Alexande arched a dark brow, easing back into a relaxed repose, his sword arm coming to rest gently against his thigh. He turned, and watched the other fencer slash the air in controlled fury, on the opposite side of the hill.

"You think I should turn heel now, after he called me out? I think not. Perhaps you should do your job as a Second and see if he wishes to cry off." Alexande returned nonchalantly.

Denton sighed. For all the years he’d known his friend, never once had he backed down from a duel. And in all those years as his Second, never had he been forced to pick up a sword to fight, as it always ended with Alexande.

Denton turned sharply, and walked to the centre of the mound, well aware they were playing in a grand spectacle for the haut-ton gathered about Henry VIII Hill. He waited with quiet dignity as the Second to Earl of Whittingham minced toward him in his high-heeled shoes, an elegant lace kerchief dangling delicately from his fingers. The fop paused and bowed, playing for the crowd.

"Has Ravenspur turned craven and decided to cry off?"

Denton’s eyes narrowed at the insult, though he showed no other sign of his displeasure. "Nay, but rather he’s decided to give Whittingham the generous offer of bowing out now before it’s too late. Though I doubt he could keep his honour intact."

Sir Carlton Haddley stiffened, and glared. "Honour is precisely the point, Lady Whittingham’s honour has not been restored, and the earl will not rest until it is."

Denton barely refrained from snorting, the lady hardly had a stellar reputation, and rightly so. "The Rules then, the duel shall be fought to the Second Touch."

"Agreed. However, it will be fought to a total of six points or the first to surrender," returned the fop.

"Agreed. And they are to fight without pause, until all points have been met or surrender," Denton parried. He was rewarded by a look of momentary shock as Haddley stared, flabbergasted. Both were well aware it was unheard of for a duel to be fought without pause, giving the two opponents a chance to rest, unless it was to the Third Touch—to the death. Which this duel certainly was not.

It was a long moment before Sir Carlton answered. "Agreed."

"Good," Denton returned crisply, "then we shall begin without further delay." He bowed short and quick, in a most curt manner before turning on his heel, and striding back to Alexande.

Lord Alexande Frederick Augustus Telford, the fourth Marquis of Ravenspur, listened to his Second with quiet ease. Tucking the laced cuffs up his sleeves to ensure they did not interfere with his swordplay, he watched as Whittingham and Sir Haddley spoke in soft tones. He nodded once to show his assent to the rules before padding to the centre of the hill in his stockinged feet. A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd like a wave in a still pond as he was joined by the earl.

Alex turned a deaf ear to the incessant cacophony of the gathered throng.

The Rogue Marquis.

That is what the ton had dubbed him for his many dubious adventures, like duelling with cuckolded husbands at the crack of dawn.

And the decadent beau monde loved him for it. He filled their dreary nights with plenty of fodder for the gossip mills. He provided opportunities for their most zealous pursuit in gambling thousands of pounds on any wager deemed worthy of their notice. He was sure more than a few were hazarding on his sword arm today.

Of course, it was rumoured he spent six hours a day practising his fencing skills, and double that in a lady’s boudoir at night. If they had bothered to ask him, he could have assured them he only spent four hours a day fencing, and had no need to practice pleasuring the latest lady to catch his fancy.

And there were no lack of beauties vying for his attention.

Cynically, he knew it was his dark, roguish reputation which induced lusty wives and courtesans alike to swoon into his arms. They plied him with their seductive wiles in hopes of a single night of tantalizing bliss in his bed. And Alex was never one to disappoint a lady.

He had but one rule.

No innocents.

They invited trouble of all kinds, and only a fool would fall into the marriage trap—Alex was certainly no fool.

No, only women with experience were allowed to slip between his sheets.

And Lady Whittingham had known precisely what she’d been inviting.

But what Alex could not understand was Lord Whittingham’s rage.

The earl was reputed to be emotionless, as cool as the Thames in the dead of winter. A fact his wife had openly repined, and which propelled her into the arms of her many lovers. Something which everyone of the ton was well aware. But that night when the earl had stumbled upon Alex dancing with Lady Whittingham at a masquerade, he had exploded with jealous rage and had demanded a duel. Perhaps he had been incited to anger for the very reason masquerades were notorious—seduction, and the liaisons that soon followed in the darker corners, or the bedrooms above. Nonetheless, Alexande thought it completely out of character for Whittingham.

So here he was, fighting another dawn duel with a cuckolded husband, and adding another dark stain to his already dangerous reputation...

