Ranelaw would never follow her to Northumberland.
Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Ranelaw won’t follow you anywhere. Nor do you want him to. He’s a liar. He deserves nothing but scorn and hatred.
“If there’s a scandal, we’ll weather it.” Henry drank his brandy as though gossip worried him not one whit. “I’ve finally found my sister. I’m not giving her up just to silence a few wagging tongues.”
It wasn’t going to be easy, whatever Henry’s confident predictions. Her past mistakes might still poison her future. “Johnny could talk.”
“I doubt he will,” Demarest said, sipping his brandy. “He might be a fool but even he must realize his actions do him no credit.”
“Let him talk,” Henry said steadily. “That cad Benton isn’t going to dictate my future.”
Antonia realized Henry had indeed changed. He’d grown immeasurably stronger. Although he was her senior, she’d been the one to defy their parents, to insist on her own way. He’d always been lost in scholarly pursuits, unworldly,
eager to restore peace so he could retire untroubled to the library. His determined expression as he raised his glass to her in a silent salute indicated he’d learned to fight for what he wanted.
She tried to draw courage from his certainty but she felt battered by the heart-rending events of the last days. She’d lived through a storm of passion, fury, danger, and bitterness. Now a new life stretched ahead. Or perhaps a return to an old life she’d thought barred from her forever.
She felt too much at a loss to be happy, although gratitude for her brother’s ready forgiveness warmed her heart. For the first time in so long, she had a genuine choice in what became of her. She hardly believed it. More than that, she belonged to a family again. Perhaps returning home to Northumberland as Antonia Hilliard might knit together the tattered fabric of her heart.
Chapter Thirty-one
The dawn was pure and fresh, promising hope and a new beginning.
Lies, all lies, Ranelaw knew. He tilted his head to stare into the sky. It was the perfect pale blue of Antonia’s eyes.
The memory cut like a honed knife and he briefly closed his eyes in pain. When he opened them, two swans flew overhead. For all his anguish, the sight made his heart leap.
A good day to die.
A better day to wipe Benton from the face of the earth.
Behind him, Thorpe murmured to the doctor. Across the open field, Benton checked his pistols. The man hadn’t glanced up when Ranelaw arrived in his stylish curricle drawn by two magnificent grays.
A pity—Ranelaw had taken particular care with his appearance. He refused to face his enemy looking anything but his best. His dark blue superfine coat was new, he wore his favorite waistcoat with its twining ivory Chinese dragons, and he’d had Morecombe shave him to within an inch of his life.
Pun intended.
Tracking Benton down yesterday had proven easy. The man might consider himself a louche bohemian, but he’d been predictable enough to take up residence at the Pulteney Hotel. The duel had been equally simple to maneuver. Ranelaw had claimed not to like the fellow’s waistcoat—the truth as it happened; the maggot dressed like a damned macaroni.
In his hotheaded younger days, Ranelaw had fought several duels. Never killing affairs, although his right arm bore a scar where a bullet had grazed him. Since then he’d kept up his shooting, the way he maintained all the skills of the London gentleman. Only now did he reflect on his life and consider how much time he’d wasted in meaningless pursuits.
What he did this beautiful morning had meaning.
He didn’t deceive himself. No matter what happened, Antonia was eternally lost to him. Two women he’d loved and two women he’d failed. Eloise’s ruin would go forever unavenged. But today he’d redress the besetting tragedy of Antonia’s life.
Benton approached. Ranelaw recognized his second although he couldn’t immediately remember the fellow’s name. Benton’s second and Thorpe stepped aside to discuss arrangements and try to resolve the quarrel without bloodshed.
Ranelaw had no intention of accepting Benton’s apology. Even if Benton had something to apologize to his opponent for. Benton owed his apologies to Antonia. But she rightly scorned both his excuses and pathetic proposal.
How Ranelaw loved her proud spirit. He recalled the moment she’d aimed her gun at him two days ago, her hand as steady as an old soldier’s. He couldn’t think of another woman in Creation with backbone to do that.
He’d waited his whole life to fall in love. At least when that calamity befell him, he’d chosen a female worthy of his devotion.
He wasn’t worthy of her. Although he’d remember to his last breath how it had felt to hold her in his arms.
“I never considered you virtue’s defender, Ranelaw,” Benton said snidely.
Ranelaw arched his eyebrows in a manner designed to make Benton bristle. “Virtue? I’m shooting you for your sins against fashion, old chap.”