Chapter 30
It wasn’t that Clio wasn’t having a good time.
She was. No, she was fairly certain that she was.
She was surprised, actually, to find that she enjoyed parts of it—she enjoyed dancing, Phoebe laughing at her side.
She enjoyed seeing people she hadn’t seen in years and learning that a diamond of the first water from her debut Season had decided not to marry, no matter her many proposals, or that a previous wallflower was now happily married with her fifth child anticipated soon.
That was rather too many children, in Clio’s opinion, but she was happy for the girl, who glowed on the arm of her husband.
It was nice. It was enjoyable.
She still needed some air.
She slipped out onto the verandah, murmuring an excuse to Phoebe, and sucked in a cool lungful of night air. It was hot in the ballroom—it was always sweltering in these ballrooms; that was one thing she hadn’t missed—and she could feel Hector’s eyes upon her with every step she took.
She didn’t dislike it, necessarily. She might have even gone so far as to say it pleased her. But it was … discomfiting. Like she was too aware of her own skin.
“I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here, unchaperoned.”
Clio turned at the sound of the snide voice.
“Oh for the love of—of course it’s you.”
Lord Gwanton’s face became a mask of surprise at her refusal to try to mollify him, her refusal to play nice. She was simply all out of nice, though.
There was a certain satisfaction in noting that his nose hadn’t healed properly.
It was crooked in a way that she didn’t recall it being before the lord had suffered an unfortunate meeting with Hector’s walking stick.
On another man, it might actually have looked rakish.
On Gwanton, it looked like just desserts.
“I see that marriage to that beast has not improved your morals any, Lady Clio,” he sniffed.
“It’s Your Grace now,” she said primly, because if there was ever a time to rely on aristocratic hauteur, it was when dealing with this sludge pile of a man.
He scoffed, shaking his head with apparent pity. Clio barely resisted rolling her eyes.
“I do not care to honor a marriage that was wrought in scandal and disgrace,” he said haughtily. “You may think that you have redeemed yourself enough to show your face here without censure, but I will not be silenced! I will speak the truth!”
Goodness, he was exhausting. Clio’s own marriage might not be perfect—she still wasn’t entirely certain that it wasn’t in shambles—but, God, had she ever made a good decision when she hadn’t accepted this lout’s offer of marriage.
She would have been forced to stuff her ears with cotton wool every day just to maintain a shred of sanity.
“Lord Gwanton,” she said wearily. “Just … go away.”
He sputtered like a pot set too long to boil.
“How dare you speak to me in such a way. How very dare you! You, madam, are entirely disreputable, and I am offended by your mere presence here. You should be ejected from this event at once. I shall speak to the hostess!”
“Good luck,” Clio said. She didn’t like the odds of a minor lord getting a duchess thrown out of a party, but it might be amusing to see him try.
He hadn’t run out of hot air, however, because he just kept blustering. He clearly loved the sound of his own voice.
“And worse, you are not even shamed by public censure? I thank my lucky stars for the day I was rid of you, because you are nothing more than a little—”
“Excuse me.”
A polite voice, albeit one carved in Northern tones, came from behind Gwanton. Gwanton turned, and—
Crack!
Hector’s fist caught him right across the face.
Gwanton stumbled back, hands flying to his nose. Almost immediately, Clio could see that blood was pouring down his face in a fountain.
“How dare you!” he cried from behind his cupped hands, voice sounding significantly more nasally than it had mere moments ago. “I shall have you arrested.”
“Good thing about being a duke,” Hector said casually while Clio gaped, “they don’t arrest you for things like this.”
“You broke my nose,” Gwanton whined. He raised a fist, and it looked less like a threat and more like a tantrum. “You’ll pay for this.”
Hector raised his walking stick, looking perfectly willing to meet Gwanton’s threat of violence. This jolted Clio out of her shock, plunging her instead into an icy bath of fury.
“Hector, no!” she cried, stepping between them. She pushed at the arm that had half-raised his walking stick. “You—you can’t just punch people in ballrooms.”
“Yes, listen to her, you beast—” Gwanton began.
“Oh, shut your mouth,” Clio snapped at him over her shoulder. “I am sick to death of you. You’re lucky I don’t let him pummel you.”
Gwanton clearly wanted to say more, but a glance at Hector’s cane apparently warned him of the lack of wisdom in such a move. He shot them both a poisonous look, then scuttled away, his hand still pressed over his bleeding nose.
