Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(28)

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.

Then the handkerchief fluttered to the ground.

Scarborough lunged forward, astoundingly agile for a man his age. Wakefield caught his first thrust and retreated, moving carefully. It was evident at once that he either was a much less practiced swordsman… or he was holding back.

“Scarborough is pressing him,” Artemis said anxiously. “Your brother is only defending.”

Scarborough smirked as he said something so low only his opponent could hear.

Wakefield’s face went completely blank.

“Your Grace,” Wakefield’s valet called in warning.

Wakefield blinked and cautiously stepped backward.

Scarborough’s lips moved again.

And then something unexpected happened. The Duke of Wakefield transformed. He crouched low, his body flowing into an elegant threat as he attacked the older man with a kind of brutal grace. Scarborough’s eyes widened, his own sword parrying blow after blow as he backed hastily. Wakefield’s sword flashed in the sunlight, his movements too fast to interpret, his lean body dangerous, and controlled, and Artemis had the sudden realization that he was toying with Scarborough.

She was standing now, unaware of having left her seat, her heart beating unnaturally fast.

“What’s happening?” Phoebe stood as well, pulling frantically at her arm.

Wakefield lunged without fear, without hesitation, at the older man using a flurry of precise, deadly blows that, had the swords been sharp…

“He’s…” Artemis choked, her mouth hanging open.

She’d seen this before.

Wakefield didn’t move like a dancer. He moved like a great jungle cat. Like a man who knew how to kill.

Like a man who had killed.

Scarborough stumbled, his face shining with sweat. Wakefield was on him in seconds, a tiger pouncing for the kill, his lip curled into almost languid dismissal of the other man as his sword descended toward—

“Your Grace!”

The valet’s shout seemed to loop about Wakefield’s neck and jerk him back like a noose. He froze, his great chest heaving, his snow-white sleeves fluttering in the breeze. Scarborough stared at him, gape-mouthed, his sword still half-raised in defense.

Wakefield deliberately touched his sword to the ground.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked. “What is it?”