Two Dukes a-Dueling

Written by Erica Ridley

This novella first appeared (in excerpted form) on the 2011 Christmas Countdown featured on Ramblings From this Chick and Not Another Romance Blog.

Miss Selene Bowen longs to marry the dashing (if human) duke of her dreams. But her father rules wartime London with a clockwork fist, and his political machinations involve betrothing his daughter to a vampire...

Download TWO DUKES A-DUELING in ePub format

Download TWO DUKES A-DUELING in mobi (Kindle) format

Download TWO DUKES A-DUELING in PDF format

---

 

London, 1829
Christmastime

 

Miss Selene Bowen ceased speaking mid-word. The cacophony of the crowded ballroom vanished as if fairy magic had stilled every foot and silenced every string. The brilliant silks ran together like watercolors in a stream. The only figure Selene saw with any clarity—the only person she registered at all, the only man who had ever really mattered—filled the doorway and the entire London townhouse with his commanding presence.

Lucas. He had come!

Sudden suspicion snuffed her unfettered joy. Why had he come? After months of silence, after reams of returned missives, after countless visits to his doorstep only to be told by the humiliatingly sympathetic butler that the master was not her accepting calls—now or ever—he was finally, finally, crossing her threshold at last.

Her one-time beau. Her true love. Lord Fenrir.

Selene could not repress a hopeful sigh. They would finally have an opportunity to speak to each other and set everything aright. How dreadfully she had missed him! It was as if the days had been without sunlight, the nights without end, the weeks without mercy—

Lucas lifted his gaze. Their eyes met.

Selene smiled, willing to make the first concession by letting him see the love in her eyes rather than the hurt in her heart.

He turned and walked away, as if he had not seen her at all.

A brittle cold washed over her. She lowered her hand and forced her wobbly smile into a determined line, lest her father’s guests realize Lord Fenrir’s cut direct had sliced directly into her soul.

She could not continue this way. She would not continue to pursue affections that had clearly vanished, even though hers just as clearly had not.

He had loved her, once. Enough to kiss her and promise eternity. Enough to brave her father’s wrath.

But not enough to return a smile.

"Selene," came a low voice at her ear. "I fear you are not attending."

"It’s Miss Bowen," she murmured abstractedly at whichever of her father’s soldiers she had been entertaining. Her focus was still on the handsome man now accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman. Lord Fenrir would attend her father’s ball, accept her father’s refreshments, but not lower himself to greet her father’s daughter?

"It used to be Selene," came the reply at her ear. "Selene and Desmond, if you recall."

"Oh, Des." She wrenched her gaze from the back of Lord Fenrir’s fashionably tousled chestnut hair to return her attention to the man at her side.

Desmond Paole. Tall, elegant, regal. The best friend she’d ever had. She and Des had been inseparable for well over a decade. Even though their relationship had always been more platonic than passionate, a legal union almost seemed a logical step. After all, Selene had spent her life trapped inside this townhouse. She saw no one whom her father did not invite into their home. What chance had she for finding a soul mate? But the moment Selene had been presented to Lord Fenrir, her future husband was no longer in question. The second Lord Fenrir’s eyes had met hers, they’d fallen in love. There had been no one else for either of them.

Until her father had refused Lucas’s petition to wed.

She squeezed Desmond’s arm and gazed up at him fondly. She loved him as a brother and could never join him as a lover, but he certainly did not deserve cavalier treatment. A pang of guilt twisted her belly. Had she just been doing to him as Lucas had been doing to her? If Des truly fancied himself in love, had she carelessly been flaying his heart with every unheard word, every unanswered touch, every interminable second of being painfully, purposefully, unseen?

"Please forgive me, Des." She shook her head at her own folly. "We may never be ‘Selene and Desmond’ in the way that you mean, but we will always be the best of friends. I have no call whatever for behaving so rudely."

He smiled down at her. "Your distraction is understandable."

Though his eyes were unreadable, Desmond’s smile was soft and sincere. Candlelight from dozens of chandeliers glinted against the white of his teeth, highlighting the fangs just visible at each corner of his mouth.

From the first, she’d found Desmond Paole to be boyishly charming. The occasional flash of fangs had ensured her father’s approval. Her father’s obsession with the supernatural was legendary, and Desmond had already been in Papa’s employ when they’d met—along with hundreds of other "gifted" young men.

Although Papa had risen to Mayor of London despite being ‘just’ a mere human, he had never gotten over his disappointment at being afflicted with the dreaded Immunity. No vampire bite, no werewolf claw, no alchemist’s potion could affect him. All that was left to exploit was mechanical alterations, but at Papa’s age, experimental surgical procedures are necessarily limited to the superficial. He hoped for better in his daughter. He expected only the best of his future son-in-law, whoever that might be.

Selene’s gaze once again returned to Lord Fenrir. Lean good looks, clean-shaven face, not a fang in sight.

Lucas, too, suffered from Immunity, much to his dismay. Selene did not mind. She loved him all the more for being so strong and proud despite that supposed flaw.

