Villiers was in his library when he was brought the information that Lord Kincaid, Lord De Winter, and Sir Peter Appleby were desirous of waiting upon him.

"At this hour?" Villiers frowned. "Bid them enter." He

awaited their arrival in thoughtful silence. If this was a social call, it was a damned unsociable hour for it. And if it was not…

"Gentlemen." Smiling, he greeted them. "This is a most unexpected pleasure, but nonetheless welcome. Ye'll take wine?"

"I think not," Nicholas said. " 'Tis a matter of honor that brings us, Buckingham."

All superficial bonhomie was wiped from the duke's face. "You pleasant, Kincaid, surely."

"Nay, 'tis no pleasantry." Nick threw his gauntlet upon the table before the duke. "There's an insult to be avenged."

The duke's lip curled in derision. "Y'are mad, man. There's been no insult to honor that I know of. Don't let passion go to your head. 'Twill only make you a jesting-stock."

"Pick up the glove, Duke, else you'll be the butt of more than jest," Nick said quietly. "There's witnesses to cowardice."

Buckingham went white about the lips, but scorn laced his voice as he said, "Pray tell me, just whose honor has been insulted?"

"My wife's," Nicholas replied. "And, therefore, my own."

Shock leapt into the heavy-lidded eyes, then Buckingham recovered himself. "I see." A twisted smile touched his lips. "Why did I not expect it? That were foolish in me." He picked up the gauntlet. "Where and when, gentlemen?"

"Barn Elms, at dawn." It was Richard who spoke. "As seconds, Sir Peter and I claim the right to fight beside our principal. You will choose your own seconds accordingly, Duke." A polite smile accompanied the statement.

Buckingham merely bowed and pulled the bell rope beside the hearth. "You will excuse me, gentlemen. It appears I have much to accomplish in a few hours."

Outside, the three men went their separate ways after a brief word about arrangements for the morning. Nicholas walked back to Drury Lane through the frosty night, prepar-

ing himself for a most unenviable task. How the devil did a man break to his wife of a few hours that she had an even chance of being widowed on the morrow?

He found her curled up, asleep on the floor by the parlor fire. It took but the most cursory observation to realize that she slept the sleep of complete exhaustion, so far gone in unconsciousness that she barely breathed. Her face was deathly pale, the golden lashes forming dark crescents against her pallor, and Nick knew he must not wake her, even if he could.

She did not stir when he lifted her and put her into bed. Nick undressed and climbed in beside her; thus he passed his wedding night in wakeful reflection, holding the fragile figure against him as the memories crowded in.

Chapter 22

Polly first heard the voices as part of her dream, then, as she crossed over into wakefulness, became aware of them as reality. She lay still, her head turned toward the crack of yellow light edging the doorway to the parlor. Richard's voice came through the partly open door, low but clear.

' 'Tis seven miles to Barn Elms, Nick; less than an hour's ride."

"The surgeon?"

"Will meet us there. As will Peter. What of Polly?"

"I have written a letter. I can think of no other way, Richard. She was dead to the world last night, and I could not bring myself to waken her ¦with such news."

"Be of good cheer." Richard's voice was bracing. "Ye'll be back here, the business done, before she awakes, I'll lay odds."

"And you not a gambling man," declared Nick dryly.

"Let us away."

"Aye. Go you on; I'll be but a minute."

The edge of light broadened. Polly closed her eyes, breathing with deep regularity. She felt him come to the bed, standing over her. Then his lips brushed lightly across hers, and he whispered, "Fare you well, sweetheart."

Polly held herself still while confused turmoil roiled in her head, then the light was extinguished as the door closed gently. She sat up, blinking in the dark, listening intently. There was no sound from the other room, only the silence of emptiness. Springing from the bed, she ran to the parlor door, opening it carefully. The chamber was in darkness except for the fire that had been newly kindled. She padded to the window, peering down into the dark street. The shadowy figures of two horsemen were disappearing rapidly in the gray-dark.

A letter. Nick had said he had left a letter. She lit the lamp with shaking fingers and saw the paper, folded on the table. It was explanation, and a farewell of searing sweetness; in postscript, sealed with his ring, the deeding of his entire estate to his wife.

Polly swallowed the threatening tears. This was no time for female maudling. Nicholas, having married her in order to avenge her, was now going to fight Buckingham, and there was not a damn thing she could do to stop it. Dueling had been outlawed by proclamation repeatedly, but in reality no one would deny a gentleman the right to answer insult with the sword, to execute the laws of honor for himself.

Could she not prevent it? Had she not also the right to execute the laws of honor? The thought grew, dazzling in its daring and simplicity. It fathered instant action, and in the action was found surcease from dread anxiety.

She dressed in Florimell's breeches and shirt, her own riding boots and riding cloak, slipped down the stairs, out into the street, and 'round to the stables. Tiny greeted her with a friendly whicker, holding still for the bridle, nostrils flaring at the prospect of exercise.

"I have only a sidesaddle, so we must go bareback," Polly whispered, nuzzling the mare's neck before swinging nimbly astride. It felt rather strange at first, but then wonderfully easy, and somehow much more natural. Men were the most fortunate of creatures, Polly decided, turning Tiny in the direction of Piccadilly.

Barn Elms was across the river, way the other side of

Knightsbridge and Chelsea, close to Putney. She knew the way because she and Nick had passed it when they had ridden to Richmond just after their return from Wilton.

Her head was as clear as the morning air. She knew only this crystalline dread that the man who had once done all he could to harm her would now succeed in destroying that which she loved more dearly than life itself. Nick's love for her was without question, but if their precipitate marriage had been for the wrong reasons, he must not die for those reasons. She urged Tiny to increase her speed. She could be no more than fifteen minutes behind them, and there would surely be formalities that would take time; but to arrive too late would be the final irony.

The sun came up just as she crossed the river at Parson's Green. She had but a mile to go, and now encouraged Tiny to give of her best. The common and coppice of Barn Elms glistened under the feeble light of the newly risen sun. Seven horses stood beneath the trees; the clash of steel upon steel carried on the frosty air. Tiny's hooves pounded the mud-ridged frozen sod. The thin ice of puddles crackled, their exquisite patterns destroyed beneath the heedless hooves. Polly's heart beat with a nauseating speed; the sweat started on her brow, ran down her back, dampening her shirt, despite the whistling cold air that numbed the tip of her nose and made her eyes water.

As they reached the group of horses, Polly drew back on the rein, careful as always, despite the spur of fear, to avoid the tug that would damage the sensitive mouth. She flung herself from the mare's back, knotting the reins on Tiny's neck so that she would not catch her foot if she dropped her head to graze.

Sulayman turned his head in recognition when she laid an alerting hand on his rump as she came up behind him. He, like his six fellows, was tethered to a tree branch. Nick's cloak was slung across the saddle, and in the deep pocket, as she had known it- would be, was the bulge of his pistol.