A Duke of Her Own(113)

The Duke of Villiers? You have no family, other than your clutch of bastards. Everyone will be glad to see you take them away from decent society."

"Are you ready to fight?" Villiers said, a wave of ice filling his veins. Astley was right. Well, almost. Elijah and Jemma would care if he had to leave England permanently. But no one else would.

It would probably be better for Eleanor, actually. She wouldn't even have to see him. He hadn't been able to sleep, slowly taking himself though an understanding of his catastrophic idiocy. He had spurned Eleanor because he thought Lisette would be a better mother for his children. But Lisette, he now understood, looked upon children as if they were playmates—or worse, playthings.

All the time, Eleanor was just the mother they needed: a woman who looked problems straight on, who didn't ever lie or pretend. Tobias had known that. Hell, even Oyster knew how perfect she was.

So why was he such an idiot? Why was he the only one who didn't know what motherhood looked like?

But even that was just a digression: the real question was why he was the only one who didn't know what love looked like. Who didn't realize that his heart, that stubborn organ that he'd always ignored, would be seared with agony by the idea of never seeing Eleanor again?

Why couldn't he have known that was—that was love. Real love. The kind of love that never goes away.

"En garde!" Astley cried.

Leopold raised his rapier, still thinking.

"I fully plan to kill you," Astley said pleasantly. "Perhaps you should pay attention."

Leopold met Astley's eyes and saw his determination. "In which event, you'll be the one to leave the country."

"No one cares what I do," Astley said. "My mother's dead. My father's dead. Eleanor doesn't love me anymore. I don't want to sound like a sniveling schoolboy, but I no longer have the faintest interest in seeing tomorrow. And if I happen to be around for it, it won't matter whether I'm in England or India."

"Hell," Leopold muttered. The man was mad with grief. He'd seen that look once before, on his aunt's face—at the funeral for his five-year-old nephew.

He assumed his stance.

Obviously, Astley wasn't practiced. And he didn't even fight that well. In less fraught circumstances, Leopold could have chosen a spot to insert his blade and injured the duke within a minute. But passion, it seemed, changed everything.

He found himself fighting defensively, parrying Astley's inexperienced lunges. It was surprisingly difficult, perhaps because Astley didn't respond like a trained fencer. He simply slashed away as if Leopold were a hedge he had decided to prune.

Within ten minutes they were both sweating in the still-cool air. But Leopold couldn't keep his mind on the duel, no matter how he tried. He just kept thinking what a fool he was. He didn't seem to be able to trust his instincts.

His heart.

He took a step back. Astley bounded toward him, sword raised like some sort of avenging angel.

Leopold threw down his rapier.

Astley tried to stop, but slid on the wet grass and ended up on his back, sword in the air. Leopold offered him a hand. Astley ignored it and came to his feet, breathing hard. "What in the holy hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"I refuse to fight," Leopold said, certain of the absolute Tightness of that decision. "Do I have to slap you again?"

"You can try. But I will not fight you. A duel is for protecting one's honor," he said painstakingly.

"You don't think you need to protect your honor, after what you did?"

"I don't think I have any." He picked up his sword and untucked his shirt from his breeches in order to wipe the dew from the blade.

There was an odd little silence in the meadow, broken only by the song of a lark over the river.

"You can kill me if you want," Leopold added.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Astley sat down on a large rock at the side of the stream, then observed, "My arms ache."

"You should get a fencing master," Leopold said. "You're not bad." "Why? In case I find some honor of my own somewhere?"

Their eyes held the same rueful acknowledgment. They were the two luckiest, and two most brainless, men in the kingdom.

"She loves you. You can get her back," Astley offered.

Leopold shook his head. "She'll never believe that I love her now. She thinks that she's nothing more than a second-best mother, that I never wanted to marry her until I saw how much Tobias cared for her."

"Even worse, she likely thinks that you want her now only because Lisette proved herself stark raving mad."



"I don't know what to do."

Astley stood up with a little groan. "My back!"

"Find an instructor," Leopold said, looking up. "Not for defending your honor, but because it's fine exercise."