In this eyes of her father, however, this failing made Lucas wholly unacceptable—and Lucas knew it. Was flaunting his inferiority, in fact, by his very presence here tonight. Papa had invited the entire Fenrir clan, of course, as was only proper, but scarcely expected any to attend. Not on the eve of a full moon. They would be indoors. Below ground. Shackled, perhaps, to brick or stone. Caging the beast within.

Unless they were Immune, of course. Like the dashing, but human, Lord Fenrir. He had inherited the dukedom, but not the family curse.

"I say, Selene." Desmond cleared his throat.

"Oh—I’m so sorry." Her cheeks heated. "I was woolgathering again and I—"

He snorted. "Thinking of Fenrir again, you mean."

She lifted her chin. "You don’t know what I was thinking."

"Don’t I?" His smile was knowing. "Your heart is beating tremendously loud."

"Not for Lucas," she lied, and touched her fingers above her heart. "It’s the gears."

Desmond stepped back, startled. "He did it, then? And you let him?"

"Don’t tell anyone, please. I’d prefer no one know the lengths my father is willing to go to not to be saddled with a disappointingly human daughter." She forced a smile and tried to appear nonchalant. "In any case, you know how Papa is. What he wants, he gets. And what he happened to want this year was a daughter with a clockwork heart. Experimental, to say the least, but, well..."

"You survived," Desmond breathed, his eyes wide with shock.

Not trusting herself to speak, Selene simply lifted a shoulder.

Desmond drew back, marveling at her as if he’d never seen her before. "What’s the success rate on transplants of internal organs? One in five thousand? Good Lord, how could he risk it?"

"How could he not?" she countered lightly, hoping to keep the hurt and the bitterness from her voice. "He had expected my future husband to grant me immortality. Since he cannot hope for that himself, at least I would be around to remember him forever. When Papa’s ideal candidates proved difficult to procure, he determined to grant me a level of immortality in the meantime. Because I, too, may be Immune, he turned to science. A full day of surgery, four months of recovery, and voila! A clockwork daughter. I’m just lucky all he had replaced was my heart."

Too bad it ached just the same.

Desmond stared at her a long moment without speaking. "Have I told you lately how absolutely terrifying your father is?"

"I learned at a young age," she replied. "Believe me."

He smiled down at her. "You’re pretty formidable yourself, Selene."

"Well, we’ll see how long that lasts. Next on Papa’s list are my impending nuptials. To whom, I haven’t a clue. If I don’t present him with an acceptable suitor within a fortnight, he will select one himself. Has he mentioned his latest plan? He’s already determined my unknown husband shall head up his army to protect London from the warring shires. War is imminent, and he plans to ride into battle with his chosen son-in-law at his side. The betrothal party is already scheduled for the new moon, so everyone can attend. I’m the automaton whose opinion matters not." Mechanically, she lifted one shoulder at a time. "Tick, tock."

Desmond frowned unhappily. "If you had been born a son, he would not be searching for a leader. He would be grooming you for the position."

"If I had been born a son..." Selene echoed softly, but was no longer thinking about her father’s preternatural soldiers. If she had been born a son, she would not be subject to her father’s whims at all. She would be free to make her own choices. To live the life she wanted. To marry the person she wanted. Her tortured gaze returned to Lord Fenrir.

Desmond shook her arm. "Go, if you must."

Selene started guiltily. "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "Go speak to him. Get it over with. You’re carrying on such a lively conversation with him in your head that it’s a tragedy not to let him take part."

"I..." Her cheeks heated. Had she been so transparent? Yes. Yes she had.

"Just come back. I do wish to talk with you." His voice was urgent. "Promise me the next set, and swear to me you’ll listen to what I have to say."

"Oh, Des. You know I—"

"Just listen. That’s all I ask."

She hesitated only a moment before nodding. He was asking for her ear, not her hand. A mere thirty minutes of her time. She was not so churlish as to deny her best friend a half hour’s audience. Especially when they both knew she would not find the future she sought with Lord Fenrir.

Desmond lifted her hand to his mouth briefly, then lowered her fingers without a kiss. He had always been so good at knowing what she wanted and what she did not want. He knew she did not want his kisses. He feared that she would soon require his shoulder for crying.

"You are a good friend, Des. I cherish that." She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Soon you will make some lady exceedingly happy."

Before he could respond, Selene quit his side and headed to the shadows where she had last glimpsed Lucas.

He was gone.

She checked the card room, the ballroom, the cloak room, even the kitchens. Nothing. The dining room had been long abandoned, the library vacant, the music room vacant even of its instruments, thanks to the orchestra. People milled everywhere where there was music, but none of them were Lord Fenrir.

Selene paused near the exit to the gardens to catch her breath. Had he left? Had she dallied so long in conversation that she’d missed her first chance in months to finally speak with Lucas?

