"I did nothing of the sort," Michael replied, too tired to be affronted by her assumption that he had somehow been in the wrong, "I simply released her from a conversation in which neither she—nor I, for that matter—had any interest in partaking in"
His mother let out a sound that was a definite "harrumph", though Michael chose to ignore it. He would not allow himself to respond in a similarly irritated manner, for he knew that his mother's meddling was a means with which she wished to distract herself from her grief.
"I see Lord Atwood has no such qualms about entertaining young ladies," Eudora said, nodding pointedly at the viscount who stood in the midst of a bevy of young ladies. "He understands his duty to the title."
"As do I, mother," Michael replied, his jaw tight, "However I will not seek to further the line with ladies young enough to be my daughter."
"Well," Eudora sighed, casting her son an aggrieved glance, "If a woman of more mature years is what you seek, then that is what I shall find you. Though I think that you have one particular woman in mind and let me tell you, that would not be wise."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mother."
"Oh, really?" Eudora arched an eyebrow and stared pointedly in the direction of the door.
Michael followed her gaze and saw that Katherine had arrived at last. She was dressed in the same gown that she had worn to Lord and Lady Deverell's ball, which pained him to see. Not that she looked any less ravishing on the gown's second outing, but because the tabbies too would note it and gossip about her lack of funds with malicious glee.
"Your thunderstruck silence is all the confirmation I need," Eudora sniffed, interrupting Michael's hungry observations of Katherine. It took Michael a moment to register his mother's words and when he did, he became flustered at the obviousness of his reaction to her entrance.
"You cannot marry a girl who has proven herself incapable of bearing you an heir," Eudora continued, though her tone was slightly kinder, "No matter your history or your feelings for Lady Atwood, marriage is most certainly out of the question."
Mothers were, Michael mused, somewhat omnipotent. He had never confided in any of his family about the love that had blossomed between him and their neighbour's daughter. Of course, Eudora knew that Michael and Katherine had been childhood friends, but the sympathetic way that she watched him let him know that she knew so much more.
"There will be other girls," Eudora said with a note of finality, as she patted his arm, "Or rather other women, for you've told me you've no wish to throw your cap in with a green girl. If you'll excuse me dear, I must circulate."
With a bracing smile toward her son, Eudora took her leave, the feathers of her turban bobbing as she traipsed across the ballroom. Michael felt a twinge of guilt as he watched her join a circle of similarly regal grandes dames; Eudora was painfully thin and visibly exhausted by the weight of grief that she carried. Why could he not be a dutiful son and simply do as she wished?
The answer to that question was currently standing not ten feet away from him.
Katherine was chatting to a group of women, whom Michael vaguely recognised from the ball the week before. It gladdened him to see that Katherine seemed more assured and confident on this particular outing. Lady Deverell had done much work to repair the damage that Michael's silly outburst in White's had caused.
Afraid that he would be caught staring, Michael removed himself to the far side of the room, where servants were doling out glasses of ratafia. He accepted a glass from a waiting servant, took a sip, and then grimaced as he tasted the sickly-sweet punch. He had forgotten that there was a reason why he never drank the stuff. Still, the glass gave him something to do with his hands and allowed him to loiter undisturbed for a while.
He lifted his glass to his lips and surveyed the room before him. Dozens of people had taken to the dance floor for a lively country reel. The married men were discreetly slipping out through the open French doors, which led to the veranda, no doubt for a sneaky cheroot. His mother and the other grand ladies of society had repaired to the card room, whilst the younger folk clustered around the edge of the dance floor, chatting, flirting, and wooing.
A familiar face caught Michael's eye, though he had to do a double take to be sure the man was who Michael had thought he was. Lord Harrington, Katherine's younger brother, looked wretched, he noted with pity. His young face was bloated, from alcohol no doubt, his hair curled over the collar of his coat and his cheeks showed a dark hint of stubble.
Through the rumour mill, Michael had heard that Lord Harrington had fallen on hard times, and now that he saw him in the flesh, he knew the rumours to be true. Gambling and alcohol made fools of many young men with fortunes, Michael reflected ruefully.
Harrington was deep in conversation with his companion, an older man, with a cruel face, whom Michael did not recognise as being part of the ton. Harrington's companion became animated and gestured across the room. Following the line of his hand, Michael's eyes came to rest on Katherine, who was blissfully unaware that she was being discussed.
Michael's eyes narrowed and he wondered what it was that Lord Harrington's friend was becoming so het-up about. Could it be that he wished for Harrington to make him an introduction to the beautiful widow?
Michael watched with keen interest as Lord Harrington said something which seemed to calm the man. The portly baron whispered into his friend's ear, then pointed toward the door which led to the hallway. With a brusque nod, the man—whom Michael now saw looked decidedly like a ruffian, despite his fine clothes—took his leave from the room.
Lord Harrington gave a conspicuous glance about the room, as though to make certain that no one was watching him, before making his way toward his sister.
What on earth was going on?
Michael watched as the baron whispered into Lady Atwood's ear and pointed again toward the door which led to the hall. He saw Katherine's expression transform from annoyance to worry, before the two siblings hurried away together.
