Chapter 22 - Michael
Michael had taken the matter well in hand. In fact, he had his hand wrapped around Lord Nelson’s very throat.
He had just been moaning and coming to when the Duke of Ettrick had pulled him out from beneath the bush by one of his booted feet.
Now Lord Nelson was as pathetic a figure on the outside as he was within—dirt caked one side of his body.
Blood had begun to dry beneath his nose.
Leaves and twigs had collected in his hair—apparently the man’s pomade had acted as some kind of a mastic.
“I won’t—” the man gasped. “It was only a joke. I’ll never do it again, I promise.”
“I don’t find it funny. Ettrick, do you think it’s funny?”
The huge duke shook his head, his arms crossed. He said in a deep voice, “Nor do I find it amusing that you asked Miss Margaret Preston to walk out with you before that. You’re lucky it was Lord Rutheridge who found you first, for I was looking.”
“You see?” Michael gave Nelson a little shake and smiled maniacally at him. “You’re lucky.”
“I won’t do it again, I promise,” he whined.
“Oh, that goes without saying. You’ll also forget anything happened in the first place.”
“Yes, let’s forget the entire thing altogether,” Nelson panted.
He reached up as if to pry Michael’s fingers from his throat, then stopped when Ettrick grunted at him in clear warning.
“You mistake me,” Michael said. “I’ll never forget. Which is why you are going to leave London tomorrow and not return for a year.”
“What?” Nelson blustered. “You can’t banish me.”
“Can’t he?” Ettrick leaned forward and bared his teeth. “It’s a lighter sentence than you deserve.”
“B-but—”
“I say.” Lord Gresham suddenly appeared on the path across the garden room, Lord Croft peering over his shoulder. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Nothing that concerns either of you,” Michael said.
“Surely you can see the chap is bleeding,” Lord Croft said, his eyes wide.
“I see no such thing.” Duke Ettrick crossed his mammoth arms. “You both should be grateful it’s Lord Rutheridge who has hold of him, and not me.”
“But…” Lord Gresham began to protest, his eyes still clasped on Lord Nelson.
Michael said, “In the future, you should choose your friends more wisely. As for the present, you should quickly find an elsewhere to be.”
“Unless, of course, you intend to throw your lot in with his,” Ettrick added.
The duke took hold of his own chin and tilted his head; his neck emitted a series of menacing pops. The two gentleman looked alarmed—their eyebrows flew upwards.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a friend.” Lord Croft took several steps back, as if to indicate that Lord Gresham was alone in his protests.
Gresham glanced around and found himself alone. His eyes widened.
“It would be advisable never to have come upon such a scene,” the duke continued. “For if rumor of this event ever gets out, I’ll know precisely whose doorstep to darken.”
“I don’t believe Lord Gresham and I ever stepped foot out of the ballroom this evening,” Lord Croft said, gaining the thread of the duke’s meaning immediately.
“What?” Gresham asked stupidly.
“Isn’t that right, Gresham?” Croft said, taking hold of his friend’s arm and giving him a look heavy with meaning. “We thought about going outside for fresh air, but we decided we were tired and took our leave instead.”
“Er…right.”
“A wise decision,” the duke said, nodding at each of them in turn. “Lord Croft, if you’d still like that meeting about wheat imports, I believe I have time for you, after all.”
Lord Croft’s expression brightened. He gave a little bow before yanking Lord Gresham back in the direction from which they’d come.
With the distraction gone, Michael turned back to Lord Nelson. “If you ever so much as glance in my sister’s direction again, I will ruin you,” he snarled. “The same goes for Miss Preston.”
“Which Miss Preston?” Lord Nelson croaked.
The Duke of Ettrick rounded on him. If the man hadn’t been on Michael’s side, he would have been more than a bit frightened.
Though hardly possible, anger seemed to have lent the man even more height and width.
His shoulders bunched and flexed beneath his tailored coat as if he were having a hard time controlling his wrath.
When he spoke, each word rode the swooping sounds of his Scottish accent. “You’d do well never to look at another Miss Preston as long as you live. Which may be a very short duration, indeed, if you don’t heed our instruction to leave London.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll go to my country estate,” Nelson all but spit.
It was difficult for Michael to loosen his grip on Nelson, but finally he slackened his fingers from the man’s lapel and throat. Nelson dusted himself off and savagely jerked his waistcoat back into place.
“Don’t forget.” Ettrick shoved a large finger so close to Nelson’s nose that the man winced. “One year. Not a day less.”
Nelson scowled and hurried from the garden, casting one last disgruntled look over his shoulder.
“Thank you for your assistance, Ettrick,” Michael said.
“My pleasure.”