Chapter Twenty-Five
Felicity sensed she was alone before she woke. She lurched from the bed, Tristan and his clothing gone.
“The nerve of him!”
Frantic tapping came from her door and Felicity hurried to open it.
“They’re attempting to go without us. Get dressed,” Lady Amelia said.
Matilda followed her in and without even thinking about her modesty Felicity was dressed and hair plaited and pinned in a matter of minutes.
When they left her room and hastily tread the stairs to the foyer, Blakewood stood there waiting with his arms folded.
“Darling, I love that you think you can stop me,” Lady Amelia said sweetly.
“Sam went as his second.”
“What?” Lady Amelia cried. “That fool. Out of the way!”
Blakewood sighed. “I’ve already got the curricle. Sam sent the carriage to drive aimlessly around the city.”
“I’m going to bludgeon him the first chance I get!”
Blakewood lifted Lady Amelia up into the curricle. Felicity balked at the height and the sheer . . . daintiness of the contraption. She’d never seen such a reckless conveyance. It was lacquered in bright yellow and being pulled by two matching gray thoroughbreds.
“How . . .?”
“It’s recommended you hold on for dear life,” Blakewood said. He took her by the waist and lifted her to the seat. Felicity gripped the edge of the seat with all her strength, as if the whole contraption might tip if she moved.
Lady Amelia’s husband strode toward the rear where a horse was being held.
“Wait, who’s driving this conveyance?” Felicity asked in alarm.
Lady Amelia grinned. “Me, of course.”
“Fear not, Miss Brandon, my wife happens to be an excellent driver. Better than myself.”
“The key is absolute confidence,” Lady Amelia said. “Hold on.”
She snapped the reins, and the rig jolted forward. Felicity slid back into the seat and had to let go with one hand to hold her bonnet on her head.
Lady Amelia drove at breakneck speed through narrow streets and crowded markets with an ease that amazed Felicity. Behind them, Mr. Blakewood kept pace on his horse.
Felicity remembered this ride taking a significant amount of time when she and Tristan had taken the carriage out to Richmond Park. How long ago that now seemed.
“Will we make it in time?” she asked.
“Yes. They hadn’t left more than fifteen minutes before I woke you. We should be able to catch up to them.”
“What are they taking?”
“They rode on horseback.”
“What if Tristan gets hurt? How will he be transported back?”
“Why do you think he’ll be hurt?”
“Because guns and pointing and shooting usually results in bodily injury, does it not?”
“You’re not confident he can shoot?” Lady Amelia asked, never taking her eyes from the road.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him do it. But I know Chadwick Revere can. He hunted frequently with my father. He won the ribbon in our village fair.”
“The village with all the old people with poor vision that you’ve talked about?”
“Well . . . yes. That one.”
“Do you suppose Tristan might also have extensive hunting prowess since he lives in the Highlands?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was also in the military,” Lady Amelia added.
“Yes,” Felicity was only marginally comforted by that fact.
“Perhaps you’re not giving him enough credit.”
“I’m scared. I don’t want to be this close to happiness and have it ripped away.”
Lady Amelia spared her a glance. “I know, dear. Being in love will do that to you. That feeling never goes away. You’d think it would.
” She paused to squeeze by a carriage as they left the main city, and the roads grew less crowded.
“Once you get married you think the urgency will fade, but it doesn’t.
When you love someone that fiercely, forever isn’t long enough. ”
Felicity agreed. She didn’t want to imagine a world without Tristan in it. Even when she was furious with him, like last night, she still wanted him next to her, skin to skin, where she could feel him breathe.
Her mouth dried more the closer they got to Richmond.
“Why have we not caught up to them yet?” she asked.
“Look up there.”
Two men on horseback followed a hired hack at a much slower pace.
Lady Amelia pulled on the reins, slowing the curricle.
“Why are we slowing down?”
“I don’t want them to know we’re following,” Lady Amelia said. “They might not duel otherwise.”
“Perfect. Let’s put an end to this madness.”
Lady Amelia spared her another glance. “I know you are not enamored of the idea of dueling and defending one’s honor, but this has to happen.”
“How can you agree with something like this?”
“Because this journey began with violence, and things always come full circle. Life is cyclical.”
“You can’t mean they’ll hurt each other?”
