Chapter 1 #2
“Gentlemen,” Weatherby said quickly, “shall we begin? The air’s wet enough to drown a man standing.”
The pistols were loaded. Paces counted. The air was still—too still. Both men turned, faced each other. No one spoke. Then—
Two shots. The echo cracked through the fog and scattered a flock of birds from the trees nearby.
Blackmeer staggered slightly, blood trickling from a grazed ear. But Hawthorne crumpled instantly, clutching his chest, red blooming through his waistcoat like spilled ink. He hit the ground with a strangled gasp.
Weatherby dropped beside him. “My lord—my lord!”
Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His face was white, lips tinged blue. “Admit it…” he rasped, eyes locked on Blackmeer’s. “Admit it, damn you…”
Blackmeer stared down at him, chest rising and falling, the pistol heavy in his hand. “There is nothing to admit. I never touched your wife. Never once.”
Hawthorne’s lips trembled. “Damn you, Blackmeer…”
And then he was gone.
Colville kept silent. His expression was hard as he stared at the dead man’s body. Weatherby sat back on his heels, shaking his head. “My deepest apologies, my lord. He would not listen. He was obstinate.”
Blackmeer’s mouth was tight, no longer smiling. “He died for nothing,” he muttered. “He cursed me with his last breath for something I didn’t do.”
Weatherby glanced up. “He swore they saw you. That a servant saw you.”
“They did,” Blackmeer said. Then, with a bitter little smirk, “I was there. But not for that Lady Hawthorn.”
Weatherby blinked. “Then… who?” But understanding was already dawning.
Blackmeer turned, already walking away, his coat catching in the wind. Colville trailed behind him in silence, disapproval etched across his features. Neither looked back as their figures dissolved into the pale light.
* * *
The hooves of Lord Blackmeer’s stallion thudded dully against the damp gravel of the Serpentine path.
It was early—too early for the fashionable crowd—and the morning mist still clung to the grass and water like a mourner’s veil.
The scent of wet leaves and faint manure mingled with last night’s excess, which lingered on his coat despite the open air. The cold did nothing to clear his mind.
He’d dueled before—three times, if he remembered correctly—but never like this. Never over something untrue. The others had at least carried some seed of guilt, a flirtation, a tryst, a girl’s virtue bespoiled, a wager taken too far. But yesterday?
A man had died for nothing. And William could still see the moment clearly—the powder flash, the shot, the bloom of red, the old man’s mouth choking on blood, gasping damn you, Blackmeer before death took him. He shivered, and not from the wind.
The rhythm of a galloping horse broke the silence. From out of the fog rode a figure—dark cloak flying, bonnet tied with care, now askew in her haste. A chestnut mare drew alongside him with practiced ease, and William knew her before she spoke.
Lady Helena Hawthorne. She sat tall in the saddle, cheeks flushed not from exertion but fury, eyes glassy with something far more dangerous than grief.
“Why did you do it?” she snapped, breathless. “Why did you have to kill him? You could have shot him in the leg—or the arm—or anywhere else. But you shot him in the chest!”
William pulled on the reins. His stallion snorted as they slowed.
“Lady Helena …” he said, hoarse. “I—I am…” He faltered. For once, words eluded him.
“You killed my father,” she said, each syllable edged like a blade, “and you implied you compromised me. Now, not even a leper would touch me. I’m ruined. Because of you.” Her voice cracked.
William looked at her then—really looked at her.
Not the girl who had once laughed too loudly at his jests, nor the woman who had pressed her body against his in a dark corridor at Court and dared him to take what she offered.
But the daughter of the man he had killed.
Grieving. Enraged. Tarnished by his name, and broken by his hand.
He straightened in the saddle, mask sliding back into place. “Where is your chaperone, my lady?” he asked coolly. “Alone in Hyde Park—how unseemly.”
Her eyes flared. “Now you care for propriety? Now?”
She closed in, the distance between their horses narrowing, her words level and sharp. “You could have admitted it and been done with it.”
William laughed, bitter and hollow. “Admitted it? I am not in the habit of admitting sins not my own.”
Helena turned back to him sharply, her mare pawing at the packed earth. “If you were decent,” she hissed, “you would offer for my hand.”
Blackmeer looked at her as if she’d gone mad.
“Decent? You speak of decency to me?” He leaned forward in the saddle, eyes hard.
“I feel nothing for you but contempt,” he went on, his tone cutting.
“Your entire little scheme backfired. What was it meant to be, hm? A trap to put a ring through my nose? Or a way to blackmail my father into paying your dowry?”
Helena’s lips parted in shock—but she didn’t deny it.
“I didn’t ruin you. You ruined yourself long before you met me,” he said coldly.
“Your father couldn’t keep his own household in order—a wife carrying a bastard, a daughter sneaking men into her rooms. Had he come for my real crime, I would not have been offended.
But what crime is there in being one of many? ”
Helena’s face was pale now, mouth trembling. “You bastard.”
William’s knuckles whitened on the reins. “For what is worth, I didn’t mean to kill the old fool,” he said suddenly, voice low, shaking. “I was drunk. And too tired to care. I meant to miss. But I didn’t. And now his blood is on my hands.”
He closed his eyes for a beat. The image returned—Hawthorne on the ground, the blood gurgling from his mouth, the pistol suddenly heavier than it should have been.
Helena watched him in silence, breath shuddering. Then, flatly: “You think that confession absolves you?”
“No.” William opened his eyes. “It only damns me further.”
She said nothing, then turned her horse sharply. The mare tossed its head as she rode off into the mist, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner of mourning.
