He pushed the misery aside and subdued the anger that nipped at his sanity. “I’m sorry for your loss.”Īlex attributed the numbness that had invaded his body to grief and the weeklong bitter cold. Lord Paul tilted his head and flexed his gloved fingers. The north wind’s fury strengthened, but he refused to turn away. By rote, Alex stilled the beast with a soft pat. “Alice is dead.” The bay stomped and blew out a breath of steam. Instead, it died instantly when Alex found his sister’s letter explaining her suicide. Their friendship should have lasted until their deaths. They’d celebrated each other’s successes and suffered through the failures. They’d witnessed each other’s milestones. From this distance, the weather-roughened face of Lord Paul, the second son of the Duke of Southart, failed to mar Alex’s childhood memories. Mere feet separated him from Lord Paul Barstowe, the man who had destroyed his family.Īlex’s bay stallion edged closer to Lord Paul’s white gelding.
The barren, snow-packed field was a perfect stage for a duel.
Never again would he take for granted the epithet of “friend”-not when friend meant betrayer. He should have ignored the lessons of forbearance and studied the intricacies of inflicting vengeance.
Today proved that to have been a waste of time. As Marquess of Pembrooke, Alex had fought for years to cultivate the fine art of patience. The raw wind pounded every inch of Alexander’s body and lashed at what little remained of his compassion.
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