"Antonia, be sensible," he said urgently. "Even if the villain survives, he'll only tumble you, then discard you for another bit of muslin."

"I don't care," she said stubbornly.

"You of all women must realize-"

"I don't care," she repeated, and glanced up at Thomas, listening avidly from the driver's box.

"Thomas, take me to Grosvenor Square. As fast as you can."

"Yes, my lady." He tipped his hat in her direction.

She leaped into the carriage, slammed the door, and clung tight as the vehicle lurched into movement. It was absurd, but she had the strongest presentiment that if she saw Nicholas in time, he wouldn't die.

She realized she murmured over and over in a low voice. A repetitive plea to heaven. Surely God wouldn't deprive her of her beloved just when she'd discovered she couldn't live without him.

She heard shouting behind her. She paid no attention.

The coach jerked to a halt.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

Her heart stuttered with anguished denial. They couldn't stop her now. Demarest might deny her the carriage. In which case she'd find a hackney. Walk if she must.

Good God, she'd crawl across London to convince Nicholas to fight for his life.

At this moment, she didn't care whether he spent the rest of that life with her. All she cared about was that he recovered. That somewhere in the world Nicholas still walked and spoke and laughed. The prospect of him pursuing other women paled to insignificance compared to the horror of losing him altogether.

Her hands clenched in her lap as the door opened and Henry swung in. The fusillade of angry words died on her lips as he landed next to her. "Henry, what are you doing?" she asked blankly.

He wrenched the door shut and knocked on the roof. The coach resumed its progress with a rattling dash that answered her burning anxiety.

"You could be heading into a difficult spot." Henry smiled, taking one of her hands in silent comfort. "You might like someone at your back."

Chapter Thirty-two.

Antonia braced for an inquisition but Henry remained blessedly quiet as the carriage careered through the thick traffic with a recklessness that in other circumstances would terrify her. As it was, she hardly noticed. She only knew her desperate need to see Nicholas, to offer forgiveness, to beg him to live.

Sightlessly she stared out the window at the packed streets. All she saw was an inner landscape of blood, darkness, and despair.

And unbearable, eternal loss.

She'd wondered whether Cassie's news was accurate. The moment the carriage reached Grosvenor Square, she wondered no longer. Outside Ranelaw House, thick straw lay along the street to muffle traffic. Onlookers massed at the black railings dividing house from footpath.

Tidings of the Marquess of Ranelaw's approaching demise spread. As their coach pulled up, more people joined the crowd. Surprisingly the gathering was subdued, almost respectful.

The arrival of the Demarest coach and the alighting of two people from society's upper echelons, even if two people unknown to the mob, caused a stir. Antonia lowered her head so her bonnet hid her distinctive features. With silent reassurance, Henry took her elbow and effortlessly cleared a path to the two brawny footmen guarding the shallow stairs.

Antonia hadn't prepared to fight her way through curious bystanders or servants determined to preserve their master's privacy. She should have realized that Nicholas's wound would be a public matter. She should have realized, in contrast to her previous visit, that Ranelaw House would be a center of activity.

She had cause to be grateful for Henry's partisan presence. Another sign that he'd matured beyond the callow youth she remembered. His quiet authority, his air of breeding, his refusal to allow mere domestics to bar access to the house countered all opposition. He and Antonia swept inside without revealing their identities.

Fear held her trembling and mute as the door shut, enclosing them in the marble entrance hall. The dull thud held a grimly doom-laden note and the statues loomed against the walls like funerary monuments.

As her belly cramped with the painful, joyful memory of the last time she was here, she dragged in a breath to steady her nerves. What transfiguring passion she'd shared with Nicholas. She was such a willfully blind fool. She should have realized then that she was hopelessly in love with the scapegrace.

To her surprise, Lord Thorpe emerged to greet them. She'd expected a servant, perhaps the supercilious butler who had refused her admission the day of Cassie's abduction. Thorpe had always impressed her as a sensible man. In fact, at first she'd been puzzled that he and Nicholas were friends. For so long, she'd obstinately closed her eyes to any evidence that Nicholas was more than a selfish hedonist.

