Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Get away from her. Now.”
A scuff of a boot sounded through the very silent balcony, and Isabella’s breath caught as she got her first glimpse of her savior.
Only, her stomach dropped when she saw the full form of him, drawn up to an impossibly tall height. Isabella herself was taller than most women, but she did not think she would even reach beyond his jawline.
A ragged, dark beard covered the man’s jaw and neck, thick around his mouth, which was twisted into a snarl as he stared down Lord Peregrine.
She bit back a noise as she saw a deep scar that cleaved his face down one side.
It was as tanned as his skin now, but it looked as though it had once been the worst injury one could imagine.
What happened to him?
When the man raised his hands to reach for Lord Peregrine, the light from the ballroom at his back illuminated the many scars littered over his hands.
Isabella realized who she was in the presence of:
The Duke of Rochdale.
The people of the ton had branded him a beast because of his hideous scars, yet here he was, defending her from a true fiend, Lord Peregrine.
Her eyes cut to Lord Peregrine, who gaped at the Duke with wide-eyed terror.
“You… you are interrupting a private conversation, Your Grace.”
The only response he got was a huff from the Duke, and then another growl reverberated across the balcony.
“Truly, Your Grace,” Lord Peregrine said, sounding slightly breathless. “Lady Isabella and I… we were just talking, were we not?”
He looked at her then, as did the Duke. Isabella didn’t wither beneath the weight of Lord Peregrine’s stare, but she did straighten her spine beneath the duke’s. She could feel the intensity of his gaze. It held a weight she had not encountered before.
Isabella locked eyes with the Duke and communicated her wishes. She wanted to be away from Lord Peregrine and his eager hands, yes, but not… not from this new savior.
A savior, she thought to herself, as if she were a damsel in one of the books Sibyl liked to read.
Still trying to catch her breath, Isabella considered the situation. Perhaps she was a damsel in distress, and she needed the beastly Duke to rescue her.
“See?” Lord Peregrine casually moved closer to Isabella, and she stiffened again. “A friendly chat. Come, Lady Isabella, we shall resume our—”
“I told you to stay away from her,” the Duke said through gritted teeth.
Before Peregrine could get too close, the Duke’s arm snapped out as he sent a fist flying right at her attacker. Peregrine crashed into the balustrade, crumpling almost to his knees. He staggered, gripping the stone boundary, cursing and clutching his jaw.
“You beast!” Lord Peregrine roared. “You raving bastard of a—”
He broke into a deep, agonized howl, yet Isabella could not bring herself to feel sorry for him.
All she could see was the gathering crowd coming toward the balcony doors, more peering looks, more whispers, and further speculation.
She wished to sink into the shadows and become invisible. As a lady who had grown up being the ton’s diamond, she wished she were nothing but coal in that moment.
“Did you not all see?” Lord Peregrine shouted to the crowd.
He swayed as he tried to get to his feet. Isabella curled her lip, noticing how it became an act.
“See how he lives up to his true name!” He sent a fierce, hateful glare at the duke. “The Beast of Rochdale. You are not welcome here. You ought never to have shown your hideous face. How dare you enact such violence in civil society!”
Despite his intentions, His Lordship’s wild movements only had him drawing attention to Isabella’s dress, and she couldn’t move away from him fast enough to stop him from catching the tear.
More gasps came from the open doorway into the ballroom.
“The beast,” the ladies whispered. “What has he done?”
“It really is true,” the lords murmured in response. “He has tried to defile Lady Isabella!”
“Enough,” the Duke growled, stepping forward, voice low but commanding, his presence radiating danger. “Silence this at once, Peregrine.”
Isabella shouted, drawing more attention. “The Duke is faultless. It was Lord Peregrine. He—”
“Attacked and accused,” Lord Peregrine cried, standing to his full height. With a sneer, he wiped blood from his nose. Isabella didn’t know when he had been hit there, but it flashed red in the scant light.
He spread his arms, calling to his rapt crowd that only grew.
“I merely wandered out here for a moment alone, but I caught His Grace and Lady Isabella in a most compromising position!” He took a heavy breath as if terribly upset by what he had witnessed.
“And for my trouble in saving Lady Isabella, I was attacked by the beast himself!”
The Duke’s fists clenched, and he stepped closer, every inch the alpha, every muscle taut. “Close your mouth, Peregrine, or I will—”
“I will not be silenced!” Peregrine snapped, leaning forward, his defiance flaring. “The ton must know what occurred!”
