The Inconvenient Duchess

lunged for his brother.
    His fists landed again and again against Marcus, who grunted and received the blows. Blood was trickling from his split lip and he gasped as a fist connected with his stomach, but he was the bigger man and stayed upright. He forced his arms up to shield himself against his younger brother and pushed to separate them. And then his hands closed on St John’s throat.
    The younger man continued to thrash, but his blows weakened.
    Her husband’s eyes were distant, and sorrowful, but his grip remained steady.
    ‘Marcus. Enough. Let him go. He is your brother,’ Miranda pleaded with him, as the contest, so obviously unmatched, headed towards a murderous conclusion.
    With an oath he threw his brother’s body away from him,and St John lay panting on the carpet. ‘You were right, St John. I am too soft to kill you. You are my brother, worthless wretch though you are.’ He looked hopelessly at Miranda. ‘But what am I to do with him? He will try again to hurt you, if he thinks by doing it he can hurt me.’
    ‘Why stop him, Miranda? Let him kill me. Make him finish the job he started years ago.’
    She looked down at St John, still panting on the carpet, eyes full of death and despair, the red marks of his brother’s hands on his throat. Then she rose and walked to her jewel case, and got what she sought.
    She walked back to him then and stood over him, unafraid. ‘St John, it is over. You have lost. You cannot use me to hurt Marcus. I will not let you. Even if you find your revenge here, you cannot bring Bethany back. Nothing will change the past. If you cannot live with that, if you truly wish for death, you must find it some other way than at your brother’s hand, for I will not let him hurt you.’
    Marcus stirred next to her and she wondered, if the circumstance were repeated, whether she would be able to do anything of the kind.
    Then she opened her hand and dropped the Haughleigh emeralds on to St John’s heaving chest. ‘When I came to this house, you befriended me. Tell me now, was it all a lie?’
    He looked at her, and his face softened, but he said nothing.
    ‘If there was some moment of kindness, some trace of warmth and friendship for me, aside from the plans and machinations you worked against your brother’s wife, I thank you for it. I will choose to forget the rest and remember that you were kind to me. But I will not have you in my house any longer if you mean to come between my husband and I. Take the necklace. You cannot have the title, or thehouse, or me. But you can take this symbol of the family honour. You deserve some share of that. Take it and sell it. It is more than enough to buy yourself a commission. A fresh start, St John, far away from here. If you are so eager to throw your life away, do it in defence of your country, and not in some ridiculous scheme to die at your brother’s hands.’
    She offered him her hand and pulled him to his feet.
    He paused, allowing the necklace to slip to the floor before snatching it and stuffing it into his pocket. Then he brushed off his clothes and rubbed a hand across his swollen neck. He wiped the sweat from his face with the corner of his wilted cravat and when his hand passed away from it she saw the same devil-may-care expression that she had seen on the first day drop into place like a mask. He turned to her and bowed, deeply and sarcastically. ‘Thank you, your Grace, for being so free with your husband’s favours, since you refuse to be free with your own.’
    She saw Marcus tense to respond, and felt the relief flood through her as he checked himself.
    St John turned to his brother and offered the same sarcastic salute. ‘And thank you, Marcus, for my worthless life, much good will the sparing of it do either of us. I will no doubt squander it and the money I’ll get for this trinket. Whether I go to the Peninsula, or some whore pit in London, is yet to be decided, but you can be comforted with the fact that, when I die, your hands will be free of blood.’
    She looked to her husband and saw only a glint in his eye to prove that the last barb had struck home. ‘I cannot save you from yourself, St John. Only you can do that. If you cannot find happiness, then may you at least find peace.’
    And with a bitter laugh, St John strolled from the room and his footsteps died away as he retreated down the hall.

Chapter Twenty-Five
    M iranda looked down the table at her husband as she had done so many mornings in