Alexande thrust his thoughts aside and sharpened his focus on the duel at hand. He flexed his fingers and arms, relaxing every muscle until he was free of tension. Gracefully, he eased into the fencer’s pose—right foot forward, left foot wide behind the right in a straight line, his knees slightly bent, his right arm extended, his sword held perfectly level—as he waited for the earl to follow suit. A hush settled over the throng as their blades touched lightly in the middle.

After a quiet moment, the Seconds stepped forward.

"Gentlemen," Denton announced in a clear, sharp voice. "Allez!"

The Seconds leapt aside as the swords slid apart. Instantly, Whittingham lunged, and Alexande parred the strike with a twist of his wrist. The earl retreated for but a second before attacking again—a thrust to Alex’s chest—but with a graceful flick of his sword Alexande barred the assault. Alex engaged their weapons, locking the hilts, as he strained for control, searching for a moment of weakness.

Alex studied the shorter, stockier earl, his strength rippling beneath his fine lawn shirt. Whittingham did not move like a man born with a sword in his hand, but what he lacked in grace and agility he made up for in the strength behind his blows.

Suddenly Alexande pulled back, and holding his arm high, his sword pointing down, left his body vulnerable for assault.

The earl attacked.

Whittingham lunged forward with a powerful thrust, the razor sharp blade slicing through the air, the tip racing toward Alexande’s chest...

In the last instant before it reached its target, Alex slashed his small sword in a downward stroke. Knocking the attack aside, he leapt forward. His blade slipped past the earl’s guard, and with a flick of his hand, he slashed Whittingam’s chest.

The neat laceration immediately welled with blood, and soaked into the earl’s shirt.

Whittingham leapt back. A collective gasp of shock rose from the crowd.

Alexande had drawn first blood.

A murmur rippled through the throng. Alex did not doubt for a moment money was changing hands, and new wagers made.

Alexande watched as the earl’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. With a snarl upon his lips, Lord Whittingham leapt back into the fray. Their swords whistled as they slashed through the air, reflecting the flames of the expanding dawn.

The earl shouted a bark of triumph, a sneer curving his lips as he suddenly pulled back his sword—now red with blood.

But Alexande didn’t flinch, nor did he acknowledge the pain which accompanied the laceration now marring his thigh.

The red and gold dawn had waned into the robin egg blue of early morning, with a scattering of fluffy white clouds slowly meandering across the enormous expanse—and still they duelled.

Alexande’s fine lawn shirt was plastered to his sweat-soaked skin. Blood oozed from the numerous wounds crisscrossing his body. Perspiration trickled down his brow and stung his eyes. Wisps of ebony hair, having escaped the confines of his riband, were now plastered to his cheeks. But each distracting sensation was suppressed by his will and his concentration as he fenced with the equally sweaty and bloodied earl.

Their swords clashed over and over, the sound of steel striking steel reverberating throughout the park.

The score was even.

Each man had been awarded five points, as evident by the weeping lacerations, and the pink tint staining their blades.

Alexande could see the earl was tiring, obviously not use to such rigorous sword play. Clumsily, Lord Whittingham blocked a feint as he stumbled to the right, beads of sweat running down his angular face. The earl was winded, yet Alex felt not the slightest fatigue as he launched another assault. But the duel was becoming tiresome, and taking Whittingham far too long to see honour done.

Alex would end this now.

Suddenly, he pulled back and drawing his sword up, left himself vulnerable to attack—and the final point needed to end this farce.

Breathing heavily, the earl took the opening and lunged forward. Suddenly he feinted right, his blade heading straight for Alexande’s heart—catching him off guard. Desperate to block the lethal blow, Alex thrust his sword down and twisted to the side. He grunted as Whittingham’s razor tip slashed down his left arm, from shoulder to elbow, cutting away the sleeve.

Alexande leapt back and spared a quick glance at the damage. The laceration was deep, blood already oozing along the wound. He ground his teeth and forcefully blocked the pain. At least now the duel was done.

Suddenly the sound of metal whipping through air caught Alex’s attention. He looked up and was barely able to parry the earl’s next lethal strike.

What the bloody hell?!

Whittingham’s face was contorted into a mask of rage, a hint of hatred glinting in his dark chocolate eyes, as he attacked Alex over and over like a man possessed.

As Alexande parred each assault, he suddenly became aware of the roar of the crowd, and the Seconds running to intervene, their swords drawn.

"Point Six!" someone shouted above the din of the throng, but still the earl struck at Alex as if in the grips of madness.

"Whittingham, this is highly unorthodox. The points have been made, the duel won, desist now!" Alex heard Denton order.

But the earl would not stop.

Alexande’s eyes narrowed.

He’d had enough.

