Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
“You look as if you’ve swallowed a wasp,” Aaron remarked, leaning against the gilded archway with ease. “A decided improvement, I dare say, over the usual ‘swallowed a fly’ expression, for which you are rather notorious.”
Hugo scowled, his gaze sweeping the room again. He had been occupied for too long, speaking with Lord Farclay, and had lost track of Elspeth’s whereabouts.
“You seem especially perturbed. Are you all right?” Aaron pressed.
The evening’s crowd was far too boisterous, loud, and haughty for Hugo’s taste.
He would not admit it out loud, nor to his dearest friend, but he worried how Elspeth would fare in such snares, despite his grandmother’s tutelage.
Something in the summer’s heat made Society’s vultures especially ravenous.
“I am looking for Lady Inverhall. Have you seen her? I lost track of her when I was cornered by Lord Farclay about the damned trade routes.”
“No, I have not recently. But—”
“Well, what about her friends? I believe Lady Wrotham and the Duchess of Greystead are in attendance. Perhaps she is with them?”
“They are with their husbands, last I saw. But now that you mention it…” Aaron straightened, a flicker of something more serious in his usually twinkling eyes. “I think that Lady Inverhall left.”
“Left?”
“A while ago, I think.”
“Where has she gone?” Hugo’s voice was sharp, a low growl that carried an undercurrent of panic that made his palms sweat.
Aaron sighed, lifting his empty champagne flute slightly.
“I did not witness it directly, but she seemed to be distressed. I have heard murmurs… Her friends, Lady Wrotham and the Duchess of Greystead, had a stand-off with Lady Markham and that Corsley woman. I believe Lady Wickdale was present as well. It was decidedly unfriendly.”
Cold dread coiled in Hugo’s gut, souring the liquor he had been sipping.
Lady Markham’s type was all too familiar: a viper behind a smile, a poisoned tongue eager to wound a woman like Elspeth, if only to elevate herself above the rest.
He clenched his fist at his side before shoving his glass toward Aaron. “Hold it.”
Without another word, Hugo charged into the throng, his long strides eating up the distance across the crowded ballroom. Guests parted subtly as he passed, sensing the storm in his posture.
Aaron fell into step behind him, lowering his voice to a whisper. “My friend, do not do something you will regret tomorrow. She is not worth a scene. Best to address this diplomatically.”
But Hugo paid him no mind.
Across the room, near the fountain where water trickled gently over polished stone, he spotted Lady Markham and her husband, both engaged in conversation.
The delicate babble of the fountain did nothing to temper the heat rising in his chest. With every step, his resolve hardened, each stride carrying him closer to confrontation.
“Lord Markham,” he said, his voice dangerously soft as he came to a halt in front of the pair.
Poor Lord Markham looked like a mouse cornered by a lion, which was exactly Hugo’s intent. He stood even taller, his large frame shadowing Lord Markham’s puny stature.
Lady Markham, however, was a different sort of beast. She turned, a saccharine smile plastered on her face.
“Your Grace,” she purred. “We were just speaking of the splendid evening Lady Paddlefoot has organized. It will be difficult for anyone to match what has been done here.”
“I am sure you were,” Hugo said, his gaze fixed on her husband. “And I am also sure you’ve been speaking about my charge.”
Lady Markham’s smile faltered, her composure cracking when faced with his wrath. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace? I have not spoken with Lady Inverhall for some time now. It was most lovely to see her. I am not sure where she has gone off to…”
“Do not presume to play the innocent with me, madam,” Hugo’s voice rang out, firm and unyielding.
Heads turned, and the chatter around them faltered as the room fell to attentive silence.
“I have it on good authority that you drove Lady Inverhall out of this house with your cruel and unfounded slander.”
Lord Markham looked like he might faint.
“My dear, what is His Grace talking about?” he stammered.
“Nothing, my darling,” Lady Markham assured, her face a mask of feigned innocence, though a flush crept up her neck. “His Grace is merely mistaken about what I had spoken with Lady Inverhall about. He was not there.”
“You are the one who’s mistaken, Lady Markham,” Hugo thundered, his voice slicing through the stunned hush of the room. “Your conduct is utterly inexcusable, and I demand that you apologize to Lady Inverhall this instant.”
Lady Markham’s mask slipped entirely, her shoulders stiffening as she met his gaze.
Her eyes blazed with fury. “I will do no such thing! That Highland girl is a conniving, scheming witch. Her reputation is whispered about in every corner of London. I shall not bow to her, no matter her connection to you, Your Grace.”
“You will apologize,” Hugo insisted, his voice low, deep, and unyielding. “Fail to do so, and I swear by Heaven, I will see that both you and your husband are utterly ruined.”
Lord Markham let out a whimper, clutching his wife’s arm. “My love, please… is this quite necessary?”
“Do not lay a hand on me, you incompetent fool!” Lady Markham shrieked, flicking her fan sharply to ward him off. “This… this barbarian is causing a scene! And it was not only me. Lady Wickdale and Lady Corsley were involved as well!”
“A scene, is it?” Hugo’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper, every word a controlled blaze. “It is you and your coterie of gossips who have caused irreparable harm to a lady who has done naught but strive to comport herself within your absurd societal dictates.”
You do not deserve her.
He turned on his heel, leaving the stunned pair in his wake, his heart a furious drum against his ribs.
He had made a scene. He had lost his temper in a room full of London’s elite. The whispers had already begun, a soft, venomous hiss that followed him as he made for the exit.
“Did you hear how loud he was?” Lady Featherstone whispered to Lord Abernathy as he passed. “His grandmother would be most appalled. He is lucky Her Grace is in France for the week!”