Her stomach clenched. Despite the winter breeze flinging colored leaves through the open French doors, she felt overheated and suffocated beneath the weight of her petticoats and voluminous gown. She was half nauseous with worry and self-recrimination. If she’d missed her sole opportunity to confront Lucas, she’d never—

The terrace! The indoor balconies provided the mamas and wallflowers with a bird’s-eye-view of the dance floor, but the garden-facing terrace gave a singular peephole over the lawn and between the town homes to the London skyline just a short carriage-ride away. Shadows, solitude, and a breathtaking vista. That’s precisely where Lucas would seek refuge. Selene raced for the stair leading up to the terrace. She skidded to a stop once she reached the apex.

There he was.

The back of his shoulders leaned against the exterior stone wall, with no regard whatever for any damage being wrought on the fine material of his overcoat. One leg angled slightly before him, whilst the other bent at the knee, one boot propped against the stone facade. Both hands hooked casually at his waist, just beneath his waistcoat. His face was turned into the night, his gaze fixed on the fog-shrouded horizon. The cold wind tousled his hair. A slight darkness along his jaw hinted at light stubble. She longed to run her fingertips across his face as she had once done. To sink her hands into his hair as he did the same to her. To taste his kisses. To feel his heat.

She stepped closer. "Lucas."

He did not turn. There was no shift in rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest beneath the crisp linen of his cravat. He did not even blink.

"Damn you, Lucas." Selene’s fingers curled into fists as a crack in her voice gave lie to the strength of her words. "You cannot avoid me forever."

He spun to face her, his eyes flashing. "I, evading? That is rich indeed, even for you."

She practically choked on her hurt and affront. His first words to her since last they’d spoken were a far cry from those she had dreamed of hearing.

"I have spent the past two months seeking you, writing you, knocking on your door—"

He did not bother to hold his fury in check.

"Have you, now? Two months, you say? That’s so odd, Selene, so very odd, because as I recall, the last time I saw you was six months ago, not two. We stood right down there in this very garden, you in my arms, and I said to you, ‘May I ask your father for permission to wed you?’ and you said, ‘You don’t need permission, my love, I shall wed you even if we have to run away together.’ I went into his office to beg his approval, was told in no uncertain terms that the Mayor of London had no intention of allying his daughter with one such as me, was tossed out onto the street as if I were naught but a mongrel cur, and four months dragged by with not so much as a word from you. Because you’re never off these grounds, I sent notes. I sent flowers. I called every afternoon. I tossed pebbles at your window every night. For four months, Selene. And then I gave up."

She gripped the cold iron rail, no longer trusting her trembling legs to keep her upright. Was it possible? She’d only been allowed short excursions since the surgery. She’d passed all of them trying to reconnect with Lucas. Had he truly spent months on end trying to reach her, never knowing she was slowly recovering in a laboratory-turned hospital? How he must have suffered, if he’d finally come to believe that he’d fallen from her favor! Lucas would scarcely have guessed his lack of admission to her home was due to her far-flung convalescence, rather than due to failing to get her father’s approval to wed.

Selene closed her eyes against the wintry breeze, gathering strength. She had to put this right. Straightening her shoulders, she turned to face Lucas.

"Papa said—"

"‘Papa said,’" Lucas mocked, his knuckles pale and his dark eyes afire. "Papa said what, my dear? That his only child could do far better than an Immune half-breed mutt, I’m sure. And you said, ‘Yes, Papa. Whatever you say, Papa.’ Our relationship meant nothing. For you, it was a flirtation, but for me..." His eyes burned into hers. "For me, it was real. It took me four excruciatingly long months to finally realize I was alone in my heartbreak, but once even love could not continue to blind me, I forced myself to move on. I do not know what bee in your bonnet spurred you into seeking me out again, but forgive me if I am low on sympathy and no longer interested in your games. Now if you don’t mind, I came out here to be alone."

He returned his gaze to the lawn, his stony face once more an impenetrable mask of marble.

Selene’s clockwork heart kept its familiar beat, but the rest of her was turning upside down.

He had been hurt, because he had loved her. He was hurting still, because he loved her still. As she still loved him. Damn her father’s interference! Even if they hadn’t required his permission to wed, both of them still wished for his approval.

Selene turned her head to gaze at Lucas’s shadowed profile. Her entire body shook with guilt and rage and longing. She yearned to stretch out her arm and touch him, but could not uncurl her fingers from the railing. Or perhaps she was too afraid that if he rejected her touch, she would simply shatter. She returned her gaze to the horizon, trying to see what he saw, to steal a sliver of the peace he had hoped to find.

"I swear to you," she said softly, "I did not know."

His startled laugh was humorless and dry. "You did not know what, my dear? That my love was real? That your home was turning into a greenhouse from all the flowers I sent? That there were no trees left in England from all the paper I used to write, no rhymes left to discover from all my attempts at poetry and romance? That there are undoubtedly permanent impressions of my footprints at your door from the countless times I stood before it asking again and again if, this time, you might condescend to see me?"

"Yes," she burst out. "That’s exactly what I mean. Did you think for a second that I would have willingly refused to see you? Do you truly believe me so shallow as to give my father credence when he says hateful things about those who are Immune? He is Immune, and I love him. Why should it not be as true for you?"

