Page 77 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Farah clapped her hands over her mouth in shock. “A duel?”

“I know, I know.” Grey winced as embarrassment lanced through him. “It was sheer idiocy on my part.”

Farah’s voice was muffled behind her hand. “What were the terms?”

Grey sighed. “There were no terms. It wasn’t as if Susanna was some object to be won.”

“What was Francis agreeing to, then?”

“It was an easy decision for him,” Grey bit out. “He agreed because I had presented him with yet another opportunity to claim victory over me.”

Farah let out a contemplative hum. “He shouldn’t have said yes, though. You were drunk. You couldn’t have possibly been in your right mind.”

“I wasn’t. But it doesn’t change what I did.”

“Would you make the same choice now?”

Grey frowned. “No. Never.”

“There you go,” she said, reaching over to pat his hand. “You’ve done what you could.”

It was strange that she wasn’t disappointed in him after hearing him admit to his foolish, possessive behavior. Behavior he could have avoided by being upfront, by baring his heart to Susanna. If he’d gone up to her and asked, if he’d forced himself to ignore the impact of Francis’s presence on him, then it all might have ended differently.

And after all this time, he still wasn’t upfront. Maybe he hadn’t changed, after all. Maybe, deep inside, he was still the same Grey. Still terrified of rejection, still afraid of hearing the bitter, painful truth of things.

Still afraid of his grandfather and, by some sick extension, his cousin.

You can change that.

He could, but it demanded a bravery he did not possess. Still, he could never imagine himself repeating that night. As it was, he avoided alcohol like the plague if only because of the mortifying memories it brought with it. He’d done that, at least.

“We went out into the woods, and—it was supposed to be three paces,” Grey murmured. “But Francis took two.”

They’d counted aloud together. He remembered the sound of the shot that rang out at two. A sound that haunted him still, drawing an ache from his side.

Farah stared at him in stunned silence.

“When I finally came to, I was told I’d been out for a week,” he said. “Francis panicked once he saw all the blood, so he had the coachman take us back to Montgomery House. It was a miracle I survived, really. Not because the shot was fatal, but because I’d lost so much blood and had to contend with the infection that followed.”

“Oh, Grey,” Farah whispered. “How awful.”

“I used to wish he’d left me there,” Grey said, running an agitated hand through his hair.

“Don’t say that.”

He turned away, unable to look into her clear, trusting eyes. “Neither of us saw Susanna again after that. When you think about it, she did end up making a decision. She chose herself, realized she was above us both, and left.”

“Was the musicale the first time you’d seen her since?”

Grey nodded. “She made the right choice. As I said, I don’t hold it against her. I was impossible, and I doubt I could have made her as happy as she is now. Leaving was the clever thing to do.”

“I don’t understand,” Farah said. “Why would Francis do that? It’s not as if he had reason to hate you that much.”

“No, but every one of my missteps elevated him in the eyes of our grandfather,” Grey said. “It behooved him to provoke me. That way, my reactions would be noted and held against me.”

“But Francis was involved as well. And he shot you.”

“Yes, but it was my idea. And perhaps I’d have shot Francis if he’d taken the three paces we’d agreed on.”