Benton’s shoulders formed a stiff line and his hands fisted at his sides as if he wanted to punch Ranelaw’s supercilious expression. “Any harm is purely the concern of the lady and myself.”
Choking fury wedged in Ranelaw’s throat. He fought the urge to wring the wretch’s neck. “If a lady was involved, I would hope you’re gentleman enough not to mention her name.”
Benton’s lip curled in disdain. Through his anger, Ranelaw was unwillingly impressed—and surprised—at the man’s courage. He’d expected the milksop to weep and tremble.
Benton seemed angry rather than afraid. Perhaps Antonia hadn’t been so mistaken in her infatuation after all. Whether jealousy fueled Benton’s outrage or not, he demonstrated considerably more pluck than he had in Hyde Park. Obscurely Ranelaw was glad. Shooting a sniveling coward wouldn’t satisfy the murder in his heart.
The seconds approached and made a final attempt to effect reconciliation. Ranelaw remained strangely divorced from proceedings, as though he observed events on a stage. Automatically he followed the protocol, paced out the distance. Turned. Benton gazed back with steady dislike as he raised his gun.
No, Antonia hadn’t been mistaken in her first lover.
Briefly Ranelaw glanced at the sky, aware this was the last time he might see it.
Blue, blue, perfect blue. Antonia’s eyes.
There was a sharp report, birds burst squawking from the surrounding trees, Ranelaw felt a burning, blinding pain in his side. He staggered, not immediately connecting the three facts.
And realized Benton had shot him.
Devil take the fellow, he’d never imagined the bastard would muster the nerve.
Blackness edged his vision and each beat of his heart vibrated through his body like a huge drum. He swayed and realized he’d collapse unless he overcame this weakness.
If he fell, he mightn’t shoot.
Another failure in a life redundant with failures.
No, it wouldn’t be. He’d die accomplishing this one thing. Then he wouldn’t make a squeak of complaint when Satan snatched him below.
As if down a long, long tunnel, he was aware of Thorpe rushing forward. His friend said something low and urgent. Through the din in his ears, Ranelaw couldn’t make out the words.
He summoned strength to gesture the man away. “No.” Anything further was beyond him.
He could do this. He would do this.
Benton stood firm, his gaze unwavering. Slowly, so slowly, Ranelaw lifted his arm. The gun suddenly weighed ten tons. He was shaking and the world approached and retreated in a most alarming fashion. If not for the blazing pain, he’d imagine he was three sheets to the wind on rotgut gin.
He waited for his aim to steady. His attention fixed on his opponent, the man who had seduced and betrayed Antonia and set her on the path to another rake’s bed ten years later.
He’d hated Benton with a passion since he learned how the slug had wronged Antonia. The virulence of his loathing should have told him she meant more to him than he was willing to admit.
But self-deception was a way of life for the Marquess of Ranelaw.
No longer.
Benton waited stoically for the bullet. Waited to die. Ranelaw gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus.
As he stared down the barrel of his pistol at the man he’d sworn to kill, he couldn’t deny the stark, unpalatable truth.
Johnny Benton was no worse than Ranelaw himself.
In fact, he and Johnny Benton were brothers under the skin. Brothers in iniquity.
He could shoot Benton. He could do it now. But he had no real right to take the fellow’s life.
“Ranelaw, for God’s sake, let the doctor see to you,” Thorpe begged behind him. The voice traveled down that same long tunnel, longer now. As though the world receded further and further away.
He should regret his demise, he supposed. When all he really regretted was not telling Anton