Lucas’s hands fell from his waistband as he whirled to face her. His muscles were taut, his shoulders held stiff, but the expression that flashed across his face was one of vulnerability and cautious hope.

"Then why didn’t you respond, even once?"

"My father—"

"Your father. I should’ve known. I did know! One word from him about your duty to further his political aims, one well-phrased reminder about the undesirability of a husband without fur or fangs, one lecture from Papa and ‘love’ fades in the face of a match based on social standing, on military advantages, on—"

"He cut out my heart!"

Lucas blinked. Eyes narrowing, he leaned back and crossed his arms as if preparing himself against further hurt. "Literally?"

She swallowed. "Literally. He assembled an entire squadron of surgeons and attended the procedure himself."

Summoning her strength, Selene wrenched her fingers from the icy railing and made her way to Lucas on shaking legs. She unfolded his arms from across his chest and pressed his palm to her heart. The rhythm was unmistakable.

"Clockwork?" he whispered in horror. "Oh, my love. I cannot fathom..."

She nodded sadly. She might not have been born immortal, but she certainly was not immune to the whimsy of her father.

"The scar is particularly repellent," she offered, for lack of anything better to say.

The feel of his hand just above her breast was breathtakingly bittersweet. She had longed for his touch for so long, and here they were. Like this. Strangers. Would he not want her now? There were many who considered mechanical alterations abhorrent. Even if he did not, would he want a wife whose heart would beat forever while his would grow old and die? Could she even bear that herself?

His hand fell away. "It doesn’t matter."

She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from crying. "What doesn’t matter?"

"None of it. I can still read you, Selene. You’ve always had the most beautifully expressive face."

"Then what is it expressing now? Is it saying how much I still love you?" She took a deep breath and risked reaching for him.

He turned back to the garden, avoiding her touch.

She swallowed, her throat aching from the weight of unshed tears.

"No." His voice was low and scratchy, as if he too stared fixedly at the horizon because to do anything else would break him into a thousand pieces. "Your face says that even if we’re meant to be... we’re still meant to be apart."

She did not reach for him again. He was right—his ability to read her was uncanny. She did not want to continue living after the love of her life was dead and gone. She would rather rip these infernal gears from her chest. But nor could Selene bear to be without him while they were both alive, and very much in love.

"Lucas, my love..."

"Don’t." He took a deep, shuddering breath, but did not turn from the horizon. "I had hoped life would turn out differently, but I see it will not. It cannot. So it is best if you go."

Her eyes pricked with sudden anger. "I don’t know what you wished I might say that I have not said. But this is my home, and if you are no longer desirous of my company, then it is you who should go."

His dark gaze cut to hers. "You know very well I meant from the terrace. We should not be alone. We have tempted fate quite enough, wouldn’t you say?"

"I would not." She drew her spine as straight as she could, determined not to let him see how much his easy rejection of her love had hurt her. "Why, then, are you still here?"

"To speak to your father."

She gripped the railing as renewed hope exploded inside of her. "About—"

"About a position in his troops. Who knows? He might find a use for me after all."

Reality crashed down on her with enough force to deaden her ears and black out the night. He didn’t want her. Not anymore. She was left with all she ever had—her foolish dreams. No, not even those. If she were lucky, tonight would be dreamless.

Somehow, she managed to laugh. At herself. At the world. Even if her laughter sounded a little too much like sobbing.

"I believe this is my set," came a voice from the stairway, followed by a steady pattern of footfalls.

"It’s Desmond," she whispered to Lucas. Her spine straightened. Her gloved hands scrubbed quickly at her cheeks before Des stepped forth from the shadows.

Lucas didn’t bother to lift so much as an eyebrow in greeting. He stared straight ahead, looking for all the world as if he were alone upon the terrace.

For his part, Desmond paid no notice whatsoever, tactfully keeping his attention focused on Selene as if there were nothing at all untoward about collecting one’s dance partner from another man in a secluded nook, with not a chaperone in sight.

She let Desmond lead her down the stairs and back onto the parquet. Music played and couples swirled around them, but Selene could not possibly have named the tune or recalled any of the faces. Her mind was still out on the terrace with Lucas.

Desmond let her keep her silence, guiding her in slow, wordless circles until she was ready to speak.

At last, she looked up at him and smiled sadly. She did not wish to lose him, too. "Thank you for being such a good friend."

He returned her smile. "I hope you know I would do anything for you."

She nodded and glanced away. "I do know."

He paused, as if unsure how to continue. "Soon, your father will force you to marry. He has interviewed several soldiers whom he hoped might suit."

"Hoped?" She arched a brow.

"He is a tough leader, but we all know the truth. No one is perfect enough for the mayor’s daughter. He does love you, you know." Desmond squeezed her hand. Then he looked away. "You should consider finding a husband who would be acceptable to you both. There’s little sense holding out for Lord Fenrir, if the two of you are scarcely speaking. If he loved you as he ought, he would never let you go."

Selene shook her head slowly. Their problems had little to do with lack of love, but rather with an overabundance. What they lacked was a way to fulfill their desire. All the same, Des was probably right. There was little sense waiting for someone she would never have. "Perhaps."

