. Simon had spent most of the last weeks denouncing this man’s existence. But as he regarded Berwick now, fatalistic ice set over his soul. All passion drained away, replaced with a dull determination to have this over and done with, however it ended.
“Ten paces, gentlemen, then turn and fire at will.” Berwick’s second dropped a white handkerchief to indicate the duel’s beginning.