Blackmeer remained still. The cold settled into his bones. The echo of gunfire hadn't yet left his ears.
* * *
The scent of rose oil and bodies spent was already thick in the hallway when William stepped into Miss Nadia’s once more. The same gilded damask wallpaper, the laughter behind closed doors, the telltale creak of beds and the moans of pleasure. It should have felt familiar. Safe, even.
Maggie caught sight of him first. “My lord,” she said brightly, her bare feet padding over the carpet as she ran to greet him. Her silk robe billowed behind her, clinging to the lush shape of her. “You’re back.”
He didn’t return the smile. “Bring two more with you,” he said. “I’ll wait in your room.”
Maggie blinked—just once—then nodded, smile slipping into something softer, more professional. “Of course.”
He made his way up the stairs, the din of laughter fading behind him, and let himself into her room. The place was just as he remembered: gauze drapes over the bed, a low table covered in empty crystal flutes, and perfume lingering in the air like decay masked by powder.
He undressed slowly, methodically, folding his coat and cravat over the chair. A glance in the mirror startled him—his eyes were hollow, his lips pale. He looked older than twenty-six. Worn. Used.
His mind wouldn’t stop. The Earl’s face. Helena’s scream. The blood that bubbled up from the old man’s mouth. The blood that spread over his chest like spilled claret. The way his name had left the dying man’s lips like a curse.
He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, staring at nothing. Then the door opened.
Maggie entered first, radiant in her nearly transparent shift, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea.
Her breasts were full, heavy, perfect, the nipples darkened and already peaked.
Her stomach was flat, hips soft, her skin glowing in the candlelight.
The other two followed behind, both brunettes, younger, with high breasts and doll-like faces.
Beautiful, yes—but none as striking as Maggie.
He had a brief thought—cold and almost amused—that Maggie always chose plainer girls. Not plain, but just enough so no one would ever replace her as his favorite.
They climbed onto the bed with feline grace, the mattress shifting under their weight. Soft lips found his neck, his chest. Maggie’s tongue traced the line of his jaw while the younger girls moved down his torso like worshipers before an altar.
One of them took him into her mouth. She choked a little, trying to fit as much of him as possible, while the other played gently with his heavy sack. He closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in pleasure. He lay still, but something felt off.
“Kiss each other,” he murmured after a while, tonelessly.
The girls obeyed instantly. Their lips met, tongues sliding together, the sight calculated to arouse—but it did nothing. His body reacted—his cock full and hard—but his mind was miles away. His heart wasn’t in it.
“Maggie,” he said hoarsely. “Come here.”
She straddled him, letting her breasts sway near his mouth. He suckled on her like a starving man, but tasted only ash. One of the others climbed atop him and began to ride him, slowly at first, then faster, her breath catching prettily in her throat.
Still nothing.
He was inside her—tight, warm, wet—but all he could see was Helena’s face. Her fury. Her shame. Her words: You’ve ruined me. The Earl on the ground, gasping. Blood bubbling from his mouth. Admit it.
A growl escaped him—deep, broken, feral.
With a roar, he slapped Maggie’s ass to get her off him, then flipped the girl riding him onto her stomach.
She yelped in surprise but laughed, ready for his roughness.
Her hands braced against the headboard as he slammed into her.
He took her hard, pounding her slick heat like violence could wash him clean.
Then the other. Then Maggie. One after the other. Faster. Deeper. Brutal.
Still, it wasn’t enough. He climaxed in Maggie with a grunt, but the pleasure was dull. There was no release. Only emptiness.
She cradled his head against her breast afterward, fingers threading through his damp hair. He lay there, drained, as if he were the one that had been bled dry.
* * *
The smell of coffee, pipe smoke, and polished leather filled the warm hush of White’s, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in London. Papers rustled, boots tapped against the marble floor, and a servant carried a silver tray of untouched toast past Lord Blackmeer.
He sat in the corner, unshaven, gaze vacant, dressed well but rumpled—like someone wearing the clothes of a man he no longer was.
Across the room, Andrew Colville was holding court. You’d think he already had Napoleon on the run, from the way he stood—spine straight, voice carrying with pride as he addressed a pair of eager young bucks gathered around.
“They say Wellesley’s headed to Spain next.
” Andrew’s chin lifted as he spoke. “And if the French have forgotten Blenheim, I’ll bloody well remind them.
Let them choke on their vin and vanity. We’ll give them a proper British thrashing—see how they like the taste of cold steel with their soft cheese and even softer spines. ”
Laughter rippled around the table. Andrew grinned and took a sip of coffee, calm and self-assured. He was the younger son of an earl, with no title to inherit, but the sort of man who believed in things. Who saw battle as a calling, not a burden.
William watched, silent. The words washed over him, drawing a bitter smile. Fighting for something: the King, the Empire, an idea. Or maybe just for the hell of it—but at least it was something.
He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. The taste was bitter on his tongue.
He was tired of the scheming. The politics.
The black shroud clinging to his name. Even the endless stream of painted whores.
He didn’t begrudge the women—they had their uses, and he had no doubt there’d be whores in Spain too.
But the careless joy was gone. And so was the man who had once laughed while another bled out on the grass.
William stood and crossed the room, slow and steady. “I want to buy a commission,” he said.
Andrew stared. “You what?”
“You heard me. I’ll go with you. Spain, France—wherever sir Arthur Wellesley is cracking skulls.”
A pause. Then a grin broke across Andrew’s face. “Well,” he said, “this’ll be interesting.”