He probably shouldn’t have said that. It was not the act of a gentleman to heap further humiliation on a man who’d just been publicly chastised.
But since he had said it, he probably should have expected the punch.
Thud. A perfect, whole, five-fingered fist hit Henry just below the ridge of his left cheekbone. The shock snapped his head back, echoed through the bones of his skull. The dull sound of it seemed still to be ringing in his ears when the pain hit his face in a sudden, hot wash.
His first emotion was surprise; the viscount had more spine than Henry had credited him with.
His second was a desperate calm, the calm of a man scrabbling to hold together his fortune during a deep gamble. Frances was ashamed of him, and now she’d seen Wadsworth strike him. A roomful of people had seen that. The pain in his face was nothing compared to that agony of humiliation.
He lifted his hand to his aching cheek and pivoted toward Frances as deliberately as he could, as though he had all the time and self-control in the world. The coiled spring within him wound ever tighter. “I believe I’ve just been batted by an insect,” he said in what he hoped was a tone of calculated wonder. “I didn’t realize they flew in the better households. Did you see it? Was it hideous?”
“Don’t.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, her eyes fixed on his. The ring of green around the edge of her irises looked particularly bright. “Don’t make it worse.”
For an instant, Henry was back in her bed, sliding skin over sweat-slick skin, making her cry out. We saw each other naked; we shared each other’s bodies. How had they left that intimacy behind so quickly? It was not a mere flight of stairs away, but the unbridgeable distance of her unspoken regret.
“There’s no way to make it better,” he said.
He could see now, no woman would protect him against men such as Wadsworth. Not even Caroline, with all her money and influence, could keep the golden muzzles of London society tied on tightly enough. If Henry was to emerge victorious, he would have to fight his own battles.
He turned to Wadsworth, standing almost nose-to-nose with the viscount, close enough to smell the starch of his clothes and the sharp, oily bergamot with which he scented himself.
He was the cleanest foe Henry had faced in several years, that was certain.
“You’ve struck me,” Henry said as though reading a mildly interesting article out of a newspaper. “I wonder what you think will happen next. Do you think I can possibly let that pass?”
Wadsworth swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think you’ll take it.” Again, he launched a fist at Henry.
With a quick snap, Henry caught the viscount’s forearm and warded off this second blow. He held the arm tight, pushing it back from his face, letting it struggle and flex inside its carefully tailored sleeve.
He stared into Wadsworth’s eyes and saw his own face reflected in their gray gloss.
There was his greatest foe; there. And he was strong enough.
“Name your second, Wadsworth,” he said. “And choose your weapon.”
At these words, the drawing room exploded with the din and chaos of canister shot.
Henry smiled. Yes, London was full of its own little wars. And he was determined to win.
Twenty-One
“You have to be playing a joke on me,” Jem said. His light eyes were open so wide, they appeared to be trying to escape his head. “That’s what this is. A joke? You’re very funny, Hal. Very funny.”
The earl sat heavily in the chair at his study’s desk, breathing hard. His cravat was starched and tied high and tight as fashion dictated, and he tugged at it fruitlessly with a forefinger. “God, Hal. An excellent joke. But you must not say it in that serious way. I almost believed you for a second.”
Once again, Henry faced his brother across the massive desk in Jem’s study, but this time he needed no advice. He had made his decision; now he needed only the blessed, unthinking relief of action.
“It’s true,” Henry said. “I challenged Wadsworth to a duel. We’ll meet tomorrow at dawn.”
Which was just the way Henry wanted it. He was spoiling for a fight, for the chance to prove something, anything. He must win. His letters had not been enough, a minuet had not been enough, his body had not been enough. He was not sure how much of his heart had been ventured. Too much for comfort’s sake.
He smiled, knowing the expression must look gruesome.
Jem unsnarled the end of his cravat from its elaborate folds and coaxed the long starched rectangle away from his throat. “Good God, Hal. I can’t credit it, even from your own lips. You issued the challenge. For a duel.”
“He struck me, Jem. I couldn’t let that pass.”
“He struck you?” Jem blinked, then shook his head, loosening the cravat further. “No, no. That can’t be overlooked. But how did it ever come to that, Hal? Wadsworth outranks you. He should never have struck you in public.”
“Apparently he disagrees.” Henry shrugged. “I suppose I baited him. I meant to.”
Jem rubbed a hand over his eyes and pressed at his temples with long fingers. “You baited him in Caro’s house, before an audience? He could hardly ignore the humiliation you caused him.”
“Just as I could hardly ignore his own insults.”
“But a duel. Damn it, Hal.” Jem fixed him with bright blue eyes. “Maybe the situation can yet be smoothed over if you both send apologies. Who is your second?”
Henry had expected this part to be difficult. “Well.” He crossed his left arm over his chest, gathering his thin right arm into his grasp. “Well, I hoped you would do it.”
Jem sat up straight in his chair. “Did you, now? Me, your second to a duel.”
Henry nodded. “I couldn’t ask Bart to do it. He’d never have the stomach for it. Also, he’s leaving London any day for the country. I don’t want to ask him to postpone his journey for—”
“An illegal and quite possibly fatal duel,” Jem interrupted. “No, of course not. No one should regard that with any degree of seriousness. It’s only a duel. Hal.”
This last word was groaned, as Jem rose from his chair again and grabbed a brandy decanter from a sideboard. He splashed brandy into two generously sized snifters and shoved one across the desk to Henry.
“No, thank you,” Henry said. He felt remarkably calm now. The die had been cast, and he had only to do what came next, and next, and next. No more choices until the duel was over. By then, everything else might work out.
Many more impossible dreams than this had come true. For others.
Jem shrugged and drained one snifter, then the other. With a cough, he sat back down and began fussing with the items on his desk. A ledger, an inkwell, a fistful of quills. A quizzing glass. A watercolor miniature of Emily that Henry had painted long ago.
Jem had never wanted to snap the tiny portrait away inside a watchcase as Henry had intended. He said he wanted to look at the miniature always because it would remind him of his wife and his brother, two of the people he loved best in the world.
Henry sighed. “I should have brought you an ice from Gunter’s,” he muttered. He should have done a lot of things. He should have tried harder to make his brother happy, time and again. Happiness was all Jem had ever wanted for him, and this was how Henry repaid him.
No wonder Jem had had to loosen his cravat. It was a wonder his head hadn’t blown apart, like a kettle with no outlet for steam. But it was too late to go back now, and Henry would not change the path he was walking even if it were possible.