Prologue
The Duel
“Do you think it best to fight your brother so deep in your cups?” Wilde asked a foxed Ambrose.
Ambrose’s head continued to pound to the rhythm of the blood coursing through his veins. His brilliant plan had not, in fact, been to challenge his own brother to a duel over a woman.
A blasted woman.
He took another sip of whiskey before he cursed and faced his friend Sir Colin Wilde. Unfortunately, his vision was blurred to the point of making him dizzy. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on how things had gone so horribly wrong.
“Maybe if you talked about it,” Wilde suggested.
Ambrose opened his eyes. “Talk about it? Like a ninny-headed woman? You want me to talk about my feelings?”
Wilde shrugged. “I take it you believe your solution to be better?”
Ambrose grumbled and motioned for another drink while Wilde simultaneously shook his head at the proprietor, informing him that his friend was done drinking for the day.
Was the man insane? The last thing he needed was to feel. And the quickest way he knew to help numb the surprising pain of the news was to drink himself into oblivion or possibly allow his brother to shoot him. The Good Lord knew he deserved it after the way he had treated Cordelia.
That name. That blasted name. He swore he wouldn’t think about it—to think about it brought on too much pain. Pain he didn’t want to acknowledge, because then it would mean he had been wrong all this time.
Just as he opened his mouth, to quite possibly spill his feelings as Wilde encouraged, the door to the establishment crashed open.
“Where is he?” Viscount Maddox, Ambrose’s younger brother yelled above the rest of the patrons. “I ask again! Where is he?”
The jolly men around the poorly lit establishment quieted down; someone cleared his throat as another man pointed to Ambrose.
He cursed.
Not that he was a coward—he just didn’t feel like marching to his death just yet. Not when her name was so fresh in his mind and the pain of loss so new to his memory. It seemed he owed her that much, at least to think of her during his last few minutes alive.
“Is it that time already?” Ambrose asked. Wilde made a stand in front of him and faced Anthony.
“Are you his guard dog then, Wilde?” Anthony sneered. He placed his hands on the table and leaned in.
“Nothing of the sort. I simply don’t make it a habit to participate in illegal duels between brothers, especially when one brother is so foxed he can’t see straight.”
“It’s not my fault he’s foxed. Nor is it my fault that he finds himself in this predicament. He lost the bet and ruined everything! The least I can do is take his sorry excuse of an existence away from him!”
“So that’s it, brother? You’ve come to kill me when I’m at my weakest, all over a silly bet?”
Anthony sneered. “This isn’t about the bet. It’s about her. About what you did to her. I should have killed you then, but mark my words, brother. I will kill you now, for not only destroying the one woman capable of capturing your heart, but for snuffing out the spirit of the best lady to grace London in years.”
His speech was followed by cheers throughout the room. Cordelia, it seemed, had not only won him over, but the rest of London and it was all his fault. All because of a bet. He lost her—lost everything. And because of that, he found himself saying to his brother, “Do your worst.”