Over her.
Ignoring all etiquette, Bridgewater didn’t give the man till morning. Instead he dragged him from the building and into Clock Court. The courtiers followed en masse. Rose snapped from her trance and hurried after them, fearing for Gabriel’s life.
She heard the clash of swords before she reached the courtyard, but the cheers and catcalls from the crowd of onlookers were even louder. The men’s rapiers flashed in the torchlight. Her heart pounding, she wedged herself into the circle, wincing at each ringing bash.
It wasn’t long, however, before her concern for Gabriel turned to terror on behalf of the poor earl.
The man obviously paid more attention to his wardrobe than his swordsmanship, because it rapidly became clear that the duke was but toying with him. A flick here, and a few of the man’s precious buttons went missing from his coat. A swipe there, and half his lace cravat fluttered to the stones. Featherstonehaugh waved his own sword so ineffectively that Rose reckoned even she could do better.
Raging anger was evident in Gabriel’s eyes, in his clenched jaw, in his carefully controlled movements. Panic clutched at Rose’s throat. The rutting lout had acted abominably, but she had no wish to witness his death, most especially if it happened in defense of her.
“Gabriel!” she shouted, taking a step forward and then another when he paid her no attention. “Don’t kill him! Gabriel, don’t—”
“Hush,” came a voice from the crowd. Warm arms went around her from behind, pulling her back into the circle as a familiar scent of frankincense and myrrh enveloped her.
“Don’t distract him,” Kit said quietly in her ear. “Even an expert can falter if his attention is elsewhere. You don’t want to be responsible for the duke’s death.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for the earl’s murder, either!”
“Hush.” One of his hands came up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “This cannot be more than a tiff. It won’t come to that.”
“But what if it does?” she wailed, trying to struggle free.
His arms tightened. “Just watch. The duke is all but finished.”
And so he was. He’d run out of buttons to flick off the other man’s coat, and although not a drop of blood had been spilled, the brocade itself was in shreds. In addition to being half naked, the earl was thoroughly humiliated.
Disgust marring his fine features, Gabriel knocked the sword from Featherstonehaugh’s hand with an easy twist of his wrist. Then, while the earl was busy gasping, he reached out and nicked him under his chin—a cut so tiny only a single bead of red leaked out.
“First blood,” he claimed as he shoved his rapier back into its scabbard. “You lose. Touch her again and your head will come off next time.”
It was over. Kit’s arms dropped from around Rose as babbling broke out among the assembled courtiers. She couldn’t tell whether the chatter signaled approval or disappointment. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Louise de Kéroualle turned to her, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Nothing this exciting has happened in weeks!”
Rose suspected the duchess was happy to see everyone’s attention focused on something other than her embarrassing black eye, which had made her the butt of much nasty teasing. But better everyone look to Louise for their entertainment. Now that the spectacle had ended, more than one gaze shifted Rose’s way. Ladies whispered behind their fans. She couldn’t fathom what they were saying, but she wanted no part of this.
She turned to Kit. “Take me away from here.”
“Lady Rose!” Courtiers dispersed as Gabriel strode toward her. “I’d like a word with you, if you will.”
Kit shrugged, swiped a roll of linen off the ground, and walked away.
Rose faced the duke. “Yes?”
“In private.”
Still shaky, she let him take her arm and lead her from the courtyard, under Henry VIII’s clock tower, and into Base Court. Her high heels wobbled on the cobblestone paths that crisscrossed the grass, but Gabriel seemed happy enough to steady her. In the galleries, a few lights flickered from apartments where courtiers had sought their lodgings, but the night was still young, and most everyone was returning to the Presence Chamber.
“My dear Rose,” Gabriel started.
“A duel!” she interrupted loudly, the words echoing in the deserted courtyard. “I cannot believe you challenged that fool to a duel.”
He hurried her into one of the galleries. The corridor was breezy, but the torches along the walls gave off heat as well as light. “I will never let anyone impugn your honor,” he said gallantly.
“I appreciate your sentiments, your grace, but a duel!” The red tiles here were smoother than the cobblestones beneath her feet. She felt steadier, more in control. True, part of her had been secretly thrilled to see a man—a duke, no less!—leap to defend her honor. But a larger part had been terrified. “Not only is dueling barbaric, it’s illegal.”
As they walked past a diamond-paned window, the glass reflected his elegant shrug. “I don’t see anyone rushing to arrest me. Featherstonehaugh deserved it.”
“That may be, but I was taking care of him myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to take care of yourself.” They heard the low murmur of people talking in an apartment, and he waited until they’d strolled past it. “Rose, I want to take care of you. I wish to make you my wife.”
She stopped walking, the corridor suddenly silent without the rhythmic clicks of her heels. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
He turned to face her and crowded her against the brick wall. It felt rough and cool behind her back. “Yes,” he said. “I’m not very good at this, am I? I’m better with actions than words.”
He was a duke, and surely that was good enough. A duke, asking for her hand. He tilted his head and moved nearer, brushing her lips with his. His technique really wasn’t that bad. He didn’t smell of frankincense and myrrh, but he didn’t smell unpleasant, either. And he was a duke.
“Rose, will you marry me?”
Of
