Chapter Ten #2
Sir Heath let out a bark of laughter that grated on Charles’s senses, so reminiscent it was of the braying taunts of the boys who’d tormented him at Eton.
Sir Heath would have been just such a boy at school—attaching himself to the vilest creatures to inflate his sense of self-worth by preying on those he deemed weaker than he.
Doubtless he’d been the kind of boy who took pleasure in tormenting kittens and pulling the wings off flies.
The urge to remove the smile from the man’s face threatened to overcome Charles, swelling higher than the need to extract himself from the clutches of a grasping harpy.
If she were a harpy.
The young woman he’d been holding in his arms earlier stared at him, a plea in her that even the most dim-witted soul could understand.
Please, no…
Her distress was so potent he could almost taste it. But it would be nothing to the distress she suffered were the scandal reported in the papers.
Charles closed his eyes for a moment, and the image of his beautiful horse filled his mind—before being slaughtered at Whitcombe’s hands.
There was no doubt that the duke would carry out his threat.
The man had a reputation for implacability.
Perhaps, in another lifetime, the two of them might have been friends.
In this lifetime, it was better to have such as man as a brother-in-law rather than an enemy.
Cursing his fate, Charles met Whitcombe’s gaze and nodded, slowly.
The anger in Whitcombe’s eyes morphed into relief. Charles glanced about the terrace, taking some consolation in Sir Heath’s evident disappointment. That vile reprobate would have to find others to torment.
But the disappointment in Sir Heath’s eyes was nothing in comparison to the cold fury in the duchess’s vivid green gaze. She stared at Charles, her mouth set in a firm line. Then she blinked and turned her attention to the young woman—Charles’s betrothed.
Shit. My betrothed.
But perhaps it was not all bad. He needed a wife, and tonight’s events had, at least, saved him the bother of having to play the gallant suitor. Whitcombe was wealthy enough to give the girl a substantial dowry, and the threat of scandal might persuade him to increase it.
For the first time Charles permitted himself to indulge in a little optimism, which faded as he set eyes upon his fiancée.
The duchess pulled the girl close. “Hush, dearest, all will be well.”
“B-but I don’t like him.”
The young woman glanced at Charles and flinched.
“You’ve no need to like him,” the duke said. “Just marry him.” Then he offered his hand to Charles. “Well?”
Charles held his hand out, and Whitcombe took it in a firm grip—a sign of domination, though Charles could have easily crushed the duke’s hand if he wished.
“I shall await you in my study at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Whitcombe said. “I trust you’ll be on time.”
Charles withdrew his hand and nodded.
“Very well. Now, take my sister’s hand in honor of your pledge.”
“Brother!” the young woman said. “Must I?”
Whitcombe stared at Sir Heath before fixing his gaze on the girl. “Yes, you must. And you know why.”
Before he could stop himself, Charles found himself reaching for her, as if his body sought to have her in his arms once more.
“Olivia, take his hand,” Whitcombe said, an edge to his voice.
Olivia…
So that was her name.
Lady Olivia Whitcombe. A respectable enough name for his intended. At least John would approve, and doubtless the valet would fall for her doe-eyed act of innocence.
But were her innocence only an act, would she be looking at him now with such fear in her eyes?
“Olivia…” Whitcombe repeated.
She flinched, and a spark of anger ignited in Charles’s heart. There was no need to be cruel toward the girl.
Fuck, I’m getting soft.
Her chest rose and fell in a deep breath, as if she summoned courage at the mouth of hell. Then she strode toward him, hand extended.
Charles darted toward her and grasped her arm, and she stumbled against him.
“I say!” Whitcombe cried. “I’ll not have you manhandle my sister as if she has no worth.”
Still holding her—Olivia—in his arms, Charles gestured toward the ground, and the broken glass that, had he not caught her, she would have stepped on.
Whitcombe glanced at the shards, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile.
“Perhaps you’re not such a total blackguard after all.”
Olivia glanced at the ground then met Charles’s gaze. The fear in her eyes lessened, and he caught a flicker of gratitude.
“Come here now, Olivia,” Whitcombe said. “I think you’ve had enough excitement for one evening. It’s time we returned home.”
She approached her brother, veering around the shards of glass.
“Sir, I’ll expect you tomorrow morning on time,” Whitcombe said. “Do not disappoint me. I trust you understand the consequences if you do.”
Charles nodded and bowed, remaining on the terrace as the duke exited, arm in arm with his sister and the duchess.
As they crossed the threshold, the young woman glanced over her shoulder at him, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes, before the trio slipped back inside the ballroom, leaving Charles alone with Sir Heath.
“Well, well,” Sir Heath said. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or commiserate with you.
I’d say you’ve been well and truly hooked.
It remains to be seen whether you’re also gutted.
Stand me a brandy at White’s and I’ll appraise you of the young woman’s history.
Best to be forewarned if you’re to marry the natural daughter of the late duke. ”
Devil’s breeches! So that explained the girl’s timidity, and Whitcombe’s anger.
Sir Heath let out a chuckle. “Caught you properly, didn’t she?”
Perhaps she had, but Charles didn’t know who was worse—Whitcombe for foisting his bastard sister onto him, or Sir Heath, who took such pleasure in witnessing the misery of others.
Suppressing the urge to smash the grin from the fool’s face, Charles strode past him in the wake of the Whitcombes, taking care to bump the other man’s shoulder, knocking him off balance.
Before he closed the door, he heard the very pleasurable sound of Sir Heath toppling to the ground, together with a volley of curses.
Good. Let Sir Heath fall on the broken glass. Charles had no desire to protect him, not like…
He froze.
Not like the young woman—Olivia. Natural child or not, she still elicited in him the urge to protect. When she’d been in danger of stepping on the broken glass, his instinct had compelled him to pull her to safety. And how good it had felt to have her in his arms!
He really was getting soft.
And that would not do. A man who was soft was no man at all. Women, especially wives, took advantage of softness in a man. And if he were to be forced into the marriage state, he had no intention of being taken advantage of—not even by a diminutive woman with a quiet voice and soulful eyes.