They were hovering around a prone figure, he saw with dread. Upon reaching them, he shouldered his way through, then skidded to a halt, shock taking the place of fear. Brynn was there on the ground, kneeling beside a man’s body, holding his bloody hand.
For a moment Lucian felt his mind reel. The image was so much like his nightmare visions… except that in his nightmares, he was the man dying.
He moved closer, his heart pounding. The prone figure was Pickering; the poet had clearly been shot but didn’t appear to be dead. An elderly man, evidently the surgeon, was inspecting his shoulder wound and elicited a groan.
Young Pickering grimaced in pain at the prodding of his raw, bloody flesh, even as he gazed up at Brynn. “My lady…” he rasped, biting his lower lip.
Tenderly she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “Hush, don’t speak. Save your strength.”
Lucian gritted his teeth, relief and jealous fury welling inside him. He wanted to wring Brynn’s neck for endangering herself that way, for scaring him half out of his mind, for gazing down so tenderly at another man, wounded or not-
When Lucian moved possessively to stand beside her, though, Brynn looked up, as if sensing his presence. She was crying; he could see pale streaks on her face, anguish in her green eyes. Lucian felt something twist painfully in his chest, warring with his darker emotions.
She froze for an instant when she saw him, but then the wounded man claimed her attention.
“I would endure ten times the pain,” Pickering murmured hoarsely, “for but one of your smiles.”
Brynn swallowed in a visible effort to hold back tears and might have answered, had not the doctor brusquely interrupted.
“He should recover, but I must take him away to remove the bullet. Stand back, please,” he said to the crowd that was pushing in to gape at the wounded man.
One young gentleman stood slightly apart-the poet’s opponent, Lucian realized. When Brynn rose unsteadily to her feet, Lord Hogarth stepped forward to address her in a pleading tone.
“Please forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to hurt him, truly.”
She whirled on him, her eyes heated through her tears. “I am not the one you should be begging for forgiveness!”
Hogarth first looked startled by her vehemence, then wounded. He opened his mouth to protest, but Brynn cut him off. “This must stop, Hogarth. It will stop. I never wish to see either of you again.”
“My lady…”
“Please just go.”
He looked stricken, but he seemed to comprehend her sincerity, for he took a step backward, then another, before turning and stumbling blindly away.
Dashing tears from her eyes, Brynn watched as the injured Pickering was carried to the surgeon’s carriage. The crowd dispersed then, sending surreptitious glances at Lucian.
Swallowing hard, Brynn risked a glance at him herself and felt her heart sink. His blue eyes were glittering dangerously.
She didn’t protest as he took her arm in a firm grip and escorted her to the Wycliff landau. From the corner of her eye she saw his friend Lord Wolverton waiting beside his curricle, but Lucian gestured toward the marquess, indicating he meant to ride with his wife.
He handed her into the landau, then settled beside her, shutting the door forcefully behind him. She could feel his simmering fury as the carriage began to move.
“What are you doing here?” she murmured, wiping tears from her cheeks.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’ve come to fetch my wife. And I’m the one who should be asking that question. What in hell were you thinking, running onto a dueling field like that? You could have been killed!”
“I wasn’t thinking…”
“Obviously not!” His voice dripped sarcasm. “What did you intend? To watch with glee while your beaux annihilated each other?”
“No, of course not. I was endeavoring to stop them.”
His eyes were brightly blue, furious, beautiful. For a moment Lucian held himself rigid, as if struggling for control. “You might have employed a bit more discretion,” he finally ground out. “Didn’t you at least think to take an unmarked carriage?”
He was referring to the Wycliff crest emblazoned on the carriage panels, Brynn realized. All of London would soon know of her presence on the dueling field.
She turned to stare out the window, biting back her hurt, knowing Lucian had a right to scold. She had been horrified to learn from another admirer about the impending duel. Her only intent had been to intervene before someone was hurt, but she had been too late. She bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her.
“I trust you’re satisfied,” Lucian said in a tight voice. “The scandal sheets will have a field day. What a spectacle-two fools trying to killing each other over my countess.” He reached across her and drew the shade down to cover the carriage window, then did the same on his side, as if to shut out prying eyes.
“I didn’t want this to happen,” she murmured.
“Don’t insult my intelligence by claiming you cared whether you turned me into a laughingstock.”
Brynn shook her head miserably. She couldn’t blame Lucian for being angry that she had sullied his name and her reputation. Even though she hadn’t purposely precipitated the scandal, she had known where the curse could lead. “I… I’m sorry, Lucian.”
“Sorry is hardly adequate. Either of those witless whelps could have died.”
“I know,” Brynn whispered, aching inside. “I am to blame. I knew what could happen.”
“Apologies will serve you little purpose, even if I believed them,” Lucian gritted out, unmollified.
When she didn’t reply, he said even more harshly, “Mark me, Brynn, I won’t allow you to continue like this. You will behave with discretion, or I will remove you from London altogether.” He cursed under his breath. “Perhaps it was a mistake, bringing you here in the first place.”
Brynn swallowed her tears, her chin lifting defensively. “Our entire marriage was a mistake. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“It is far too late now to undo it. And I won’t tolerate your continued wantonness.”
“I have not been wanton.”
“What do you call luring helpless young bucks to pant after your skirts?”
“I call it the effects of the curse.”
“I can more easily believe you’ve been dallying behind my back.” Her husband grasped her upper arm tightly, forcing her to look at him. “I warn you, Brynn. I intend my heir to resemble me.”
Taken aback, she stared at Lucian in genuine shock as she comprehended his meaning. “I would never be unfaithful to my marriage vows.”
“No? You draw the line at driving fools wild? ”
Brynn felt a measure of alarm at the dark glitter in his eyes. She had seen Lucian angry before, but she had never been treated to the full force of his temper or his outraged sense of pride and male jealousy. He was wrong about her, though. She would never dream of cuckolding him. Nor would she be his doormat.
Brynn reined in her anger and hurt and stared at him rebelliously.
The atmosphere was suddenly charged with a new tension. Danger and desire.
He wanted her, she could see it in the fierce blaze of his expression. Against her will, Brynn felt a now-familiar curling sensation stirring in the pit of her stomach: sexual longing.
Their gazes clashed; hers defiant, his heated with primal emotion. His hands closed over both her shoulders in a tight grip.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned, trying to pull back.
The blue of his eyes became deeper, stormier. “Are you daring me, wife?”
She shivered, knowing the peril of challenging him, yet she couldn’t stop herself. “What if I am?”
Something dark and thrilling flared in his expression. In a single smooth motion, he raised the skirt of her gown.
“I shouldn’t think you would want to risk any more scandal,” she taunted.
His expression was hard and sensual, his eyes dilated and dark with arousal as he insinuated his hand between her thighs.