Whittingham was growing sloppy, allowing his rage, his bloodlust to blind him—an amateur’s mistake.

Seeing his chance, Alexande took it. Quick as lightening, he slipped his sword beneath the earl’s guard, and with a flick of his wrist, slashed Whittingham’s right thigh. Then with a twist of his hand he brought his sword up and engaged and locked the two blades together, preventing the earl from retaliating.

From the corner of his eye, Alexande saw Denton push his sword down into the cradle of their crossed rapiers, effectively ending the duel, before turning to glare at the earl.

"The sixth point has been made, the duel is over Whittingham, this was not to the Third Touch!" Denton announced.

"Whit, he’s right," Sir Carlton Haddley intervened nervously. "You won the duel. You go beyond the pale."

Alexande coolly met Whittingham’s hard gaze over their locked swords, and waited.

After a tense moment, the earl desisted. "I apologize, Lord Ravenspur, I forgot myself." The words were clipped, as if forced past his lips.

Alex gave a curt nod. "But of course, no harm done," he returned, insouciantly.

Denton removed his sword, allowing the two fencers to disengage.

Before the frenzied throng of shouting ton, Alexande graciously bowed to the earl, conceding the win to him.

"I hope you are satisfied honour has been met and restored," he queried once he’d straightened.

Lord Whittingham glared at him for a long, hard moment, his lips a narrow line of tension.

"Indeed."

Without another word, the earl turned sharply on his heel and stalked away, not caring a wit that he had just delivered a most grievous insult to Alexande by not bowing in return. It was an obvious slight, one intended to induce anger, but Alex turned away himself.

He did not need the inconvenience of another duel, for he had far more important issues to occupy his mind—none of which concerned the earl.

                               ***

Denton settled against the plush, velvet squabs as the black carriage ambled through the teeming streets of London, taking them to Ravenspur’s townhouse. He slid a measuring gaze to Alexande.

"I must say Whittingham fought rather viciously," Denton commented.

"It did seem rather out of character from what I have learned of the man," Ravenspur responded.

"Did you?" Denton suddenly blurted the question which had been burning in his brain since the duel was announced.

Alexande arched a raven brow.

"Did you bed Lady Whittingham?" Denton clarified.

A cool smile curved Ravenspur’s lips. "But of course," he replied nonchalantly. A mischievous sparkle glittered in his grey eyes for a moment, making Alex look as devilish as many claimed him to be. "But I can assure you, I was not the lady’s first, nor will I be her last. As you know, her reputation at court is quite scandalous."

"Then why the bloody hell would the earl call you out? It’s not as if he’s blind to his wife’s perfidy," Denton groused.

"I do not know," Ravenspur said quietly, becoming serious. Silently, he turned and gazed out the window, his face suddenly devoid of emotion as it had been throughout the entire duel.

Denton knew the whole situation was damn strange. It was rather odd how the earl had called Ravenspur out so publicly at the masquerade, despite his wife’s pleading. Then when they fought the duel, he’d seemed consumed by anger. He’d gone beyond the pale when he continued his attack, having already gained the sixth point. Alexande could have easily called him out for that, or the slight the earl had dealt at the end. Perhaps that’s what the man had wanted, another duel.

But to what purpose?

"I’ve decided to leave town."

Denton blinked at Ravenspur, his quiet declaration startling him out of his reverie. "Whatever for? The Season has but another two months before it ends. And Parliament hasn’t disbanded yet."

Alexande continued to stare out the window but shrugged. "In light of the duel, I thought I would let all the ruckus die down."

Denton looked at him surprised. It was not as though the duel could possibly harm his already dark reputation. On the contrary, it could only make the ladies want him all the more. He would surely not suffer for it. But Denton kept his thoughts to himself. Since their days at Eton, they had been the closest of friends, yet he knew better than to speak his mind, for Alex disliked people prying into his affairs.

"I suppose you’ll be hying off to Ravenspur then. No doubt Elizabeth will be pleased to see you," Denton remarked causally.

"On the contrary, I thought perhaps I would spend some time at Bournemouth Hall," Alexande replied as he turned to look at Denton.

Denton stared at his friend, barely suppressing his sputter of shock. Never had he known Alex to visit the manor house. A deluge of questions swirled in his mind. But as he opened his mouth to ask the first, he slammed it shut with an audible click, catching the warning gleam in his friend’s grey eyes.

"It’s quite lovely this time of year, or so I’ve been told. Feel free to drop by if you find yourself down that way," Ravenspur lightly commented.

Denton knew it was merely a beau geste, but his interest was piqued. "Perhaps I shall," he replied with equal nonchalance.