Clio turned back to Hector. Behind him, she could see curious, shocked faces peering out from the dance floor.
Good God, this was a disaster. She’d come here, at least in part, to smooth things over for Hector.
They might be in the midst of a dreadful quarrel, but she still intended to uphold her promises, and helping him gain credibility in the ton was one of those promises.
And now, this.
She fought the urge to throw up her hands in outrage.
“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. “I mean, truly. Have you gone mad?”
She thought he might look annoyed. She thought he might argue back.
But he just smiled at her, slow and sure.
“Aye, princess,” he said. “I’ve gone utterly mad for you.”
Clio was spitting mad as she dragged him around to a less visible side of the house. Hector knew he should probably worry about that—he was still working on earning her forgiveness, after all—but he felt very calm as he let himself be towed along.
Something had finally gone right. He had been on Clio’s side against someone who wished to hurt her. And that was where he should always be. Her and him on one side, everyone else on the other.
She would see that. Eventually. After she stopped yelling at him.
“—absolute lunacy,” she ranted, her grip on his wrist punishing. She could leave bruises, for all he cared. Looking at them might even be a nice reminder of her touch upon him. “Surely even you can see that this is absolute lunacy, Hector!”
He liked it when she said his name, he decided.
“It is fine that you don’t care about what the ton thinks—well, it isn’t fine, it’s very annoying—but you cannot go hitting people at balls! Not even when they are as completely dreadful as that—that—”
She was apparently lost for words sufficient to describe Gwanton’s uselessness.
“Sack of shite?” he replied helpfully.
Clio whirled. This was evidently far enough away from the fray for her to be properly enraged with him. That was fine, though he didn’t like the part where she let go of his arm.
“Is this a joke to you?” she hissed.
“No,” he said soberly. “No, I am entirely in earnest, Clio. If someone offends you, I will defend you. It is as simple as that.”
She looked at him as though he was talking pure nonsense, which was foolish, because this was the most sensible he’d been in ages. Maybe in the whole of his life.
“Hector,” she said. Good. They were back to his name. “You cannot just punch men who offend me.”
“Wrong,” he said flatly. “I can.” No, that wasn’t exactly how he wanted to phrase it.
“I want to,” he clarified. “I want to punch anyone who offends you—well, yes, probably only the men; I’m not going to hit a woman.
But if there are more Gwantons, I want to punch them.
I want to be there to punch them, because I want to be next to you wherever you go.
I want to watch you while you dance, because you should get to enjoy that even if I can’t, and then I want you to come right back into my arms.”
She was struck speechless, but Hector had more. This felt good. It felt right.
“I want a home with you. I want you to tear out all the ugly decorations in that stupid townhouse and make it nice. I want you to ask me my opinion about wall coverings, even though we both know I don’t have any, and that I will agree with whatever you choose.
I want to have a family with you—not just an heir, a family.
I want as many children as you want to give me. ”
Her eyes were as big in her face as he’d ever seen them.
“I want to fight with you, but only over the little things, because I want us to agree on the big ones. I want to show you every part of the world you want to see. I want to—well, I don’t want to go to more Society events, but I will, for you. I want to be with you. I want you.”
Her hands were shaking, so he held them in his own, because if he was going to make promises, he had to start fulfilling them, too. He said he would support and protect her. That started now.
“I know I’m likely not good enough for you, princess,” he said.
These words were harder to get out. “But I will try. And if you let me, you will never be alone again. Because I—I love you, Clio. I love you in a way I didn’t know I could love someone.
So, yes. I’ve gone mad. And I’m not sorry about it in the least.”
Clio stared at him for the longest seconds of his life. He had just started to fear that this was going to go very, very badly for him, when she let out a sharp, shocked burst of laughter—
And then threw her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his so suddenly that he barely caught her in time.
Thank God, Hector thought. And then, Oh, bollocks.
Because they were still standing in plain view of the party. And he had promised to protect Clio. Which, right now, might mean protecting her from herself.
“Princess,” he murmured against her lips, hating himself for doing it, “people are watching. They can see.”
Clio pulled back for a moment, glancing at the curious eyes watching them from inside. Then she rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Let them,” she said. “I don’t care what they think.”
She pressed her lips to his again.