Cassie had lent her a traveling dress, so she was more fashionably turned out than usual. It was unlikely Thorpe would identify her as Miss Demarest's harridan of a chaperone, although she'd watched him dance and flirt through a multitude of balls.

Thorpe smiled at Henry. "Lord Aveson, I haven't seen you in a dog's age."

Henry removed his hat and bowed. "Lord Thorpe, not since our days at Oxford."

"You were such a swot, I'm surprised you remember me."

Antonia stifled an impatient sigh. What did social niceties matter when Nicholas lay dying?

"Antonia, allow me to introduce Lord Thorpe." Henry turned to her. "My lord, this is my sister, Lady Antonia Hilliard."

Manners forced her to curtsy and extend her hand. Thorpe bowed over it and peered into her face. She watched him struggle to force a wisp of memory to the fore. She hardly cared whether he recognized her, but for Henry's sake, she kept her expression neutral as though she met a stranger.

"What can I help you with?" Thorpe asked once courtesies were complete.

"I want-" Antonia began impetuously but Henry spoke over her.

"My sister is an old friend of Lord Ranelaw's. She's heard about the shooting, of course. We come to inquire after his health."

Antonia stared into Thorpe's face, her heart racing with sudden hope. Perhaps he'd say Nicholas made a miraculous recovery, that the rumors of his precarious grip on life were exaggerated. Her chest clenched painfully tight as sorrow settled on the man's pleasant features.

"They've removed the bullet but he hasn't regained consciousness. The doctors, I regret to say, aren't optimistic."

No! Dear God, no!

Antonia staggered and the light faded. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be. When she returned to awareness, she clutched Henry's arm. She sucked in a shuddering breath as the room slowed from its whirl. Both men stared at her in consternation.

"I'm sorry, Lady Antonia. I had no idea-" Thorpe stopped.

Even through her distress, she saw his dilemma. Any woman who had dealings with Ranelaw couldn't be respectable. Yet she bore an illustrious name and she arrived with her brother as if paying a social call.

"I have to go to him," she said in a low voice to Henry. She managed to stand without support. She couldn't weaken now. Not when the worst lay ahead.

"The doctors insist on no visitors." Thorpe stepped toward her with a regretful expression. "If you leave your direction, I'll make sure you receive word."

When he dies.

The sentence's ending rang clearly, for all that it remained unspoken. With a choked sob, Antonia pushed past Thorpe and darted onto the stairs.

"Lady Antonia! You can't-" Thorpe cried out behind her.

"Let her go," Henry said.

Quickly she glanced behind to see her brother grab the other man's arm. Heaven knew why Henry helped her. She could only be thankful.

Her mind closed to every concern but the blazing need to see Nicholas. She picked up her skirts and dashed to the landing. Knowing her familiarity with the house's layout told its own tale, she turned toward the master's bedroom.

Panting with panic more than exertion, she edged open the door to Nicholas's bedchamber. Outside, it was bright day. Inside this room, it was deepest night. The heavy brocade curtains were drawn so close, not a chink of sunlight invaded. On the sideboard, a lamp was turned down low, the dull light gleaming on a frightening array of bottles and vials. A fire burned in the grate. The air was thick and still, and held the rusty taint of fresh blood.

Cautiously, as though sudden movement might initiate untold catastrophe, she crept inside. A balding, middle-aged man sat at Nicholas's bedside. At her entrance, his head turned toward Antonia and his face filled with dismay.

"Your pardon, madam, but His Lordship's physicians forbid visitors." He rose to his feet.

The man must be a butler or a valet. Easier to banish than a self-important doctor. "You may leave us," she said frostily. "I will watch him."

The man looked flustered. "Madam, I . "

She read genuine concern for Nicholas in his face. Her voice softened. "I promise to look after Lord Ranelaw. I'll call the moment there's any change in his condition."

The servant glanced from her to the man lying so still, then back again. She read a dawning understanding in his expression. Fleetingly she wondered just what it was he understood. Then she dismissed her curiosity. All her focus was on Nicholas.

The man bowed. "I'll sit outside the door."

She'd seen off Nicholas's last guardian. Dizzying relief shuddered through her, making her knees wobble. She reached out to grab the back of a chair.

"Th-thank you," she whispered.

