Chapter 18 #4
“Stephen . . .” she called after him, worried for Kate, but also worried about what he might do to that presumptuous dandy.
Oh, God, don’t let him kill the man. At least he had not diverted into his dressing room for either sword or gun.
Then again, judging from the murderous look on his face, bare hands would be more than sufficient weapon.
Stephen thundered down the stairs. He was vaguely aware that Sophie had called him by his given name, but at the moment he could not stop to savor it.
Fury and a savage protectiveness flashed through him like wildfire, consuming the tender passions of only moments before. If he hurts Kate, so help me . . .
Hands fisted, Stephen ran through the house, ignoring startled looks from his parents, who were bidding farewell to a final few guests, and charged out the side door toward the garden.
“Let me go,” Kate cried.
“Come on, little miss. Don’t play the innocent. You know your mamma has been trying to foist you on me all night.”
Stephen’s blood boiled. And the moonlight gave everything—garden wall, Kate’s dress, and the man’s blond hair—a red cast.
He launched himself through the garden archway, grasped Darby-Wells by the shoulders, jerked him away from his sister, and sent him flying to the ground.
He said, in a voice deadly calm, “Apparently you did not hear the lady. She said to let her go.”
Sprawled on the ground, the young man scowled up at him. “Dash it, Overtree, you’ve spoilt my coat.”
“To the devil with your coat. This from a man who would ruin a young lady but care more for his worsted wool.”
The man rose, dusting off his tails and torn lapel. “Cost a fortune. I shall send you the bill from my—”
“I’ll pay it now.” Stephen coiled his arm. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he calculated the dandy’s fine bones and slight weight and restrained his force—a little—as he delivered a stunning blow to the man’s face. Smack. Down he went again.
Kate gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth.
Stephen turned to her. “Are you all right, Kate?”
She nodded, tears filling her eyes. Hopefully not because he’d hit the handsome lecher.
His fears were laid aside when his sister leaned in to him, sobbing. Stephen draped one big arm over her shaking shoulder like a black wing.
From the house came several people who had followed Stephen outside in alarm.
His father, his mother, the young footman, and the butler, carrying a lamp.
And there, running out behind them, breathless and anxious, was Sophie.
She looked from Kate, to the fallen man, to him, her mouth drooping open, her eyes downturned.
Apparently, she did not see anything heroic in his actions, but rather barbaric.
It reminded him of how she’d reacted when he’d fought off the young thieves in Plymouth.
He had allowed himself to think her opinion of him had changed since then. Evidently he was wrong.
In the aftermath of raised voices and explanations and getting the fallen gentleman to his feet, Sophie retreated. In more ways than one.
Their father took Kate into his comforting arms.
Their mother, however, hissed, “I wanted you to encourage a proposal of marriage, not a tryst in the garden.” Then she turned her disapproving face toward Stephen. “Could you not have simply ordered him to cease like a civilized person without resorting to violence?”
With brittle politeness, she offered to send for a cloth and ice for the man’s swelling eye.
Mr. Darby-Wells angrily waved away her offer, face contorted in disgust. “Can you not control your offspring, Mrs. Overtree? First your daughter leads me a merry dance and then your behemoth son attacks me from behind. Really. I don’t know what sort of people you are.
This is the nineteenth century, if you were not aware.
I think it a good thing Captain Black is returning to his regiment.
The sooner the better. He’s a danger to society. ”
“We . . . apologize if your actions were misunderstood,” his mother said, lips tight.
“Don’t apologize to that snake, Mamma,” Stephen growled. “For all his airs and graces, he is no gentleman.” Sophie had been right about the man.
Teary-eyed, Kate said, “I’m sorry, Mamma. I didn’t mean to make him think I was that sort of girl. Truly I didn’t. He said he needed some air and asked if I would show him the garden. I thought he liked me. I never imagined he would not take no for an answer.”
“Oh, come, Miss Overtree.” Darby-Wells rolled his eyes. “I hardly dragged you out here against your will. Save the dramatics. You were not crying like a missish schoolgirl five minutes ago—no need to play one for your parents now.”
Stephen fisted his hands again.
Noticing, his father said, “Young man, you had better leave, and quickly, if you don’t want your left eye to match your right.”
By the time Kate had been calmed, reassured, and settled, Mr. Darby-Wells sent home, resentful and livid in his barouche, and possible repercussions discussed and dissected with his parents, another hour or more had passed.
Finally, Stephen trudged back up the stairs with none of the hopeful fire he’d felt going up with Sophie hours before.
He sighed a deep, weary sigh and let himself into his dressing room using the servants’ entrance.
Through the door, slightly ajar, he peered into the moonlit bedchamber.
Sophie lay in bed on her side. Her back to him. Again.
He didn’t bother calling for his valet, considering the hour, but undressed himself and dropped to his hard sofa. He hoped his wife slept well. He, for one, would not.