"Your father already refused his suit."

Selene glanced up at him sharply. "You knew about that?"

"Everybody knows about that," he answered wryly. "And if there’s one thing your father is famous for, it’s for never going back on his word."

She sighed. "I know."

"Then marry me instead."

"You know I can’t."

He was silent. Then his clear eyes caught hers. "Why not?"

"I love you dearly, but not in the way you deserve. How could you marry me, knowing my heart belongs to another man? I could never do that to you. I care about your happiness too much to rob you of love."

"You’ll be doing it to someone," Desmond pointed out stubbornly. "Your father plans to have you betrothed within a fortnight, and what your father plans, he achieves. I should hope I am at least a lesser evil. I have known you your entire life, and you know how much I respect you." He hesitated, then continued at a rush. "I wouldn’t be around much anyway."

She jerked away, not trusting her own ears. "Surely you don’t mean you’d join his army?"

"I wish to lead the army. I am quite determined."

Selene stared dumbly at the one man she had still believed she knew. She tightened her grip on his shoulder. "That’s the stupidest wish you’ve ever had."

"Look at it from my perspective. The vampire population is holding steady, but hasn’t increased in over a century. We once gained status from being lords of our clans, from commanding territory, from creating descendants. Now we’re Englishmen or Scotsmen and so on, territory has been long fixed by the corresponding governments, and there hasn’t been a successful Conversion in recent memory. Then there’s me. Two hundred years too old to be considered a miracle baby, and two hundred years too young to have had any practical experience on a battlefield. And no possible path to make a name for myself... save this one."

Selene wished she could not hear the anguish in his voice. "My father’s army isn’t just for show, Des. He fully expects to go to war—with his leader at the fore."

"And I fully hope to be that man. Look at it as the bright side of marrying me. You might get lucky and end up an early widow."

She punched him in the arm. "You cannot die. Don’t even jest about such things. I hate the war, I hate my father’s army, and I absolutely cannot stomach the thought of anyone I care about in danger." She glared up at him. "Not that you would be, you scamp. Vampires are immortal."

Desmond’s brows lifted. "Mostly immortal. If I’m not mistaken, battles are fought in the daytime, too."

She stared at him, her fingers gone numb with cold. "In that case, I’m not only refusing your suit, I’m also going to beg my father not to permit you anywhere near the battlefield."

His steps faltered. "Do no such thing, Selene. I know you think you are protecting me, but as my friend, please do not actively attempt to get between me and my dreams, whether you agree with them or not."

She raised her chin and arched a brow. "Likewise."

He shot her a startled glance and then graced her with an equally sudden grin. His fang points flashed in the candlelight. "Point and match, Miss Bowen. As mentioned earlier, you are indeed a formidable opponent."

With one hand still lifting hers and the other still resting at her hip, he spun her back across the ballroom to the exterior doors, bypassing the terrace stair.

Selene shivered as the winter chill swirled around them. "Why are we—"

"Your beau could use a reminder of what he’s losing. Pray continue to follow my lead."

The strains of the waltz fizzled into the night air, but Desmond continued to swirl her gracefully over the dead grass and brittle leaves as if the distant clop of horse hooves and the dim cry of foxes were equal to any orchestra. He slowed to a stop at precisely the point where the trees parted enough to welcome the light of the moon. They were a few yards from the doors, with the terrace a stone’s throw behind Desmond’s shoulder. He winked, but did not release his hold. With the rest of the garden awash in fog and shadow, the moonbeams exposed them as if in spotlight. Even the animals quieted, as if not wishing to muffle a single word. Tightening his hold, Desmond shot Selene a pointed look and then began to speak.

"You say he does not love you, and you shall never find his equal?" His voice was low but clear, each syllable enunciated so as not to be misheard from the terrace.

Selene fought a smile at his Drury Lane performance, then an equally furious bout of nerves at the sudden fear that even this would have no effect on Lucas. Perhaps it would not. And if that was her future, she would be wise to do as Lucas had done: ignore the pain and move on.

"I shall always say so." She projected her voice as clearly as his, and tapped her chest for emphasis. "No quantity of mechanical gears can replace the emptiness in my heart."

"You are young." Desmond scoffed so convincingly that for a moment Selene was uncertain whether he was still acting. He released her, only to gather her long hair about his wrist, exposing the entire circumference of her neck. "All you know is the weakness of human men. I am a vampire. Allow me to show you the difference."

The hand holding her hair tugged, and Selene’s head tilted in response. The rest of her was frozen in place. Despite the sudden coldness to his voice and the unusual hardness to his features, Desmond was still playacting, was he not? They had not suited as lovers, but they had always been the best of friends. Surely he would never—

His mouth parted in an awful smile. His fangs glinted brilliantly in the moonlight. He slowly dipped his head.

"Stop!"

The voice was so powerful, so furious, that everything in the garden seemed to still on command. No breeze dared blow, no leaf dared stir. Even the mist of fog ceased its moonlit dance. Lucas’s dark form was barely visible in the shadowed terrace, but the fury in his voice was unmistakable.

