Page 60 of When her Duke Returns
Alexander tried his best to calm his breathing, keeping his eyes locked on Antony’s to watch for sudden movement. But nothing could distract him from the cool glint of metal on his skin, from the frailness of his life in the hands of the man he abhorred more than anything else in the world.
“You have no idea what it is to be as I am…” Antony wailed slowly through gritted teeth. “To live, much a shadow, forever one step behind you! To have these thoughts, thisdarknesskept forever on the side-lines, within me… And you could not let me have one day…”
Alexander stood resolute. He thought to reach for the pistol, to subdue Antonyin whichever way was possible… But he feared the time for conversation had long passed. If he showed weakness, he knew he would lose—the strength of his spirit was the only thing he held over the Earl.
He pressed his head deeper against the pistol. “Blame the sun for your shadow all you want, Burkley. It will not make you a man.”
Antony cried out, the shout ripping from inside him, and everything came to a halt. He watched in the blur of his periphery as Mary sprung to action, rushing toward him as Antony’s finger curled around the trigger of the pistol… But she was not agile enough.
The trigger came to a click against the metal of its body, and Alexander let slip from his lips the name he cherished more than any. “Mary,” he whispered in prayer before everything went quiet.
For an instant in the stillness of the moment, he thought he might have died, but he had not, for the pistol had not gone off.
Antony’s breath hitched, and then, he pulled the trigger again and again to no avail. He threw the gun aside with a snarl and bound toward Alexander before he could react, knocking the Duke off his feet and sending the both of them flying into a set of pews.
Alexander landed on the corner of one, a shock of pain surging up his spine before he collided even more painfully with the ground. The Earl sat atop him as they fought for dominance. With a growl, Alexander sought to push Antony off of him—he had forever been stronger than the man—but was cornered in such a way as to make movement near impossible. He whipped at Antony’s face, planting a satisfying punch in his jaw with a crack before trying to wrap his hands around the man’s neck.
Mary let out a cry from behind them. “No,no!” she howled, rushing toward the Earl, attempting to grapple him off of Alexander. The man did not take pause. He pushed Mary back by the stomach, and she fell to the ground in a heap, her head hitting the floor with a sharp crack as the gun come to rest beside her.
“Mary!” Harry cried and rushed over to her as Alexander froze. He tried to get up, the pain searing down his back. He could see nothing but Mary, could feelnothingbut Mary. In his daze, Antony knocked Alexander back, and his head connected spitefully with the lip of a pew.
“I should have killed you years ago!” Antony shouted with a punch. It crashed into Alexander’s face with blinding speed and sent a jolt of pain through his skull. “Nothing will stand in my way!” he cried again, hitting down even harder, connecting this time with Alexander’s temple. A splatter of blood flew across his vision, painting the Earl’s fist red, and he heard Mary cry out behind them. Antonyhit once more against Alexander’sjaw this time, and the world began to dim around him. “Nothing, nothing,nothing!”
He could hardly breathe, nor see, and gurgled a plea as he sought purchase against the ground with his limp feet. He began scrapping at the Earl’s face then kicked him in the groin to push him away, but nothing would deter the man—Antonywas set on murder, enacting his vengeance with superhuman force.
As the chapel began to slip from his vision, his sight, and his touch, he heard Mary bawl behind them. With a cry, she came to stand atop them, pushing aside her brother, standing over them, the pistol in hand. She swung it with all her might against the back of the Earl’s head, and, with a loud curse, he arched back. Before he could steal the pistol from her grasp, she struck him again,harder, and it knocked the man out cold.
The Earl crumpled beside Alexander, his face empty and terribly pale. Mary stepped over Antonyto rush toward the Duke though he could barely see her between the streams of blood that pooled from his injury. He tried to rise but doubled over in pain, spitting a mouthful of blood to the floor.
“M—Mary…” he whispered with all his might, raising a few fingers to her face.If I am to die, he thought,let it be in her arms.
She slapped his hand away, her eyes welling with tears. “Don’t move! Don’t say anything,” she ordered in a whisper. “Harry!” she shouted. “Go for help! You must go for help! Now!”
A hand came up to his face then his forehead as if to wipe his bloodied hair aside. She settled into a cry against his chest, her tears pooling on the fabric of his shirt. “I’m so sorry… I’m so,sosorry.”
“Mary…” Alexander breathed again before the world sank into darkness.
Epilogue
The only thing Alexander thought he would remember from that day was the beauty of the English sea. As he stood on that old, creaking pier at the Plymouth docks—where he had waited some four years prior, a fledgling soldier set for war—he was struck all at once by a fondness for his country.
He wrapped his buckskin coat more tightly around himself as the breeze rose to a chilly gust, deciding that, in fact, he would not miss the weather. He brought a hand to the bandages on his face, which had doubled in size since his brawl some three weeks past, making sure they would not be carried away in the wind.
With a sigh, he drew a letter from his pocket. He had received it from his grandmother that very morn, left for him at Whitcliff after her self-imposed London exile. He knew most certainly what lay within—chastising beyond reconciliation, a guilt trip like no other, and threats beyond counting. His mother had given him her blessing to be done with theton, and it was all the permission he needed to steel the resolve in his heart and set sail.
Lady Mary had not come to see him—not during all his convalescence at Whitcliff. He had sent letters beyond counting, had waited eagerly at windows like a child, had spent his nights praying for her call, praying for the strength to make her his own… But only one Carlisle had sought to check in on him, and it had been Harry. On the last day of Summer, Harry had at last ridden down with a note, and the words tasted like ash in his mouth:
I’m sorry. I needed time.
But there was no more time to be had.
He shot one last look to the white cliffs of his childhood home, and he tore the letter in two, throwing its contents to the sea. No longer would he be shackled by a world he did not believe in; no longer would he bend to the wills of a people that were not his own. His time in the peerage was over, a fraction of his wealth already invested abroad, and he could not feel better liberated—not in spirit, at least. The matters of his heart were still largely unresolved.
“You really thought to leave without saying goodbye? I knew you were an enigma at the best of times, but this is quite the slight, old friend.”
The honeyed voice of Mr. Carlisle washed over him like the glow of a warm fire. He turned with a smile and caught sight of the man, beaming as was in his nature.
“You know me, Harry. I didn’t want to make a scene,” he jested.
