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“Well…” Phoebe tilted her head, considering, as Artemis watched Scarborough somehow persuade the gentleman sitting on the other side of Penelope to vacate his seat. The duke promptly sat down himself. “In the normal way of things I wouldn’t think his chances very good at all. Maximus is young and handsome, rich and powerful. And I’ve always thought he had a certain compelling air about him, don’t you?”
Oh, yes.
“But,” Phoebe continued, “the Duke of Scarborough seems quite taken with Lady Penelope, and really I think that might make all the difference.”
Artemis frowned. “What do you mean?”
Phoebe’s plump lips folded inward, her large brown eyes looking sad. “Well, Scarborough cares, doesn’t he? Maximus doesn’t—not really. No doubt he’s a bit compelled by the chase, but if he doesn’t win”—she shrugged her shoulders—“he’ll simply find another suitable heiress. She—Lady Penelope herself—doesn’t really matter to him. And if it comes right down to it, wouldn’t you chose passion—however old—over dispassion?”
“Yes.” Her agreement wasn’t even considered. What woman wouldn’t want interest—real interest—in her and her alone, no matter the physical attributes of the suitor? If Penelope ever stopped to consider the matter, the Duke of Scarborough would instantly win. Poor Wakefield didn’t stand a chance.
Except… he wasn’t poor, was he? He was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and a man personally to be wary of, if not downright feared.
She watched him, his broad shoulders fitted in fine dark green silk, his profile turned as he examined the woman he was courting as she flirted with another man. He might as well be observing a pair of beetles in a primitive mating dance. One would never know by looking at him that he wanted Penelope for himself.
What would it be like to garner this man’s passion?
Artemis felt a visceral thrill go through her at the thought. Had Wakefield ever been engaged? Was he even capable of deep interest? He was so contained, so cold, save for that one moment this morning when he’d come alive over the gin trade, of all things. It seemed almost laughable to think of him bound by obsession with a female.
Yet she could imagine him so—intent, focused on his goal, his woman. He’d guard his chosen mate, make her both fear and long for his attention. She shivered. He would be relentless in his pursuit, unmerciful in his victory.
And she would never see him so.
She sighed, determinedly staring at her hands clenched in her lap. She longed for a man like the duke—the ache of want was a physical thing—but she would never have him, let alone a man more attainable. Her fate was to be alone.
Cursed to celibacy.
The voice of the Duke of Scarborough rose. Artemis glanced up. The latest duelists had finished, and Scarborough was saying something to Wakefield. Scarborough’s face was jovial, but his eyes were hard.
“What’s happening?” Phoebe asked.
“I don’t know,” Artemis replied. “I think Scarborough is asking something of your brother. Oh. Oh, my. He’s challenged Wakefield.”
“Has he?” Phoebe looked interested.
Artemis’s brows rose. “Is your brother a good swordsman?”
“I don’t know.” Phoebe shrugged. “He’s never been much interested in fashionable pursuits—he prefers politics—but it hardly matters, does it? Scarborough must be thirty years his senior.”
Penelope threw back her head in a sharp laugh that they could hear easily even three rows back. Artemis couldn’t help but lean forward. Wakefield was so rigid. So proud.
Scarborough said something else and Wakefield abruptly stood.
“He’s accepting.”
“Oh, dear,” Phoebe said with much satisfaction.
“He can’t win,” Artemis muttered in distress. “If he beats Scarborough, he looks a bully, if he loses—”
“He’ll be humiliated,” Phoebe said serenely.
Artemis felt a sudden sharp irritation with her good friend. The younger woman should be at least a little upset at the prospect of her brother’s downfall.
Wakefield’s valet, a tall, thin man, was helping the duke remove his coat. The servant appeared to murmur something in Wakefield’s ear before the duke shook his head abruptly and walked away. His waistcoat was black, overworked in gold thread that sparkled in the sunshine, the full sleeves of his snowy white shirt rippling slightly in the breeze. Scarborough already had a sword and was swishing it about importantly. The older man seemed to handle the weapon expertly and Artemis’s heart clenched.
Better to be thought a bully than for such a proud man to be defeated.
The duelists stood facing each other, their swords raised. Lord Noakes stood between them and held aloft a handkerchief. For a moment all was still, as if everyone had realized that there was much more to this duel than a simple demonstration of skill.