"Vampire or not, Lord Paole, if you do not unhand Miss Bowen’s hair this instant, I will gladly remove your fingers from your hand."

Although he did not completely release his hold, Desmond’s entire body relaxed the minutest fraction.

Selene released her pent-up breath. Des had been just as worried about Lucas’s reaction—or potential lack thereof—as she. He must have been worried how far he would have to take the charade if Lucas had not intervened.

Just as Lucas’s silhouette moved from the railing to the stairway, heavy footfalls pounded up the steps. A new voice rang from the shadows. Papa.

"What is the meaning of this ruckus, Fenrir?"

Please don’t point at the garden. Please don’t point at the garden, Selene thought desperately.

Lucas pointed at the garden.

Damn.

"Lord Paole thought to steal a kiss from your daughter," Lucas explained briskly. "I intend to correct his mistake."

Desmond hesitated, then redoubled his grip on Selene’s hair. She glared up at him and opened her mouth to retort when she realized the predicament in which her best friend now found himself.

He sought to impress her father, the most notoriously pitiless, calculating, power-hungry man in all of London. Papa never apologized nor retreated, under any circumstances. If Desmond backed off now—or worse, tried to laugh off the confrontation as a harmless misunderstanding—he would lose face in her father’s eyes forever. But Desmond could not afford the slightest dip in her father’s esteem. Not now, when he was hoping to be chosen as leader of her father’s army. Papa would prize ruthlessness over pacification. Any hint at compromise would be perceived as weakness. Desmond could only go forward.

"Allow me to correct your mistake, Fenrir. I did not intend to kiss the mayor’s daughter." He flashed his fangs. "I intend to bite her."

Selene bit back a groan. Lucas had been coldly furious even before her father’s intrusion upon the terrace. With Desmond’s latest challenge to fuel the fire, Lucas would be murderous.

"I will have your blood for that insolence." Lucas’s voice was forged steel. "Release her at once... and plan to meet me at dawn. We will settle this as men."

Without hesitation, Desmond nodded. "Very well."

He released her hair. Selene twisted before him so that only he could see her face. "At dawn, you imbecile? You could die!"

"So could Fenrir," Desmond pointed out reasonably. "I’m just trying to even the playing field."

She gasped in outrage. "Surely you don’t mean to aim a weapon at him!"

Desmond’s brows arched. "What happened to ‘oh no, Des, you could die!’?"

Her blood spiked so rapidly she could no longer feel the bite of the wind.

"I swear to God," she bit out carefully, "if you so much as spill a drop of Lucas’s blood, I will never—"

"Don’t get wound up." He smiled at his own jest. "I shall obviously shoot to miss, Selene. Sunlight or no, anything less would be dishonorable."

She was still glaring up at Desmond when her father’s voice rang out over the terrace.

"Why wait until morning?" Papa boomed. "I have a plethora of weaponry here at the house. Musket or pistol, gentlemen?"

Of course he did. Of course he would. Selene’s hands fisted in frustration. Could she challenge her own father to a pre-duel?

"A musket would be lovely," Desmond called back cheerfully. "So kind of you to offer, sir."

Selene trod upon his toes, then turned to face the terrace.

Both Lucas and Papa were at the railing. The disintegrating clouds allowed just enough moonlight to see their faces. Papa looked delighted by the turn of events, as if he wished he had thought of such a match himself, so as to better whittle down the candidates for military leadership.

Lucas, on the other hand, looked oddly discomfited, as if the sudden increase in moonlight dazzled his eyes to blindness... or, possibly, as if he was just now registering the singular unwisdom of a human challenging a vampire to a duel.

"Pistol," he said at last. He did not meet Selene’s terrified eyes. Instead, he turned and followed Papa into the darkness.

"Splendid," Selene said to no one in particular, then cut her gaze to Desmond. "What are you going to do?"

"I told you," he said wearily. "I shall aim significantly to the left."

"No, you dunce. What are you going to do about the incoming bullet?"

"Ah." He grinned. "I, too, shall leap significantly to my left."

Selene clapped her hands over her face and sighed.

"Then," Desmond continued, "when we have both honorably and manfully tried and failed to mortally wound the other, your father will think us both of such poor aim that neither one of us will ever spend a single moment bearing his banner on the battlefield. Happy now, madam?"

"Deliriously."

She straightened at the sound of footsteps approaching the open garden doors. It did not sound like Lucas and Papa returning with a pair of guns. It sounded like Lucas and Papa returning with an armed battalion.

"Oh, marvelous." Desmond groaned. "The entire guest list has elected to bear witness to my imminent humiliation."

Selene gulped. He was exactly right.

Papa marched merrily forth, musket in hand. Lucas strode unhesitatingly at his side, although Selene could have sworn she saw him cast doubtful glances at both the spectators and the sky, as if he expected disaster to rain forth from either quarter.

"Stand beneath the terrace, daughter." Papa’s voice was quiet, but brooked no argument. "I wish you out of harm’s way, but still within full sight of this duel being fought in your honor."