More murmurs rippled through the crowd, but the ringing in Isabella’s ears was too great. The shadows loomed around her; the balcony shrank in size, yet all she could do was stare at the man half-hidden in darkness. He did not appear to cower, only to be where he felt comfortable.
Before more wails could come from Lord Peregrine, the crowd parted abruptly, and the tall, lean figure of Lord Harcross emerged. His dark brows were furrowed. Immediately, he scanned the shadows, grim tightness pressing his lips together.
Sweeping a hand through his auburn hair, he said, voice low and dangerous: “Lord Peregrine, remove yourself from my home immediately.”
“Lord Harcross, I am an upstanding—”
“I do not care,” Harcross cut him off. “Right now, you are causing a commotion I will not tolerate. Leave, or I will see you personally escorted out.”
If Lord Harcross cared about the shocked noises coming from the gathered attendees behind him, he did not show it. Isabella could only watch in wonder as Lord Peregrine spluttered more, shot her an enraged glare, then stormed up to the Duke.
“I hope you rot, beast.”
“Lord Peregrine,” Lord Harcross demanded. “Now.”
With another sniff of disdain, Peregrine shoved his way through the multitude, still cursing.
In a moment, Lord Harcross put on a beaming smile just as he turned back to the ballroom. “My esteemed guests, I do implore you to continue your revelries. The night remains young, and too many ladies have not been called upon to dance. Claim your partners for the next set!”
He clapped twice, and the music struck up again.
Beneath the blanket of sound, the host turned back to her. “I shall have your dress mended.” He beckoned a nearby footman, who held a tray of wine, and Isabella caught the instruction for a maid to come to tend to her dress.
Blushing, Isabella waited to give her gratitude, but her stomach dropped.
Before she could say anything to Lord Harcross, her mother’s face appeared over his shoulder, making her apologies as she pushed through to the balcony. Behind her was Sibyl, her face pale and eyes wide.
“Isabella!” her mother cried. She and Sibyl were closely followed by Isabella’s father. “Isabella, what on earth happened? People are saying you have been compromised. Heavens, do not say that. Do not say!”
“Mama,” Sibyl complained. “Let us not assume and instead help.”
“Who must I speak with?” Isabella’s father demanded. “Who is the man who has defiled your innocence? He must marry you immediately!”
“Lord Peregrine made advances toward Lady Isabella,” the Duke said, voice low and controlled, carrying easily across the balcony. “He tore her dress. I stopped him.”
A maid apologized as she beckoned Isabella toward the end of the balcony so that she could mend the torn seam. Isabella, remaining stunned, merely felt like she was outside of herself, wondering what had even happened.
Isabella’s mother’s voice was sharp and frantic. “What? A man tore her dress? First Hermia, then you with Lord Stanton, and now this! Goodness, the shame does not end. I cannot abide this any longer. Four daughters, and two have already ruined us.”
“Mama, do not be so cruel!” Sibyl cried. “Isabella is innocent!”
Once the dress was mended, the maid curtsied and removed herself from the balcony. Isabella envied how she managed to slip away so easily.
Her father jabbed a finger at Isabella. “And you! How could you allow this to happen? Speak!”
The Duke’s eyes flicked to Isabella briefly, then back to her parents. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through their clamor.
“I will marry Lady Isabella. To restore her honor—and mine.”
For a moment, only the music from the ballroom filled the balcony.
Isabella heard her own breath, loud and ragged, as her heart hammered so fast that she leaned back against the balustrade, fighting internally against a bout of dizziness.
Then laughter erupted from her parents, sharp and incredulous.
“Your Grace, I do not wish to insult you, but what absurdity!” Lady Wickleby exclaimed. “Do not bring such notions to my daughter’s head. She has endured enough.”
The Duke remained unmoved and silent. He waited, letting the pause stretch, and gradually their laughter faltered.
“You truly are offering such a thing?” her father asked cautiously.
“I am,” the Duke confirmed in a firm tone. “And I do not appreciate Lady Wickleby’s remarks. I am offering to marry your daughter. Her reputation is at stake, and I will see it preserved.”
“By sacrificing your own reputation?” Lady Wickleby’s voice shook timidly, and her lower lip quivered.
It was evident that she knew not how to respond to the intimidating Duke, even when he was offering Isabella a form of salvation.
The Duke stiffened, unshaken.