Something nefarious was afoot, Michael thought grimly. Whilst he had sworn to respect Katherine's wish to be left alone, he could not stand idly by and allow something dreadful happen to her. Michael handed his now empty glass to a passing servant and, as discreetly as he could, followed the pair from the room.
The door which the pair had passed through did indeed lead into an empty hallway. Michael looked left and right, to try and ascertain which direction Lord Harrington might have brought his sister in, though both ways were dark and quiet.
Right, Michael deduced, would lead to the front of the house, which would be filled with people. If Harrington was up to something dastardly, he would not wish for an audience and so he must have gone left.
The ballroom slippers upon his feet meant that Michael made little noise—despite his size—as he crept down the empty hallway. The eyes of the portraits which lined the walls followed him along his way, though he paid them no heed. He was not looking, he was listening for any sound of Katherine behind the closed doors which he passed.
Finally, at the end of the hallway, Michael heard a shout.
"Behave yourself, sir!"
From behind the closed doorway, Michael heard Katherine's voice raised high with aggravation. Anger coursed through his veins as he reached out for the door-handle, but when he turned it, it would not move.
Curses, he thought, he would have to batter the thing down. Thankfully, however, his shoulder was saved the pain of attempting to crash through wood, when he noted that the key was in the lock. Lord Harrington, from the outside, must have locked Katherine in with that beast.
He turned the key, opened the door, and barged in to find himself in what he assumed was Lord Atwood's library. On the far side of the room stood Katherine, with her back against the wall as she brandished a fire-poker at her brother's friend. The Van Dyke points which trimmed the neckline of her dress were torn half-off and a murderous rage filled Michael as he realised that the cretin had tried to rav
ish her against her will.
"If you make one wrong move, you are a dead man," Michael growled, as he crossed the room and grabbed the villain by the scruff of his neck.
Surprise, size, and agility were all on Michael's side, and the ruffian froze with fear.
Pathetic, Michael thought disdainfully, too much of a coward to fight a man, he can only pick on defenceless women. Mind you, he could not help but smile, Katherine must have been quite capable of defending herself, for there was a dark bruise forming on the man's cheek.
"Unhand me, sir," the man protested, as he finally found his voice, "I have done nothing wrong. This madwoman attacked me with a fire poker, I was simply trying to disarm her."
"Do you expect me to believe such falsehoods, when I know that Lady Atwood was locked inside with you by her brother?" Michael queried, over Katherine's outraged cries.
"I should call you out for this, sir," he continued, his grip tightening as he resisted the urge to strangle the man. Never in his life had he felt such apoplectic rage and had a lady not been present, Michael certain that he would have killed the man with his bare hands.
"Oh, Michael, don't," Katherine's voice brought him back from his furious abyss, "People will talk. Just let him go and I will deal with my brother as I see fit."
He was rather inclined to argue, but when he caught sight of Katherine's ashen face, Michael relaxed his grip on the man, before shoving him away.
"Be gone," he commanded.
There was no need to repeat himself, for the man fled, without even a backward glance at the woman he had tried to attack. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Katherine and Michael alone.
"Are you alright?" Michael asked, rushing toward her.
His first instinct was to take her into his arms, but Katherine took a step back from him, as though sensing what he wished to do. Her expression was wary, her eyes veiled, refusing to reveal anything to him.
"Perfectly fine," she said lightly, though she still held a tight grip upon the fire-poker, "I can't thank you enough for your assistance, your Grace."
"For heaven's sake, call me Michael."
Her insistence on addressing him so formally did nothing to soothe his already frayed temper. How could she remain so calm and collected, when his heart was drumming a deafening tattoo within his chest? How could she be so unaffected by the tension which crackled between them?
"Thank you, Michael," she replied, a wry smile breaking her composure, "Honestly, I do not know what I would have done had you not arrived."
"You seemed to have matters in hand," Michael said, with a nod to the poker that she still clutched. He scowled, however, when he thought on what—or rather, who—had led her into such a precarious situation. "What was Harrington about, locking you in here with that man?"
Silence filled the room as Katherine frowned. She seemed hesitant to speak, as though she did not wish to share her secrets with him. Michael felt the beast within him roar back to life; he would protect her at any cost, from anyone.
"Tell me," Michael pleaded and at last she looked at him.
"I suspect he was trying to force me in to accepting Mr Kingston's hand," she said quietly, before giving a bitter laugh, "Though I had not expected him to go to such lengths to trap me. He must be heavily in debt, if he thought it prudent to go that far."
"He would sell his own sister into marriage?" Michael asked, aghast at Harrington's cruelty.
"It wouldn't be the first time," Katherine whispered, before she squared her shoulders and continued in a more practical tone. "We must return to the others, Michael, before anyone notices our absence. I should hate for you to become embroiled in a scandal on my behalf."
"I would do anything for you," Michael replied, his voice husky with emotion.
Katherine's eyes widened and her rosebud mouth parted slightly as she registered the sincerity of his words. Michael found himself transfixed by her lips, which were lush and red, and had once gifted him with the most generous of kisses. His breath became ragged as he recalled the afternoons that he and Katherine had spent lavishing tenderness and love upon each other. Did she too recall their former passion?
