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through them at me. No…” He shook his head sadly. “Miss Timms, I regret to tell you that it isn’t a spinster effect at all. I’ve never had a spinster look out beneath her lashes at me the way you do.”
    In his house, at his table, she felt that she could not say precisely what she thought of him and his spinsters. Besides that, her father appeared enraptured. “Maddy,” he whispered. “Thou hast thy mother’s look.”
    “Of course, Papa,” she said helplessly. “Has no one ever told thee?”
    “No. No one ever did.”
    He said it without any particular emotion. But by the candlelight, she could see that his eyes had tears in them. “Papa,” she said, reaching for his hand. He only brushed it, and then lifted his fingers, touching her face. He explored her slowly, intently, over her cheeks and across her eyelashes. She held her hands locked tight, embarrassed and suddenly close to foolish tears herself.
    She had never thought of it: she could have sat and let her father envision her with his touch in this way any time. He looked so happy. It was just that life went on, an everyday thing, and one never considered that Papa had not seen her face for eighteen years, or might wish to.
    “I thank thee, Friend,” her father said, turning his face toward the duke. “I thank thee. For one of the finest days of my life.”
    Jervaulx didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to have heard, but sat gazing into the shadowed folds of the tablecloth, his dark blue eyes meditative and his pirate mouth turned grim.

 

     
     

Chapter Three
    No pink tinged the dawn fog in the way he’d described last night. Rather poetic of him, Christian had thought, but in reality everything was only whitish-gray, the grass wet and dark, voices uncanny and sharp in the early silence. He could hear his own even breathing as he took the pistol from the case Durham offered and sighted down the slender barrel.
    He didn’t think he was going to die this morning. He wasn’t going to kill anyone, that was certain. Being guilty as the devil in this affair, his only honorable course was to stand fire and then delope. He’d shoot into the air. So— Sutherland might hit him. Likely would. But Christian didn’t think he was going to die.
    He found it distantly amusing that he was so sure of that. He was old enough to know better. A decade and a half ago, the first time he’d stood up at the fire-eating age of seventeen, he might have been excused for believing himself invincible. But now… he looked around at the brightening sky and the new leaves—and still his heart said it was impossible that this was the last moment.
    Wounding was nothing to look forward to. He chose not to think ahead about it. He could feel his heart’s rhythm rising as he walked out onto the ground without looking at Sutherland beside him.
    They stood up and paced off. Christian held the pistol in his right hand, there being no need for accuracy. It gave a better appearance; those who knew him would see that he’d had no intention of firing on Sutherland from the start.
    Durham’s languid voice called halt and turn.
    Christian turned.
    Sutherland had his pistol raised already. Christian realized that there was murder in his opponent’s face.
    The man intended execution; he had the skill to do it. Christian’s pulse increased suddenly, a fierce thud in his ears.
    “Gentlemen,” Durham said, lifting his handkerchief.
    Pain burst through Christian’s skull, agony and strangeness. He stared at Sutherland, blinking twice, wondering why he hadn’t heard the shot that hit him.
    Durham spoke again. Christian couldn’t understand the words. Sutherland’s face contorted; he was shouting something at Christian, and Christian couldn’t understand that either, but Sutherland was holding his gun at level ready still.
    Christian tried to lift his right arm. He squinted at Sutherland, trying to see through the way his vision seemed clear and blurred at once, turning