Chapter Thirty-Three
After Josie had returned to the ballroom with Griffendale, she’d been unable to find Nicolas, so she’d tiptoed up the first few steps of the dais so that she could peer out over the crowd.
She’d immediately spotted him and then helplessly watched as Nicolas exited the ballroom, Lydia on his heels.
It seemed her suspicions were correct, and that Lydia had somehow prevented Nicolas from making their rendezvous.
Chasing after Nicolas in the throng of revelers had been slow going.
Josie finally broke through, only to be stuck behind a group of men who seemed to be more concerned with arguing than navigating the hallway.
She realized that one of these men was Jonathon when she re-entered the study at the same time he’d said, “Bloody hell. Not again. Nicolas, you bloody fool.”
She’d stood there gawking as Baron Small made accusations against Nicolas. Some other arrogant duke or earl or viscount had told Small to shoot Nicolas. Meanwhile, Lydia reclined on the settee, her eyes wide and unblinking.
And then came the baron’s horrifying demand. “Thankfully, you are witnesses to his ungentlemanly intentions. He shall make his proposal in front of you all, and they will marry immediately.”
Nicolas squared his shoulders and boldly stepped into the baron’s space. “Lydia slipped and hurt her ankle. I carried her here instead of leaving her on the ground. Before you entered, I was on my way to ask Lady Siddons if there was a physician in attendance. Tell him, Lydia.”
The woman stared at Nicolas as if she were a brainless cow.
“My lord, I demand you make this right,” the baron said.
Nicolas pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I do not care to discuss this in front of an audience.”
“Propose to her right now,” the baron again demanded.
His gaze fixed on Nicolas, Jonathon approached the baron. “Don’t do it, Wentworth.”
“Step to the side, Viscount. You know you are not permitted to interfere,” the baron said.
The half dozen men in the room all called out directives.
“Propose to Lydia, now.”
“Nay, ask the pugilist now.”
“Propose to the pugilist at her next mill.”
It seemed this newest debacle had been set into motion by Jonathon’s wager. Forget about punching; when this night was over, Josie would wrap her hands around the viscount’s throat and squeeze.
“If you do not propose, right this second…” To Josie’s horror, the baron pulled a pistol from his waistcoat and aimed it at Nicolas’s chest. “You all know I am justified for shooting him right here and now if he doesn’t propose marriage.”
A room full of men, and not one of them was doing a thing to stop this madness, therefore, Josie would take things into her own hands. She pushed the man in front of her to the side and stepped between the baron and Nicolas.
“Stay back, Josie,” Nicolas said, panic lacing his voice.
Jonathon caught her around the waist and pulled her backward. She fought his tug, but he yanked on her with so much force she lost her footing. He might be trying to protect her, but he was the fool who’d caused this particular muddle.
“Papa, please.” Tears streamed down Lydia’s cheeks. “Please don’t shoot Nicolas. I hurt my ankle, and he was getting me help.”
“I dare say, Small, do not kill him in the study,” the man who’d insisted the baron challenge Nicolas to a duel said.
“Our wives and daughters are out there enjoying themselves and would be highly displeased to discover there is a dead man in the study. We’d never hear the end of it.
I’ve told you before, meet him at dawn like a proper gentleman.
We will be sure to tell the authorities you had no choice. ”
“A duel? My money is on Wentworth,” one of the imbecilic aristocrats declared.
While trying to wriggle free from Jonathon’s grasp and listening to a group of men discuss wagers and a duel that might lead to a death, the bitter truth hit Josie: she could not punch her way out of this.
She was powerless in Nicolas’s world. She was nothing to these men who saw women as inferior and weak and something to be won in a wager.
Even an aristocratic lady held no power, evidenced by the fact that instead of standing up for herself or Nicolas, Lydia lay on the couch wailing like a child.
But Josie loved Nicolas. He’d treated her as an equal.
No, that wasn’t quite correct. He’d treated her as if she were better than him.
Her dreams had become his dreams. He’d either lose a duel or have to live with killing another man.
She had no doubts. Nicolas would not survive the guilt. His soul was too gentle.
Her instincts told her the baron was bluffing, and that he would never shoot Nicolas or agree to a duel. He’d even dismissed the idea with a cowardly look in his beady eyes. This was simply a threat so that he could win some wager.
But could she take the chance?
In Nicolas’s world, men who deflowered aristocratic ladies married them. It had been months since Nicolas had bedded Lydia, but he had slept with her. Under the current circumstances, maybe it was in Nicolas’s best interest for Josie to let him go.
