Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(83)

“On whose count?” Sax demanded.

Before Sin could respond, Sax said, “Wait. It’s Miss Love.”

Portia was running toward them. Her hair was falling out of its pins. Her face was almost ghostly white, and she looked likely as scared as he had been on that morning at Chalk Farm when he was sixteen and knew he was damned—whether he won the duel or not.

Guilt hit him with crippling force, but he shook it off.

Sax turned to Portia. “Miss Love, will you do the honors? Tell us to start walking. Tell us when to fire.”

“This is madness!” she cried. “People are being murdered, and the two of you are being preposterous. Sinclair, please.”

“He’s a madman, Portia,” he barked at her. “Keep out of this.”

“I think you are going mad,” she shouted back.

No doubt that was what she thought. But he had to go through with this.

“I’ll count,” Sax shouted. “Since you’re going to cheat anyway, aren’t you, Sin? You are as mad as a hatter. You think I’m a killer, without any evidence. Without reason. And I fear you plan to shoot first.”

“You can do the count.” Sin didn’t answer the damning accusations.

He began to stride away, counting off twenty paces. His boot soles thudded on the flagstones. He heard Sax’s steps.

Ten . . .

Eleven . . .

He continued to pace. His heartbeat sped up.

Nineteen . . .

* * *

What should she do? Run in between them and try to stop this madness? Run to Sinclair and stop him? But that left him at the risk of being shot.

Portia stood on the cold, stone terrace, frozen to her very soul, while Sinclair and Saxonby marched away from each other across the grass. She heard their voices count off the paces, muffled by fog.

She knew how to end battles between children—she did that in the foundling home. She had even divested angry boys of weapons. But those weapons were rulers used as swords or spoon-catapults fashioned to throw porridge. Nothing like a pistol.

She’d held one—an empty one. But she’d never fired a real one. Though she had an idea how much damage one could do.

“Sinclair, this is not the answer!” she shouted. “Come back here at once, both of you! This behavior will not be tolerated.”

Children had the sense to listen. Men did not.

“Nineteen,” Saxonby called out.

She had to do something. Throw something? Scream and get their attention? Yet she was terrified. What if she tried something and only Sin looked at her, and he got killed?

She had the bravery to rescue children. Now she was standing, frozen.

“Twenty!”

Before her eyes, in glimpses through the mist, she saw Sinclair stop. Saw him turn with his pistol raised. Saw the grim, ruthless look on his face. The wildness of his eyes—her heart shattered.

“No!” she shouted.

“One,” Saxonby yelled, drowning her out.

Before he could call out the number two, Sinclair roared, “You damned murderer.” And he fired.

* * *

His shot went wide. Though the veil of mist, Sin saw Sax flinch as if the shot had come close. He knew it hadn’t.

“You damn, mad bastard,” Saxonby shouted.

Sin heard the roar of the explosion that propelled the round metal shot at him. He jolted back, knowing this was what happened when a man took a pistol ball. He’d taken two in his shoulder in past duels after all. He staggered.

He was falling and he couldn’t stop himself. His back hit the ground hard, he lost all his breath. Gasping to fill his lungs again, Sin put his hand to his heart. Red. His shirt, his waistcoat soaked through, and when he lifted his palm it was slick and red.

Portia. She must be going through hell.

He wanted to talk to her. Kiss her. Say something. But he moved his mouth and dribbled red fluid.

He closed his eyes. Getting shot in the heart didn’t come without a certain amount of pain.

A hand touched him. A soft hand.

He couldn’t open his eyes. His heart felt like ice. It hurt like hell. He was going to lose her. And he couldn’t say anything to her.

He went completely still.

* * *

“What have you done?”

Portia fell to her knees in the grass—squishy and cold from the rain. She leaned over Sinclair. His eyes were closed. His shirt and waistcoat were soaked through red. Was he breathing? With fumbling fingers, she tried to get her hand in under his collar, which was cinched by his wretched cravat.

She could barely see him. She was looking at him through tears, a watery wall of them.

Blood dribbled from his mouth, but she wouldn’t think of what that must mean. “Sinclair! Wake up!”

Come back to me. She couldn’t say that. He had to be still here. He had to be.