27. The Dreaded Duel #3
The truth was she couldn’t bear the thought of hands touching her tonight—even Mary’s familiar, knowing hands. Her skin felt too sensitive, her nerves too raw. Tomorrow’s duel loomed in her mind with such weight that even the simple act of breathing required conscious effort.
Finally, when the water had gone from lukewarm to actively uncomfortable, Gina forced herself to stand, taking a towel and drying herself quickly.
The binding lay on her dressing table where she’d left it, long strips of fabric that would transform her body into something else come morning.
She looked at it with something close to hatred.
Ten years of wearing it, of the constant pressure against her ribs, of the shallow breathing it forced.
Ten years of armor that protected her from discovery but imprisoned her in ways she was only now beginning to fully understand.
Kate had seen her without it. Had touched skin that binding usually covered. Had kissed and tasted and worshipped what Gina had spent a decade hiding.
The memory sent heat through her despite the coolness the bath had provided.
She turned her gaze away from the binding, reaching for her nightgown instead—soft linen that fell to her ankles, the only garment she owned that was truly hers.
That belonged to Gina rather than Jason, which she only used on her lonely nights.
She’d just finished fastening it when the knock came.
Three soft taps.
Gina stood still for a moment, her hands holding the ties of her nightgown.
Kate, of course. Who else would come to her chamber at this hour?
“Gina?” called out Kate in a hesitant whisper. “Are you awake?”
Every instinct screamed at Gina to open the door. To let Kate in, to pull her close, to spend this last night—because what if it was the last night?—wrapped in her arms rather than facing it alone.
But that was exactly why she couldn’t open the door.
“I’m here,” Gina said, moving closer to the door but keeping her hand away from the lock. “But Kate, you shouldn’t—I can’t—”
“I know.” Kate’s voice was thick with emotions. “I know what you’re going to say. That we need to keep distance tonight. That you need to focus on tomorrow. That this isn’t the time.”
“It’s not,” Gina confirmed, though the words cost her. “If I let you in—if I see you—I won’t be able to let you leave. And I need my mind clear tomorrow. Need every advantage I can get.”
Silence from the other side of the door. Gina pressed her palm flat against the wood, imagining she could feel Kate’s warmth through it.
“I’m too afraid,” Kate whispered finally. “So afraid I can barely think. What if something goes wrong? What if Ramsay—”
“He won’t.” Gina tried to make her voice confident, certain. “I’ve practiced. I’m ready. Trust me. Mary has a plan if—if the worst happens.”
“The worst.” Kate’s voice broke on the words. “You mean if you’re badly wounded. If a doctor has to examine you and—”
“They won’t discover anything,” Gina interrupted, pressing her forehead against the door. “Because I’m not going to let Ramsay hit me anywhere that matters. I’m going to shoot first, shoot true, and walk away with nothing worse than wounded pride on his part.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“No.” Gina closed her eyes. “But I can promise to do everything in my power to make it true. That’s all anyone can promise, Kate. I’m not going into this carelessly. I understand what’s at stake.”
More silence came from the other side of the door.
Then, Gina heard Kate’s voice again. “Everything is at stake. Your life. Your identity. Our future. Everything we’ve barely begun.”
The words landed like blows. Gina felt them physically, each one emphasizing the weight of tomorrow’s duel.
She wanted to open the door, wanted to pull Kate inside and show her—with touch, with kisses, with the connection of their bodies—that they would survive this. That they would have their after.
But that was the danger. Once she touched Kate, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Wouldn’t be able to maintain the control and focus she needed. Would lose herself in sensation and emotion when she needed to be cold, calculating, prepared.
“Promise me something,” Kate said, her voice steadier now.
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll fight to win. Not just to survive, but to win completely. To walk away unharmed, untouched, ready to—” She paused for air. “Ready to keep all the promises you’ve made me.”
Gina felt a lump in her throat, and without further ado, she opened the door, but not all at once, just a small crack so that Kate could see her face, so that she could look her in the eyes when she made her promise once more.
Kate was on the other side, her face already drenched in tears. When she looked up and their eyes met through that narrow opening, all their feelings were reflected in that gaze.
“I promise,” Gina said solemnly. “I’ll fight to win. I’ll come back to you whole. And then we’ll have our after—everything I promised you, everything I want to give you.”
They stared at each other in silence, the slim gap between them feeling like an ocean.
“I love you,” Kate whispered, her voice cracking. “I love you so much.”