He glanced into Katherine's eyes and saw that they had become dark with desire. A gentle flush coloured her face and like him, she seemed to be struggling to breathe.
He took a tentative step toward her and when she did not back away, he reached out to take her in his arms.
"We shouldn't," she protested, though it was a feeble objection for her body had already melted against his.
Holding Katherine was intoxicating; her warmth and her scent left Michael lightheaded and giddy. Thinking that it would not be at all masculine to faint, Michael decided that he'd best kiss her before he collapsed.
He lowered his head and gently, gently caught Katherine's lips with his. As their lips connected, an explosion of desire erupted within Michael, and his previous gentleness evaporated.
He crushed her against him, savouring the feel of her soft curves against him. Katherine responded with similar fever, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him deeper and deeper into a kiss that Michael wished would go on forever.
They were so lost in their embrace, that the sound of the door opening did not register with either of them, and it was only when a scandalised cry tore through the room, that the pair broke apart.
"What in heaven's is going on here?"
Michael reluctantly let go of Katherine and turned to find an audience of three standing in the doorway. Lord Harrington and his mother were accompanied by their host, Lord Atwood, and all three were open-mouthed with shock.
The viscount's shock at finding his widowed sister in law in flagrante with a duke, was possibly genuine. Lord Harrington's flummoxed expression could only be attributed to finding his sister with a completely different man to the one he had intended her to be caught with.
"Katherine, are you alright?" Lord Atwood assumed a pious air as he rushed into the room toward his sister in law, "Your dress, it's all ripped. Did Elsmore do this? I should call you out, sir!"
The last remark was delivered more for show than anything else, Michael noted, for the viscount seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He was not so great an actor that he could hide the smile of triumph which tugged at the corners of his thin lips.
"Imagine," Atwood continued theatrically, "My own sister in law debauched under my very roof. How scandalous, how shameful."
Was it Michael's imagination or was Atwood deliberately insulting Katherine for his own petty pleasure? It certainly seemed that way, for the viscount was watching her with a barely concealed sneer on his lips. Katherine, for her part, seemed to have shrunk to a shadow of the woman she had been but a moment ago. Her eyes flickered from Atwood to her brother, then back again, and she seemed almost frightened of them both.
The protective beast within Michael's chest roared into life and he consciously assumed the haughty, entitled attitude of a duke before he spoke again.
"No need for such theatrics, my lord," he drawled, eyeing Atwood with contempt, "There is nothing seedy about this affair, you may rest assured. Katherine had just accepted my marriage proposal before you interrupted. You are seeking scandal where there is none."
Lord Atwood raised an eyebrow in disbelief, whilst Lady Harrington, who had hitherto been silent, gave a squawk of surprise.
"Michael," Katherine cautioned, reaching out a hand to tug at his sleeve.
He turned to look at her and saw worry etched across her beautiful face, but he could not discern if she feared for herself or for him. He gave her what he hoped was a comforting glance, before turning back to face their attackers.
"We'll have to discuss terms," Harrington blustered, at last finding his voice, "I want to make certain that she is properly taken care of."
The nerve of the man! Michael almost laughed aloud at the baron's pompous show of brotherly concern. How dare he lecture Michael on Katherine's welfare, when just this night
he had locked her in a room with a madman?
"You, sir," Michael replied in a calm voice, "Should count yourself lucky that there are other people here, for if there was not, you would already be dead."
"I beg your pardon?" Lord Harrington had the temerity to act offended.
"I saw you with your friend, Mr Kingston," Michael continued, before glancing at Atwood who stood statue still and listening. "I will say no more, but don't think to lecture me on your sister's welfare or you will find yourself at the sharp end of my wrath."
Lord Harrington paled and licked his lips nervously, but said no more. He could not even look at his sister, who stood shivering beside Michael.
"If you don't mind," Michael addressed Lord Atwood, who though unlikable was the only innocent in this whole drama, "I will escort Lady Atwood to her carriage. It's prudent that she gets an early night, for given the circumstances, I think it would be best we are wed by tomorrow."
"By all means," Lord Atwood gestured to the door, "Do let me know what you've planned, Elsmore. I wouldn't want to miss the wedding of the season, I'm sure people will be talking about it for years to come."
Michael grimaced at the viscount's none too subtle innuendo; it was clear that once Michael and Katherine left, Lord Atwood would waste no time in telling everyone just what had occurred.
Still, there was little that Michael could do to stop malicious tongues, and once Katherine was his bride, his name and title would protect her from even the worst of the ton's gossips. This thought cheered him and with a lighter heart, he placed his hand on Katherine's elbow and guided her from the room.
They made their way down the hallway in silence, their footsteps muffled by the oriental runners beneath their feet. Both were lost in their own thoughts and Michael wondered if the woman walking beside him felt as muddled as he.
On one hand, he abhorred the fact that scandal had forced a union between them, while on the other hand...
The beast within Michael's chest purred with contentment; Katherine was his at last. Even if she decided that she only wished to be his in name, it was enough for him. To know that he could protect her from her terrible brother, from society's censure, and from men like Mr Kingston would be enough.
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