She swallowed hard to keep her tears from flowing. “Nicolas, propose to her. End all of this.”
“Please, Nicolas,” Lydia said between her slobbery sobs.
Nicolas stared into Josie’s eyes. “I love you, Josephine Martin.”
The baron uncocked the pistol, the sound a seemingly loud clink in the chaos. His hand quivered so much that Josie feared he had no control over his weapon.
“Ask my daughter to marry you, now,” the baron bellowed, “Or I will exact my pound of flesh.”
“This has gone far enough,” Jonathon said. “’Tis time for me to come clean.”
“What in the hell are you talking about, Davenport?” Nicolas asked.
“A duel is the proper way to end this,” the foolish man who wanted to make another wager said.
“There will be no duel,” an authoritative voice said. “Small, holster the pistol.”
Griffendale strolled into the fray, his hands splayed in front of him as if he were taming a lion. He dropped onto one knee and took Josie’s hand in his. “Will you marry me, Josephine Martin?”
What in the bloody hell? Josie ripped her hand from the duke’s grip. “What in the blazes are you doing?” She growled at him through clenched teeth. “There is an insane man threatening Nicolas. No, I won’t marry you.”
The duke grinned up at her as he inclined his chin toward the pistol.
Oh.
What a brilliant man.
She nodded.
Nicolas closed his eyes on an inhale. When he opened them, he whispered, “Be careful.”
Putting his trust in her, the overwrought Nicolas Wentworth had read her mind and given her the go-ahead. He was allowing her to rescue him this time, and she loved him all the more for it.
Time seemed to stand still as Griffendale whispered, “One. Two…” At the same time, he said, “Three,” Josie lunged for the pistol.
Time sped up.
Lydia screamed as Griffendale knocked the baron’s feet out from under him. In one swift move, Nicolas and Griffendale wrestled the baron onto his stomach in front of their gawking audience.
“Small, you frigging imbecile.” Davenport took the pistol from Josie, cocked it, and shoved it into his waistband. Wearing his cocksure expression, he thrust his chest out as if he were the one who’d saved the day. “Wentworth, don’t you have something to ask Josephine?”
Without hesitation, Nicolas assumed the position. His knee dug into the baron’s back as he asked, “Josephine Martin, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Josie dropped down so that they were eye to eye. “Yes, Nicolas Wentworth, if you will be my husband?”
Leaning forward, Nicolas captured Josie’s lips in a gentle kiss.
From beneath them, the baron moaned into the carpeting.
Jonathon raised his hands to the ceiling. “Thank you. Oh, thank you. Hallelujah. It’s about bloody time. Thank you,” he sang out.
Josie stood, and Griffendale and Nicolas hauled Small onto his feet. The duke grasped the baron by his tailcoat and dragged him from the study.
Still teary-eyed, Lydia limped alongside her father. “Papa, I don’t understand. What just happened?”
Josie couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman. Although to be crystal clear, she was not so sorry that she’d try to comfort her or give up the man she loved.
Mumbling obscenities, the other men left the room. Apparently, none of them had won a “blasted thing.” Their words, not Josie’s.
“Meet me in the ballroom,” Griffendale called over his shoulder to Josie and Nicolas. “I’m announcing your engagement in ten minutes.”
“Davenport?” Nicolas asked in his stern, about-to-nag voice. “Please tell me you didn’t make some wager about who I was going to propose to and when I was going to do it.”
“Fine. Then I also won’t tell you that you just won Blue Cliff Manor back. Or that you have a beautiful fiancée. And I definitely won’t tell you that the Shiredale family curse has been lifted.”
Nicolas gaped.
Josie would have gasped too, except she’d had an idea of what was going on, thanks to Griffendale’s confessions. “How much money was this wager worth?” Josie asked. “It has to be a king’s ransom for the baron to threaten Nicolas at gunpoint.”
Davenport grinned. “The Widow of Whitehall backed the wager, and it was considerable. It seems she favors the both of you and decided you were a love match.” He shrugged. “The woman may be a pain in my arse from time to time, but she makes hellishly good matches.”
Nicolas clapped Jonathon’s back. “You had better start at the beginning.”
“Of course,” Davenport said. “But first, you need to get out there so that Griffendale can announce your engagement. And then I need to get tupped. Playing nursemaid to the two of you has been exhausting and has left me no time for my own needs, which at this moment includes getting the Widow Milton alone in the gardens. Did you see her gown?” Jonathon whistled.
“Bloody hell. I do appreciate a woman in a tight gown.”