"At your service, my lady. My name is Morecombe if you require assistance. I am His Lordship's valet."

She nodded, too overcome with fear and grief to summon an answer. Trembling she clung to the chair while Morecombe left the room. Antonia hardly noticed. Her gaze was fixed on the man bathed in shadow.

She straightened, the pressure in her chest building. With shaking hands, she tugged off her bonnet and dropped it onto the chair. Gingerly she approached the huge bed where for a few precious hours, she'd discovered heaven.

Was that only days ago? She felt like she'd aged twenty years since.

If Nicholas died, she'd never feel young again.

He stretched out on his back, the sheet folded at his waist. His guinea gold hair was dark and matted with sweat. A thick white bandage covered his bare torso. His arms lay straight at his sides and his hands splayed flat upon the mattress.

Her heart slammed to a stop. Dimness frayed her vision and she swayed. A choked whimper escaped.

Dear God, she was too late .

Then she noted the almost imperceptible movement of his chest. His unnatural stillness resulted from unconsciousness, not death. She sucked reviving air into aching lungs.

With the clear, seeking regard of newly acknowledged love, she studied him. The commanding nose, the high cheekbones, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the lips pale with pain, for all that he lay as still as the statues downstairs.

It seemed sinfully wrong to see him in this neat, unrumpled bed. He wasn't a restful man. He devoured life, stirred turbulent whirlpools of energy wherever he went.

She couldn't let him go. She didn't care what his doctors said. They were wrong. They must be wrong. Johnny Benton wasn't man enough to destroy her beloved.

With a shaky sigh, she dropped to her knees and reached for one of those frighteningly lifeless hands. His flesh was cold under hers. She bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood.

"Nicholas?" she whispered, as though he merely slept. She knew better. He hovered on the brink of the next world.

She'd felt sick with dread since hearing of the duel. But in this quiet room where he remained stubbornly locked away from her, fear deepened to hopelessness.

Tears welling, she pressed her face against his hand. "Nicholas, oh, Nicholas . "

She lifted her head and stared into his face, expressionless as it never was when he was awake. He'd moved too far toward oblivion to hear, but she couldn't silence the desperate words. "How could you do this? Johnny isn't worth one moment of your time. I don't care about Johnny. I told you over and over."

Silence greeted her. And in that pause, something clicked at the back of her mind. She stared into that austere, drawn face and a great wave of revelation washed over her.

Nicholas, you fool. You gallant, misguided fool.

As if he'd explained every step he took toward his calamitous decision, she knew why he'd challenged Johnny. What had made no sense suddenly made perfect sense.

The duel wasn't, as she'd immediately assumed, over petty jealousy.

Of course Nicholas understood that her first lover meant nothing to her now. Nicholas knew her better than anyone else and he knew she no longer loved Benton.

He hadn't set out to eliminate a rival. He was too clever to view Johnny as serious competition for her attentions. Nicholas was also too clever to imagine that after abducting Cassie, he'd inveigle his way back into Antonia's favor by shooting the man she'd eloped with so long ago.

Johnny's death wouldn't promote his suit.

As she looked at him, something struck up an echo in her mind. An echo of a man who kidnapped Cassie to avenge a beloved sister.

Because that remained as the only recompense he could offer to a woman forever lost to him.

Were all Nicholas's sins born from the same quixotic impulse to balance the scales of justice? Was she right about his desperate, ill-judged, but strangely courtly purpose in challenging Johnny?

Was the duel some idiotic attempt to redeem her tarnished honor?

"Oh, Nicholas . " she whispered, hardly seeing through her tears.

His gesture seemed so outlandishly romantic. Could she be mistaken? Nicholas Challoner was a wild reprobate. Shallow. Uncaring. Unaffected by the tragedies of others.

Except none of that was true. That might be the impression he strove to maintain, but in their tempestuous dealings, she'd seen more than he wanted the world to discern. He'd revealed a universe of feeling the night she'd spent in this room where he lay so close to death.

The echo became louder, turned into certainty. The duel conveyed an unmistakable air of despairing self-destruction. His reckless challenge carried the same aura of sacrifice that had marked his kidnapping of Cassie.

He'd acted on behalf of someone he loved.

Someone he loved .