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He just couldn’t withstand the pain.

The footman opened the door of the carriage for him, and he climbed down with dread spreading through his body like frost. As he walked towards Jane’s brother, Preston’s words kept thundering inside his head.

Each step Richard took was a symphony of sensation—the gentle pressure of dew-kissed grass under his leather boots, the subtle chill of the morning seeping through the fabric of his breeches. He could almost taste the damp earthiness of the heath, intermingled with the crisp freshness of the river water. The muted chirruping of the birds was a bittersweet serenade, almost drowned out by the soft rush of the river.

Thorne stood tall and imposing in a sea of grass. His ebony coat and pantaloons were a stark contrast against the brightening day, making him stand out even more prominently. Despite the imminent duel, Thorne looked every bit the nobleman—from the top of his carefully coiffed hair to his shiny boots.

To his side, the three men who’d accompanied him the night before each bore an air of brutish strength, their broad shoulders and stern faces silently challenging.

Richard sucked in a breath, cool and slightly misty, tasting the dawn in his mouth—sharp, clear, with a tinge of the inevitable. The scent of the nearby forest and the moist grass filled his nostrils, grounding him in the reality of the situation.

His, Preston’s, and Sebastian’s boots squelched softly against the damp grass as the three of them paced forward. There was a prickling at the back of Richard’s neck, a heaviness in his gut.

The glistening waters of the river reflected the first light of day, casting a soft glow on Thorne’s face. Despite the serenity around them, Thorne’s expression was etched with an icy determination.

Richard’s palms itched, the skin stretched taut over his knuckles. He flexed his fingers, and his ears buzzed, almost drowning out the low murmur of the river. The faint odor of gunpowder reached him. The scent of death.

Whether he lived or died today, he would never see Jane again. Would never know true happiness with her.

Because stuck in the depths of his heart, he still had a shard that Lady Charity had left when he’d handed her his heart and she’d betrayed him. And that shard cut and stabbed, and he still bled, no matter how much he wanted to be rid of it.

He had asked Jane to believe in him, but he hadn’t taken that risk himself. He had held back from exposing his already-wounded heart. Lord Richard Seaton, a romantic at heart who understood people and wanted love, kept himself safe within his walls of protection. He knew if he truly opened up, it would bring both pain and joy. Now he was ready, but it was too late.

He stood in front of Thorne and nodded to him. Thorne eyed him coolly from under his dark eyebrows.

The moment Richard locked eyes with Thorne, a shiver ran up his spine, settling like a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. Thorne’s eyes, dark and icy, carried a chilling promise of death.

“This is Brace Sterling,” Thorne said, nodding to the man next to him. “He’s a physician.”

The man had a muscular build and an attractive face. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his blond hair was tied back.

“These are my seconds, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Tristan Nightshade,” he said, gesturing at the two identical men with broad shoulders and chestnut-brown hair. Tristan had a mischievous smile while Morgan had a dispassionate expression.

Richard nodded to the gentlemen, all of whom eyed him with cool interest.

“These are my seconds,” he said, looking at Preston, “the Duke of Grandhampton and the Duke of Loxchester.”

“I believe we’ve met,” said Blackmore. “The Duke of Grandhampton that is no longer welcome in my club.”

“I believe it is so,” said Preston. “Not that I need your club anymore.”

“I am sure you do not,” said Blackmore. “A happily married man, as far as I hear.”

“And you, sir, should have told us months before that our brother may be alive. You could have spared us all grief.”

“But then you wouldn’t have married your beautiful wife, would you?” asked Blackmore with a smirk. “Besides, I do not owe you anything.”

“Have you no shame or honor, sir?” demanded Sebastian. “Spencer was…is…like an older brother to me.”

“It is true, I have no shame,” said Blackmore. “But I most certainly do have honor. If it is a different honor than yours, that is not my concern.”

Richard pondered if he was ready to die without trying to win Jane back. He knew she loved him; he saw it in her eyes, felt it in her touch, heard it in her voice. He needed to help her see beyond her fears, but to do that he needed to see beyond his own. He was going to be a knight fighting for his lady—his enemy was fear.

Not Thorne.

“Blackmore,” he said. “I do not wish to fight you. I told you before, and let me repeat this. I wish to marry your sister, whether you approve or not.”

“Too late,” said Thorne as he picked up one of the pistols from the box that Brace Sterling held. “I will not accept you as a brother-in-law. I demand satisfaction. You caused pain, suffering, and humiliation to my sister. You dishonored her. And you will pay.”