Feeling as though his body no longer belonged to him but operated at someone else’s behest, Simon turned and took one pace, then another. Time seemed oddly stretched out. He was preternaturally aware of the light turning the trees into a tracery of color fit to match the stained glass in his family chapel. The birds sang to greet the spring day. Boots crunched across frosty grass with a relentless rhythm.
Berwick’s second counted each pace, his voice reedy as he shouted across the open space. The gun in Simon’s hand was small and beautiful, chased steel and mother of pearl, one of a pair that Cam had owned since his twenty-first birthday.
“Ten!”
His legs firm, his breathing even, Simon pivoted toward his opponent. Berwick turned more slowly, with deliberate menace, and raised his gun in Simon’s direction.
So this was it. A lifetime of loving Lydia. A handful of good friends. Some amusing hijinks. More experience of the wider world in his thirty-one years than was granted to most men. Now everything reached its end.
As Simon drew what could prove his last breath, the image that flashed before his eyes was Lydia’s face as she lost herself in pleasure. A good memory to die on. With no intention of firing, he raised his pistol. A fellow must go through the motions, he supposed. The bright morning shrank to a narrow tunnel of light linking him with Berwick.
“Simon, Grenville, stop!”
What the devil?
Shock held Simon motionless. He must be dreaming or going mad. He could swear that was Lydia’s voice ringing out across the field.
“Good God, man, take care!” Cam shouted.
Cam’s warning seemed to come from another universe, clashing with Lydia’s terrified cry. Wonderingly Simon veered toward his friend.
As he shifted, a pistol fired.
Something crashed into him with the force of a charging elephant. He staggered under a blow that at first he didn’t understand. Then excruciating pain streaked through him, left him stumbling.
“Simon? Simon, are you all right?”
He wasn’t going mad. That was definitely Lydia. As he struggled to maintain his balance and control the waves of pain, a palpably physical presence twined an arm around his waist. Immediately her warmth flowed into him, restoring life and hope.
For one dizzying moment, he closed his eyes, wondering if he was about to make a complete fool of himself and collapse on top of his beloved. Who clearly hadn’t joined him in the afterlife. He was alive, all right. As if to confirm that welcome realization, his euphoria faded and the wound in his right arm flared to a blinding pitch.
“Lydia, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked with difficulty, opening his eyes through throbbing agony. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of the shabby hackney carriage she must have hired to bring her out to the meadow. He’d been so focused on Berwick, he hadn’t heard its arrival.
On a groan, he bent and buried his face in the thick auburn hair she’d piled into an insecure chignon. Her grip tightened and he felt her turn toward him. “Trying to save your life, you fool.”
He bit off a choked laugh and muttered through his pain. “I love you too.”
“Not enough to stay safe,” she retorted, even as she angled herself to support his ungainly height.
Stubborn wench. If she had an ounce of sense, she’d have stayed away. If she had an ounce of sense, she wouldn’t strive to hold up a man who must weigh twelve stone. He tried to tell her so, but he couldn’t get the words out. His surroundings retreated in an alarming fashion, making his head swim. His arm felt like it was on fire. Sticky wet warmth saturated his right sleeve. Quickly he glanced down at the sodden scarlet linen covering his arm and closed his eyes, praying for strength.
“Damn you, Lydia, you shouldn’t be here.” Through the thickening fog in his head, Simon heard Cam’s uncharacteristic cursing.
Despite his best efforts to stand on his own feet, Simon leaned more heavily into Lydia. He wasn’t going to be able to save himself from fainting, blast it. “I think… I think I need to sit down.”
“What in blazes is going on?” Berwick demanded from behind him, the question echoing oddly in Simon’s ears. “Lady Lydia, I must protest. A duel is no place for a woman.”
“Oh, shut up,” Lydia snarled, making Simon laugh again. For about two seconds until pain swamped amusement. “You shot him, yo
u toad.”
“Madam, I beg your pardon!” Berwick growled.
“I’m sorry, Lydia, but I can’t—” Clumsily, with more haste than grace, using Lydia as a crutch, Simon lowered himself to the ground.
As he slid downward, the meadow developed a disconcerting tendency to whirl around him. His stomach revolted at the reckless waltz. He squeezed his eyes shut, but lack of vision only worsened the vertigo. He started to breathe hard and heavy through his mouth, fighting the urge to crumple into unconsciousness or cast up his accounts at his inamorata’s feet. With a shaking hand, he laid his pistol on the grass beside him.
Berwick’s voice still pricked at the outer limits of Simon’s fading awareness. “Of course I shot the scoundrel. If he imagines your presence to plead his case will make me relent—”