The accidental groom

On A Wicked Dawn

On A Wicked Dawn

MOONLIGHT SPILLED ACROSS the mansions that marched along Upper Brook Street as Lizzie waved her coachman off and stealthily entered the house pushing the door open a scant inch, she peered into the front hall. As she'd hoped, Newton and the rest of the servants had retired for the night. She slipped inside, silently closed the door behind her, and tiptoed up the long staircase. At the doorway to her bedchamber, she hesitated, wondering if her devoted maid had decided to await her return despite Lizzie's instructions. Deciding she dare not risk opening the door to find out, Lizzie hurried down the long haul, which was bordered on both sides with guest bedrooms. At the end of the hall a staircase led up to the next story; and she tiptoed up the steps and along the hall, stopping at the last door on the right.

Silently, she turned the handle and peered into the dark, empty room that had been used long ago by the family governess, then slipped inside.

Smiling with delight at her own ingenuity, she pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto a shadowy object she identified as a small chest of drawers. She had not broken her word; she had come directly home.

Except when her husband marched into her bedchamber tonight, intending to mete out whatever punishment he had in mind, she would not be there.

A chill crept up her spine as she imagined how angry he was going to be, but the alternative of presenting herself to suffer God-knew what fate tonight was too repugnant to consider.

Stripping off her gown, Lizzie stretched out on the narrow

Bed, which had no linen on it, and closed her eyes. Weariness and confusion closed over her as she went over Alexander's behavior tonight. How he could be so murderously angry with her, and at the same time try to spare her public embarrassment, she wondered. She would never understand him. All she was sure of at that moment was that she was reduced to hiding from him in his own house-hiding in fear and anger of her husband.

It was almost dawn when Alexander and Nicholas left the ball for their dawn appointment at Hampstead Heath , about and an hour's ride from London .

The predawn mist lay like gray winding sheets, writhing on the ground. It swirled about Alexander's legs as he made his way to the agreed-upon dueling place, seeping through leather and linen to chill his very bones. In front of him, Henry held a lantern to light their way, but the mist veiled the light so they seemed to move in a disquieting dream. Nicholas walked beside him, strangely silent. He'd spent the night contacting and conferring with James's seconds, and gotten little, if any, sleep. Up ahead, another light loomed, and the shapes of four men emerged in the dawn. Each had a nimbus of breath cowling his head.

"Lord Rothsay?" one of the men hailed him. It wasn't James, so it must be a second.

"Yes." His own breath billowed forth and then dissipated into the icy morning air.

The man walked toward them. He was of middling years and wore spectacles and a tatty wig. A coat and breeches, several years behind the fashion and obviously well worn, completed his dissolute appearance.

Behind him, a shorter man hesitated beside another man who must be the doctor, as evidenced by the bobbed wig of his profession and the black bag he carried.

The first man spoke again. "Mr. James offers his sincere apology for any insult he may have inflicted upon you. Will you accept this apology and avoid a duel?"

Coward. Had James sent his seconds and stayed away? "No, I will not."

"D-d-d-damn you, Rothsay."