Waltzing with the Wallflower(19)

That is where they stood when Ambrose’s deep voice broke through, obliterating their momentary delight.

“I see you didn’t waste any time.”

Cordelia jolted and stepped away from Anthony. Ambrose’s eyes appeared to be on fire. His jaw clenched, and his fists tensed at his sides. He lifted his right hand and extended his finger towards his brother. Through his gritted teeth, Ambrose hissed, “Pistols. Tomorrow.” Then he spun on his heel and stormed into the darkness.





Chapter Nine





And now back to

The Duel…





“Do your worst?” Anthony repeated. Ambrose was drunk enough to realize he wasn’t quite sure on his feet. He leaned heavily on Wilde as he managed to look his brother straight in the eye.

“I believe that’s what I said, is it not Wilde?” He leaned against his friend who acted as his crutch.

“Right,” Wilde agreed, shaking his head towards the floor.

“Ah, yes. It’s settled. Shall we be off then? To the duel?” Ambrose lifted his arm in the air and took a shaky step but tripped over his feet, nearly landing him on the next table. “Apologies. It seems I’ve had too much to drink.”

“You can’t be serious. You cannot do this—look at him!” Wilde gave Ambrose a small shove, causing the lush to stumble again.

Anthony shrugged. “The way I see it, he won’t even feel the bullet as it tears through his drunken body.”

Wilde swore. “Both of you are completely mad, and I refuse to have any part of this! You started the bet, Anthony, so finish it, preferably without killing your other half.”

Ambrose took the opportunity at hand to nod his head in agreement, as it was suddenly throbbing. The profound idea he had the night before of numbing the pain through strong drink now seemed the stupidest notion he had ever entertained. Well, that and refusing to tell Cordelia how he felt.

Unfortunately, Ambrose knew himself to be the type of drunk that blurted out his feelings. He wasn’t, to his dismay, the type of man who became aggressive and fine-tuned in battle when so deep in his cups. No, instead he felt the sudden urge to march down to Cordelia’s townhome and propose marriage whilst singing love songs on her doorstep and quoting Byron.

“I love her,” he blurted, though his words slurred and his tongue felt thick and sluggish. “And because of that love I’ll defend her honor. It will be a cold day in Hell before I allow my brother to marry the one woman I can’t live without!”

“Poetic,” Anthony grumbled.

“He’s foxed,” Wilde argued.

“It was quite a nice speech for being so drunk,” the proprietor chimed in. It was then that Ambrose noticed every man in the room was privy to their conversation.

“Shall we?” He motioned towards the door, partially because he needed their aid in order to escape without falling on his face.

Anthony cursed and helped Wilde carry him out. Ambrose’s legs felt like lead, and by the time they reached the doors to the outside his head felt like it might roll right off his shoulders. Morning sunlight broke through the door as Wilde pushed it open.

Ambrose cursed, wanting nothing more than to shake his fist at the sky and pray for darkness. His headache went from bad to worse as they traveled to his townhome.

Three hours later, he was feeling much more sober thanks to Wilde’s special concoction, which had Ambrose never wanting to see another tomato again.

“I believe he’s ready,” Wilde announced, pouncing into his bedroom and opening the curtains.

“I despise you.” Ambrose threw the blankets over his head.

“I saved your good-for-nothing life!” Wilde yelled.

Anthony strolled in. “So, is the drunk alive?”

“Barely,” Ambrose groaned. His brain slowly came into focus—the drinking all night, the finally wanting his fate to be sealed with his brother ending his life, and his misery of losing Cordelia.

“Cordelia,” he said. “I have to see her.”

“That’s the spirit.” Anthony laughed. “Shall I ring for your valet?”

“Brilliant. But perhaps you can ring outside the door.”

It was exactly four hours, thirty minutes, and twenty-eight seconds later that Ambrose found himself on the front steps of Cordelia’s townhome.

His palms hadn’t sweated this much since his first kiss with the servant girl on his family estates. He was one and four at that time, and his voice squeaked when the kiss ended.

“Bloody, bloody, hel—lo!” he finished, saving himself from cursing in front of the butler, who was now staring him down with an impassive eye.

“Lord Hawthorne to see Lady Cordelia.” He handed over his card and waited. The butler allowed him entry. His mouth went dry as his brain ran over all the possible things that could go horribly wrong.

Suffice it to say, he was not at all confident when Cordelia strolled into the room with a grip on her dress like a vice. He wondered if she envisioned strangling him like she was her dress.

“Cordelia.” It felt good to say her name, but stringing words into complete sentences didn’t seem possible at the moment. He could do nothing but stare, allowing his gaze to fully appreciate the woman in front of him.