The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series) by Katy Madison Page A
Authors: Katy Madison
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she'd always spit fire. She'd reminded him of a dunked cat the time he'd pulled her out of the river, all fury and raised wet fur. She'd screamed at him for removing his shoes before going in after her.
He'd yelled back at her for being so damn foolish as to nearly drown herself. She'd turned and stomped away. He'd stalked after her, both of them slopping water across the lawn as he told her how foolhardy she'd been. She finally picked up her sodden skirts, the weight of which had nearly drowned her, and ran to the house.
Later, Richard had told him she'd had tears on her face. Could it be that her fury was a cover for fear?
She tugged on his arm, and he reluctantly started forward. The workings of her mind were a mystery.
Any mistake he made now could haunt him for the rest of his life. Even his attempt at reassurance had fallen off the mark. And tomorrow, after the marriage settlement was concluded, he would be leaving. With the marriage to take place in less than a month he had business of his own to attend. He hadn't expected everything to happen so fast.
In the natural course of events, the engagement would be settled and her parents would bring her to London for the season where he would court her, and the marriage would follow next summer. Instead, everyone seemed in a rush, even him. Of course, his rush was more about wanting the rights of the marriage bed, before he remembered how very off-putting her behavior could be.
Something had happened when he watched her climb out the window and seen parts of her anatomy he shouldn't have.
Actually, something had happened years earlier when he pulled her from the river, and her wet bodice had plastered against her barely formed breasts. At the time, he'd had no business thinking that way of his cousin. She was far too young for the lascivious thoughts of a twenty-year-old. He'd stayed away after that. Now, with her window escapade, it didn't appear her behavior had changed in the intervening years.
Out here in the country who was to know how badly she behaved? He didn't have to face his friends and explain that she wasn't aware of the impropriety of displaying her drawers to the masses. Not that there had been any masses, but in London, even in his quiet square, if she backed out of a window in the middle of the day, more than blades of grass would witness her antics.
He looked down on Sophie's blonde head. Her hair was neatly pulled up and twisted into a complicated arrangement. He knew by the end of the evening, little strands would escape from their confinement as if her hair mirrored her personality, unable to remain restrained and dignified for long.
What was going on in that head of hers? What did she think of this rush to wed? Of his not-so-subtle reminders that she would be his to bed soon?
Surely she deserved a chance to be wooed. What woman wanted a hurry-scurry to the altar—well, other than a woman in trouble? A woman like George's wife, who had not hurried fast enough to cover the problem and delivered a baby girl weighing five pounds six months after her marriage. Of course, a compromised woman's best-laid plans could be thwarted by a child who refused to look like his mother's husband. Keene pressed his hand to his temple.
"Are you feeling well?"
He glanced down. Sophie looked up at him, her blue eyes searching his face.
"I'm fine." It was just that his life had decided to hurtle like a fallen log down a steep hill. A year ago everything had been normal, if a little boring. Now, his brother was dead. Keene was on the verge of marriage to a woman he could only imagine being tied to in his nightmares. He'd nearly killed a man who had been his friend since childhood, and his best friend George might off himself at any moment.
With Sophie in the mix it was bound to boil over.
"If your head aches, you could have a dinner tray sent to your room."
"I'm fine."
She eyed him skeptically. "I've made you upset." Her voice was the epitome of quiet
He'd yelled back at her for being so damn foolish as to nearly drown herself. She'd turned and stomped away. He'd stalked after her, both of them slopping water across the lawn as he told her how foolhardy she'd been. She finally picked up her sodden skirts, the weight of which had nearly drowned her, and ran to the house.
Later, Richard had told him she'd had tears on her face. Could it be that her fury was a cover for fear?
She tugged on his arm, and he reluctantly started forward. The workings of her mind were a mystery.
Any mistake he made now could haunt him for the rest of his life. Even his attempt at reassurance had fallen off the mark. And tomorrow, after the marriage settlement was concluded, he would be leaving. With the marriage to take place in less than a month he had business of his own to attend. He hadn't expected everything to happen so fast.
In the natural course of events, the engagement would be settled and her parents would bring her to London for the season where he would court her, and the marriage would follow next summer. Instead, everyone seemed in a rush, even him. Of course, his rush was more about wanting the rights of the marriage bed, before he remembered how very off-putting her behavior could be.
Something had happened when he watched her climb out the window and seen parts of her anatomy he shouldn't have.
Actually, something had happened years earlier when he pulled her from the river, and her wet bodice had plastered against her barely formed breasts. At the time, he'd had no business thinking that way of his cousin. She was far too young for the lascivious thoughts of a twenty-year-old. He'd stayed away after that. Now, with her window escapade, it didn't appear her behavior had changed in the intervening years.
Out here in the country who was to know how badly she behaved? He didn't have to face his friends and explain that she wasn't aware of the impropriety of displaying her drawers to the masses. Not that there had been any masses, but in London, even in his quiet square, if she backed out of a window in the middle of the day, more than blades of grass would witness her antics.
He looked down on Sophie's blonde head. Her hair was neatly pulled up and twisted into a complicated arrangement. He knew by the end of the evening, little strands would escape from their confinement as if her hair mirrored her personality, unable to remain restrained and dignified for long.
What was going on in that head of hers? What did she think of this rush to wed? Of his not-so-subtle reminders that she would be his to bed soon?
Surely she deserved a chance to be wooed. What woman wanted a hurry-scurry to the altar—well, other than a woman in trouble? A woman like George's wife, who had not hurried fast enough to cover the problem and delivered a baby girl weighing five pounds six months after her marriage. Of course, a compromised woman's best-laid plans could be thwarted by a child who refused to look like his mother's husband. Keene pressed his hand to his temple.
"Are you feeling well?"
He glanced down. Sophie looked up at him, her blue eyes searching his face.
"I'm fine." It was just that his life had decided to hurtle like a fallen log down a steep hill. A year ago everything had been normal, if a little boring. Now, his brother was dead. Keene was on the verge of marriage to a woman he could only imagine being tied to in his nightmares. He'd nearly killed a man who had been his friend since childhood, and his best friend George might off himself at any moment.
With Sophie in the mix it was bound to boil over.
"If your head aches, you could have a dinner tray sent to your room."
"I'm fine."
She eyed him skeptically. "I've made you upset." Her voice was the epitome of quiet
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