“Indeed, most unlike His Grace to show such anger. I wonder what happened?” Lord Abernathy asked rhetorically, grabbing a canape from a passing tray. “Most unlike him, indeed.”
The scandal would be the talk of the ton by morning, and every paper would have a field day with the Duke of Arrowfell’s public display of rage.
Worst of all, Hugo did not care.
A cold, hard part of him felt a grim satisfaction at the horrified expressions on their faces.
Serves them right.
“Hugo,” Aaron said, rushing over to him with a glass of brandy, his face a mask of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Leave it alone, Sarford,” Hugo growled, pressing the glass to his chest. The liquid sloshed over the rim, but he did not notice. He was focused on the exit, on the thought of finding her. “I have something to attend to.”
How could she have left without a word?
As his mind raced, he became angrier. Not just at them, the gossiping harpies who had cornered her, but at her.
Why did she not tell me? Why did she not come to me for help?
She was his responsibility. He was her protector. The thought of her running off was a fresh spark on his kindling rage.
Did she not trust him? Did she see him as just another person to be feared or avoided?
He clenched his fists at his sides. He would not tolerate her silence or evasion. He would not allow her to shut him out. He had promised to keep her safe, and at the first sign of a threat, she had fled.
The idea of her being out in the city alone, vulnerable, stirred a hot terror that mixed with his rage.
He did not care what the world thought of him.
He did not care about his title or his reputation.
He was a man who had been pushed to his limits, and all he could think of was the woman who had brought him to this point.
He would find her, and this time, there would be no running away.
“I hope you are enjoying the festivities, Your Grace,” Lady Paddlefoot said with a deep curtsey, showcasing her generous bosom as she looked up at him beneath full, long eyelashes. “Thank you most kindly for coming and for supporting my chosen charity.”
She was a perfectly poised doll, with neat blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes that rivaled the unique sea-green hue of his own. She smelled strongly of the lilacs she had placed around the room, a most fragrant scent.
She was everything a duke’s wife should be. Yet, only one woman occupied his every thought.
He did not want flowers and finery; he wanted a mess and mud. He wanted a tangle of dark brown hair and sparkling emerald-green eyes. A fiery spirit, a kind heart.
Where are you, Elspeth?
“It is perfectly fine, Lady Paddlefoot,” he replied with a small bow. “If you’ll excuse me, I have important business I must see to immediately.”
“If you are looking for Lady Inverhall, I saw her speaking with Lord Middleby.”
“Lord Middleby, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
After a hasty greeting, he walked out of the ballroom, a solitary, furious figure against the glittering backdrop of the party.
The dewy air outside was a shock to his overheated skin, but it did nothing to soothe the inferno within him.
The need to find Elspeth was a physical ache, a demand that eclipsed all concern for propriety or reputation. He had to find her, and he would not rest until he did.
Hugo burst through the front door of Arrowfell House, his face a mask of furious purpose.
The front door slammed shut with a bang that echoed through the grand foyer, drawing the immediate, wide-eyed attention of a footman and a passing maid.
He did not slow his pace, his long coat billowing behind him as he stormed down the hall.
His voice, a low rumble of thunder, brought every servant to a sudden halt.
“Where is she?” he demanded, fixing a young footman with a piercing look. “Lady Inverhall. Where is she?”
The footman swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he clutched his tray. “Y-Yes, Your Grace. She… she’s in the drawing room. I-I can show you the way, if you wish, Your Grace.”
Hugo did not wait for more, already striding past him. He shoved the heavy oak door open without knocking.
Elspeth was in the drawing room, just as he had been told. She stood by the tall window, an ethereal figure framed against the inky darkness of the night. The city’s distant lights were a pale constellation below, but she was a star herself.
Her emerald-green gown shimmered, a brilliant contrast against the ethereal paleness of her skin. Her hair, a cascade of brown, was lit from behind by a single lamp, each strand a fiery coil.
“Lady Inverhall,” he began, his voice a low, dangerous growl that stilled the air. “I shall brook no departure from any assembly—or from my sight—without my knowledge. Do you understand me?”
She did not turn around, her stillness a frustrating defiance.
A tense silence hung between them, suffocating in its weight.
“I am aware you were set upon by those wretched creatures they call ladies,” he continued, his voice rising as his control began to crack. “But that is no excuse. And I hear you were seen with Middleby! You must always…”
Come to me first.
The words caught in his throat. He stopped mid-sentence, the anger freezing in his veins.
Her silence was not defiance. It was something else entirely. Her shoulders were shaking, a subtle tremor that he had not noticed at first. And then, he heard it—a soft, choked sob.
She was crying.
He took a hesitant step forward, his boot making a small, soft thud on the rug. Her shoulders shook again, a more violent tremor this time, and a raw, muffled sob escaped her. The sound was so fragile that it tore through his fury like a blade through silk.
God in Heaven, what have I done? I came here to—to what? To punish her? To lord my authority over her?
The fierce purpose that had driven him out of the ball, the righteous indignation he had clung to, felt pathetic and hollow now.
It had been nothing more than a shield for his own terror.
The idea of her disobedience had so consumed him, the public scandal, and the threat to his control that he had not considered the simplest, most human reason for her actions.
She is hurting.
His shoulders sagged, his fists unclenched, the tension seeping out of his body. He was not a master, and she was not a wayward child in need of discipline.
All he could see was the fragile, trembling woman by the window, her silhouette a picture of such profound misery. The beautiful emerald of her gown, the exquisite curve of her neck—all of it was lost to him, replaced by the heartbreaking sight of her shaking shoulders.
He had come here to control her, to scold her for running away, and in his blind fury, he had proven exactly why she had needed to escape in the first place.