Selene took a slow, if shaky, breath and complied. She tried to shoot desperate, speaking glances at both Desmond and Lucas, but neither one would meet her eye. They were both too busy positioning themselves at the appropriate distance to blow each other’s heads off.

The last of the clouds disappeared, bathing the entirety of the scene in stark white light.

Desmond, idly adjusting his cravat at one end of the garden, looked every inch the carefree, debonair vampire he wished the world to see, and not at all the courageous would-be warrior whose future on the battlefield hinged on the outcome of this performance.

Lucas, at the other end of the garden, stood slightly hunched, as if his muscles had expanded in accordance with his rage and strained at the delicate hems sewn by his tailor. He had always been devastatingly handsome and larger-than-life, but he seemed even more so tonight. Not just taller, not just stronger, but somehow more feral than ever before. The thick stubble along his unshaven jaw could not hide the cold determination in the set of his chin, and his dark eyes glittered in the moonlight like those of a hungry predator stalking his prey.

"On three," Papa announced. To the surprise and delight of the crowd, he turned to address his daughter. "When you’re ready, Selene."

Her entire body erupted in gooseflesh. Count down when she was ready? Was he mad? She would never be ready. She would stand here beneath the terrace, silently holding court until the grass grew too tall to see across, if that’s what it took to stop this duel.

Lucas’s eyes met her gaze at last. She held her breath.

He gave the slightest shake of his head. Someone who did not know him as well as she did might not have registered the movement at all, but Selene and Lucas had always enjoyed an oddly fluent silent communication.

He did not want her to stall. His honor as well as hers was now at stake. Hesitation on her part implied lack of faith in her champion. She would not give him that doubt.

"One."

Her voice was too soft, and cracked halfway through the word, but both Lucas and Desmond lifted their weapons as if she had shouted the command.

"T-two."

The entire house party fell silent, Papa included.

Everyone must have heard her stutter but, for the moment, the daughter of the mayor was the least of their concerns. All gazes were firmly fixed on the two armed lords who had now assumed their shooting stances and whose trigger fingers were now positioned to fire. Even the precision of her clockwork heart could not keep Selene’s knees from weakening as she spoke the final word.

"Three."

Twin shots fired simultaneously. Both men dodged aside so quickly as to be a blur before her eyes.

And both men stared at their chests with twin expressions of shocked disbelief. They’d leapt directly into the paths of their opponent’s bullet!

Selene staggered backward. The entire farce was her fault. She could not stifle her scream. Bullets inflicted no permanent damage upon vampires. Desmond would survive.

Lucas, however... Lucas was human. His mortal body could never withstand a bullet to the heart. She started to run toward him, then stumbled to a halt.

He hadn’t fallen. He stood without swaying, one hand loosely dangling the forgotten pistol, the other hand clapped across his heart. Bright red blood seeped through the white lawn of his dress shirt, the champagne silk of his waistcoat, the bare skin of his splayed fingers.

The moon swelled as if to illuminate the horror even further. The bloodstained bullet eased out of his chest, pushing between his fingers to fall inexorably, impossibly, to his feet.

And then his shirt hems rent free.

His jacket and waistcoat fluttered to the grass in tatters. His muscles flexed beneath an unmistakable growth of—fur?!

Lucas’s jaw cracked and elongated. His ears and cheekbones sharpened. His snarling mouth was filled with razor sharp teeth. Elongated fingers clawed the pink-stained cravat from his neck, ripping away the last of his shirtsleeves, and leaving his well-muscled (and lightly furred) torso wholly visible to the swooning onlookers.

"You shot me." The growl was barely recognizable as human words.

Desmond’s spluttered retort was scarcely more coherent around his own protruding fangs. "You’re a bloody werewolf, you brooding, secretive, sonofawhore."

"You dared to attempt your disgusting vampiric kiss with Selene, devilspawn!"

"Ha! I was so worried about killing you, and all this time you were a godforsaken wild dog masquerading as human—"

They tossed their weapons aside and launched themselves at each other, colliding mid-air.

Desmond’s fangs grazed Lucas’s exposed shoulder, drawing blood. Lucas tossed him through the air, renting his claws through Desmond’s elegant waistcoat in the process. Desmond landed hard, but bounded instantly to his feet, pausing only to spit blood and fur upon the dead grass before relaunching himself at Lucas.

"Stop!" Selene screamed as soon as she found her voice. She could barely process the scene before her, but one thing was clear: the shots might be over, but the combatants were still intent on killing each other. If she started the duel, perhaps she had the power to finish it. Wide-eyed, she sought her father among the crowd. "Papa? Do something!"

To her surprise, he gave her a sharp nod and raised his voice above the slashing teeth and punishing fists. "Enough."

Lucas and Desmond rolled to a stop. Desmond was beneath, mouth open and fangs bared. Lucas was atop, one fist curled in a choking grip on Desmond’s cravat, his other arm cocked to deliver a blow to Desmond’s head.

After a moment, Lucus lowered his arm and released his chokehold. In a single graceful leap, he sprang off his opponent and to his feet. He arched his back and shivered, sending thick chestnut fur rippling in the moonlight.

