The words hung in the air. Michael watched as Wykeham’s face jerked through a half dozen expressions, from astonishment to disbelief. The duke gestured at Michael with his pistol. “He ruined you!”
“At my request.”
“Bloody hell,” muttered Pym.
Wykeham lowered the pistol to his side, his face turning sallow. “Your request.”
“Yes.”
“To get rid of me.”
“Despite your belief, the world does not circle around you, Your Grace. Not even theton.Your title is a construct of the aristocracy, not a designation of your merit.”
Wykeham’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “Dear God, woman, we would have had the grandest conversations ever possible.”
“But conversations do not a marriage make.”
“You would be wealthy. Secure.”
“Miserable. And lonely. Do you not think I heard the plans you stated earlier?”
Pink tinged Wykeham’s cheeks and he straightened. He looked at Michael. “Ashton.”
Michael understood. He pointed his pistol at the sky and pulled the trigger. The shot resounded across the meadow, somewhat muffled by the fog, and dissipated quickly. He had listened to the exchange, growing ever more hollow and numb.
She had admitted it.At my request.All her doing. Her manipulation.
Her betrayal.
With a bare glance at his opponent, Wykeham turned his gun to the sky and fired. As the sound died away, Robert stepped forward and pulled both pistols from their hands, announcing. “Honor is satisfied. This duel is concluded in a satisfactory manner to all parties.” He handed Wykeham’s pistol to Pym and returned the Ashton one to its box, which he handed to Philip.
Wykeham pursed his lips and nodded. “I will contact your father this afternoon. The suit is ended.” He headed back to his horse, his limp suddenly more pronounced than ever, and Michael realized the entire event must have cost Wykeham dearly, in far more than honor. The man might be despicable, but he was not inhuman.
The three men mounted and turned their horses back across the meadow.
Michael watched them, then looked at Clara, but his inability to feel anything had consumed him. “I thought you were different, but you are not. You got what you wanted.”
Her eyes widened. “What?” She handed the gun to Radcliff and moved toward him.
He held up his hands. “Just stop.”
She did, her eyes beginning to glisten. “Michael—”
“No. You are just like the rest of them. Games. Manipulations.” He stepped backwards, toward Copper, his voice rising. “Anything in pursuit of your own goals. No matter who you use. Or destroy.”
Her mouth gaped. “Michael! I love—”
“No! You do not!” He swung nimbly upon Copper’s back, gathering the reins. “You love no one. It was all a game to get rid of him. You used me to get rid of him. A bloody pawn. I never want to see you again.”
Michael jerked the bay’s head around, rage and pain finally searing through the frozen wasteland of his emotions. Copper jerked wildly, then responded, bursting into a gallop as they headed across the meadow. Near the far edge, he turned Copper, urging him toward a hedge, knowing what lay behind it—an open field recently added to the park by the king.
The big bay soared, clearing the hedge easily, his strength solid and pulsing under Michael. He bent over the horse’s neck and gave Copper his head, the mane flaring in the wind, stinging Michael’s face. The run pushed another sensation from deep within, an exhilaration long buried.
Michael screamed, a bellow that made his chest ache, a sound of rage and pain exploding from within. They reached the edge of the field and bounded over another hedge. A quarter mile later, they hit the streets of London, mostly empty at this time of day, except for a few workers and delivery men, lamplighters snuffing out gas wicks. They barreled through the thoroughfares, Copper’s hooves pounding a thunderous rhythm, until exhaustion claimed them both.
Slowing the bay to a walk, Michael headed back to Berkeley Square, the numbness settling again, unsure of what he would do next. The past few months, he had realized part of his descent following Eleanor’s betrayal had come because he could not forgive her, could not forget what she had done. But these past few weeks had given him hope that his world could be better, brighter.
Clara’s betrayal had destroyed part of that hope, turning it to vapor, like the fog of the morning. But Michael refused to go back. He might not be able to forgive her, but he would forget her. Her and all her kind.