The words shattered something in Gina’s chest. Her fingers tightened around the door handle.
Her entire body demanded her to fling the door wide, to pull Kate into her arms and hold her until neither of them could breathe.
She wanted to touch her face, kiss away those tears, promise her everything would be alright.
But she couldn’t. Not tonight.
“I love you too,” Gina said, her voice rough and breaking. “That’s why I can’t open this door any wider. Because I love you too much to risk being anything less than perfect tomorrow.”
Kate’s hand came up, pressing flat against the door on her side, fingers splayed. Gina mirrored the gesture on her own side, their palms separated only by the wood between them.
“After, then,” Kate whispered.
“After,” Gina confirmed, her voice thick with emotion. “I promise you after.”
* * *
Dr. Hammond’s voice rang out again: “Turn!”
The two figures pivoted in perfect unison.
Kate saw the scene before her through a different kind of fog now—one made not of morning mist but of fear and apprehension so thick it distorted everything.
She could make out shapes, movements. She heard the command to turn as a sound coming from another place, distant and unreal.
But her mind couldn’t process the details, couldn’t focus on anything except the terrible knowledge that in seconds, one or both of those men would fire.
“Fire at will!”
Kate saw what happened next as a flash of motion—arms rising, pistols leveling, everything moving too fast and too slow at once. She felt her own heart fire out of her chest like another bullet, painful and unstoppable.
* * *
Two shots cracked across Hampstead Heath in near-perfect synchronization, so close together they almost sounded as one continuous explosion. The sound echoed off the surrounding trees, startling birds into flight, sending the lingering mist swirling in violent eddies.
Two men’s voices cried out, grunts of pain and shock that carried across the suddenly silent field.
Then everything happened at once.
Kate’s face went white as death itself. Her mouth fell open in a soundless scream, no air left in her lungs to give it voice.
One hand pressed against her chest where her heart was beating wildly in terrible anticipation.
Her eyes were huge, unseeing, fixed on the field but unable to process what they were witnessing.
The battlefield revealed itself in fragments, like a painting coming into focus piece by piece.
Jason stood upright, his pistol lowered but still in hand.
His left hand had moved to his right shoulder, pressing there with visible pressure.
Blood—dark and stark against the black coat—was beginning to seep between his fingers.
His face was turned to the right, angled down to look at his wounded shoulder, his expression showing pain but not panic.
Not the overwhelming agony that would indicate serious damage.
Twenty paces away, Ramsay wasn’t standing at all.
He lay crumpled on the wet grass, his body twisted, his right hand clutching at his chest just below the shoulder.
Blood spread across his waistcoat with alarming speed, so much blood that it soaked through fabric and dripped onto the grass beneath him.
His face was contorted with pain, mouth open as he gasped for breath, eyes wide with shock and rage and fear.
His second was already running toward him, calling for Dr. Hammond. The doctor moved quickly across the field, his medical bag in hand, dropping to his knees beside Ramsay to assess the wound.
“Badly hit,” Dr. Hammond announced, his hands moving fast and efficiently.
“Bullet’s lodged beneath the shoulder, likely fractured the clavicle.
And possibly damaged the subclavian—” He pressed a cloth against the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding.
“He’ll live, but the bullet needs removing. I’ll need to operate. Now.”
Ramsay’s second helped support him while the doctor worked. Ramsay himself was still conscious but clearly in shock, his breathing ragged, his face going from red to pale to gray in rapid succession.
At the opposite end of the field, Perry had reached Mr. Moore. His hands moved to examine the shoulder wound, carefully parting the coat and tearing the fabric of the shirt to assess the damage hidden beneath the garment.
“How bad?” Mr. Moore’s voice was steady despite the pain visible in his expression.
Perry’s hands worked quickly, checking the wound’s depth and location.
“Graze,” he said after a moment, relief evident in his tone. “Deep graze, but it didn’t penetrate. Missed the bone, missed everything vital. You’ll need it cleaned and bound, but—” He met Mr. Moore’s eyes. “Nothing that requires more than basic treatment.”
Relief flooded Mr. Moore’s face. No doctor would need to examine him closely. No one would need to see what lay beneath his clothing. The secret remained safe.
“Mary can handle this,” he said, and then he smiled.
He thought about Kate. He was coming back to her. Just as he’d promised.
Wounded but whole. Victorious. Alive.
The duel was over. Honor was satisfied. And they had survived.