His eyes fluttered closed. His chest expanded even wider, as if Lucas were inhaling deeply, then ever so slowly he relaxed. His ears and cheekbones began to lose their sharpness. His jaw cracked and contracted as his teeth resumed their usual shape and number. The dark, shiny fur began to retract until all that was visible was Lucas’s scandalously bare (and, Selene couldn’t help but note, still deliciously muscled) stomach and chest.

He held out a perfectly human hand to Desmond.

Desmond ignored him.

Des took his time in deciding to retract his aggressively protruding fangs. He took even more time smoothing the frayed edges of his ruined waistcoat and folding and refolding his hopelessly soiled cravat. At last, he accepted the proffered hand, although he leapt to his feet so nimbly it was clear that outside assistance had not been required.

"I despise you," Desmond informed Lucas matter-of-factly, without releasing the hand from his grip.

"Likewise," Lucas rejoined with a grudging smile. They shook on it.

Selene could have killed them both.

"A draw," Papa announced with a mighty flourish. "Perhaps the first satisfying one I have ever seen."

Selene could have killed him, too.

Both the bruised-but-hale combatants stared at her father in surprise.

"You—" Desmond shook his head as if to clear it.

Lucas didn’t even bother hiding his shock. "But I thought you’d never approve of—"

"Balderdash," Papa interrupted, striding forward. "Desmond, my boy, in the two decades you’ve been in my employ, you have never once faltered in loyalty nor fearlessness. Over the years, my respect for you has only grown." He turned to look Lucas in the eye. "As for you, Lord Fenrir, at first I had my doubts. But tonight, you fought willingly and eagerly against tremendously unfavorable odds. As a soldier, Desmond Paole has no equal. Not even a werewolf. Yet you were willing to risk your life in the defense of my daughter." Papa shook his head, as if he could scarce believe his own insights. "Your love for Selene is real."

"Yet still not good enough." Lucas’s dark eyes never wavered from her father’s.

Papa shrugged unapologetically. "I want more for my daughter than mere love."

"You want superhuman relatives," Lucas said bitterly. "I could provide all the fur you wish, but I want to be chosen—to be loved—for who I am. I am not just a werewolf. I am a person. Who hurts and thinks and feels."

"Do not confuse what I want for my army with what I want for my family," Papa said sharply. He glanced over at Selene before returning his gaze to Lucas. He reassumed his most imperial tones. "You had too much self-doubt to lead my army, and too much self-doubt to oppose me over Selene’s hand. I see now that you have grown, not just in body, but in spirit. You have come into your own. Not as a werewolf, but as a man. Selene, if you still desire his affections... I shall allow him to pay court."

Lucas blinked. "You... what?"

Papa’s bearing remained military-stiff. His attention remained upon his daughter. "I promise nothing, mind, but if the two of you—"

Selene was off and running before her father had a chance to start pontificating again. She launched herself into Lucas’s arms. When she collected herself, she wiped her tears against his bare neck, inspected the already-healed wound on his chest, shook him senseless for being so incredibly stubborn, then pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his warm lips.

When he responded with enough heat to melt the gears whirring in her chest, the on-looking crowd erupted in cheers and catcalls.

Reminded of where they were, she pulled far enough back to glare over Lucas’s shoulder at her father. "If your acceptance of our love means you think for one second that I will allow you to strip me of my husband and place him at the head of your troops, I will personally—"

"Not him, daughter." Papa turned to offer his hand to Desmond. "Desmond Paole, will you do me the honor of personally leading our troops to victory?"

For the second time that evening, Des stared at a proffered hand as if he had absolutely no idea what it was doing before him. Suddenly, his handsome face broke into a smile radiant enough to rival the light of the moon. He grabbed Papa’s hand with both of his and began pumping his agreement so enthusiastically, Selene was afraid her father would be in need of a clockwork arm to replace a shattered human one.

She couldn’t resist giving Lucas another kiss.

He sank to his knees before her, clasping both of Selene’s hands in his. The moonlight played across his upturned face and bare chest, causing a tell-tale trail of dark shadows rather than illuminating smooth white flesh. Selene could scarcely believe her eyes, or her ears, or the warm strength emanating from his hands to hers.

He was a werewolf. He was in love. He was hers.

"Selene," he began softly, "my one true love." He glanced up at her with unchecked vulnerability in his eyes, as if even now, even still, his entire future hinged on how she might respond to his next question. "Will you make me the happiest man who ever prowled this planet by please consenting to be my wife?"

Rather than pull him to his feet, she tumbled joyfully into his arms. "You bet your life, my love."

She smiled.

He kissed her.

And her clockwork heart whirred just a little faster.

 

THE END

(...or is it? Send Erica an email if you'd like to read more about Selene and Lucas, or any of her other characters!)

 

Download TWO DUKES A-DUELING in ePub format

Download TWO DUKES A-DUELING in mobi/kindle format

---

Back to Top

 

 

 

Want to contact Erica? Email: erica [at] erica ridley [dot] com