“No. It’s symbolic. The threat is very real, but the men choose to be civilized about it. Duels aren’t legal, that is why we must be careful, and the men won’t aim to do any real harm. Murder is still murder in a duel.”
Felicity closed her eyes as her fear mixed with nausea from the bouncing curricle. She straightened and focused on Tristan’s back. He wore a heavy, triple-caped cloak but was easily discernible from Lord Alston’s taller stature.
They drew closer to the park, the trees covering the path with shade as they veered off the main road and into a more secluded area. Up ahead, through the trees, Felicity could see a small tent.
“What do you suppose that is?”
“A viewing tent would be my guess,” Lady Amelia said. They came upon a crowded affair with tied horses and gigs, phaetons and carriages. Spectators filled a section of chairs, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon was sitting under the canopy, sipping her tea in her customary all black.
Lady Amelia parked the curricle away from the grouping of horses, where her brother and Tristan couldn’t see them.
Mr. Blakewood helped them descend, and they cautiously approached the makeshift arena.
The whole situation made Felicity sick, but this?
The levity? It brought her disgust to a whole new level.
She’d been told repeatedly how unlikely it was that either man was to be hurt, but something in her gut felt wrong.
“Keep your head down,” Lady Amelia warned. “We don’t want to be recognized yet.”
But as the only women present besides Mrs. Dove-Lyon, they stood out. Felicity tilted her head down and watched as Tristan removed his cloak and greeted Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He seemed resigned, at least. Points in his favor for not enjoying this farce.
“What do I do to stop this?” Felicity asked.
“I didn’t bring you here to help stop it,” Lady Amelia said. “We’re here for moral support. If you were at home, you’d be climbing the walls with panic, and I would be doing the same if I were in your place.”
“Mr. Blakewood would never participate in this,” Felicity stated.
He gave her a glance that said otherwise.
“Am I the only one who sees how ridiculous this whole matter is?”
Lady Amelia moved close to her. “After all he did to you—the pain, the loss of your dignity and family—what if it could all be wiped away like this?”
“What?” Felicity said in confusion.
“You’d take a pistol, march twenty paces, turn, and fire into the air, and,”—she snapped her fingers—“all of it undone. Your reputation restored.”
“Somehow I don’t think it would work quite like that for a woman in my position.”
“No. The marriage will fix that. But think how good it will feel, to confront him as his opponent, not his victim.”
A chill washed through her. Felicity looked away from Lady Amelia, her heart stopping as she saw her father speaking with Lord Alston. The earth could have fallen away from her feet, leaving her levitating in pure shock.
She was moving before she realized what she was doing, taking off her glove, weaving through the crowd of intrigued gentlemen who only noticed her once she passed. Tristan sensed her approach, turning toward her with surprise and then anger, but she had her sights set on one man only.
Chadwick turned, noticing the others’ distraction. His eyes widened for a second as she approached then he smirked.
“Came to—”
Slap!
The sound of her leather glove, dainty and soft, striking his cheek like a whip echoed through the air.
He stumbled back, cupping his cheek. Their audience hooted with glee.
He checked his hand as if his cheek might be bleeding.
She wished it were, but it was only red. She threw her glove on the ground.
“I challenge you to a duel, you spineless, disgusting, rotted swine carcass.”
“Daughter, you will heed my—” Her father cut off as she stabbed her finger at him.
“I am not your daughter. You lost that privilege when you failed to protect me from him.” She swung back to Chadwick, and he stepped back, like she might curse him with that same finger.
“Ah, what a delightful turn of events,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I love it when a woman discovers the predator beneath her skin.”
Tristan stepped to her side. “Flick, I didn’t want you to see this happen.”
Felicity ignored him and tugged at the ribbon of her cloak.
“Flick . . .” He touched her shoulder, but she still didn’t acknowledge him. She was awash with anger and fear, but for this moment her rage blazed hot as she faced down Chadwick.
“Seconds?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Lady Amelia rushed forward, but Tristan put up his hand. “I’m her second.”
Only then did she look at him, stunned that he would support her. If she hadn’t loved him before, she did now. He held her gaze, and the love in his eyes steeled her spine.
“I’m not dueling a har—woman,” Chadwick spat, gaze shifting between her and Tristan. “Who is this fool to you, anyway? You belong to me.”
“No,” Felicity shot back. “I refused you. I’m in love with this man and we’re going to marry. There is nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Mr. Brandon, she can’t do that!” he whined.