Chapter Seven #3
Before he could decide, a few of the guests—wives of his friends, mostly—surged around them and offered congratulations and murmured well-wishes.
When Michael would have gone over to speak with Steppingford and Ravenhurst, his gaze landed on Viscount Echerson. Had he been in the room for the entirety of the ceremony? Immediately, a heated wave of anger took hold of him and he left his new wife’s side to speak with the man.
Steppingford tried to prevent him, but Michael shook off his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t do it, Darkemore, at least not today.”
“I must, for I want him to know that I know who he is.” Then he made his way across the room and caught the viscount by the door. “A word if you please, Echerson.”
The man turned about while another man lingered in the corridor that Michael assumed was Evangeline’s brother.
“I see you’ve resurfaced in London society, Darkemore.
How interesting.” He roved his gaze up and down Michael’s person, lingering on his forehead scar and his right arm that hung at his side.
“Weren’t you beaten down enough to realize the public is no place for you? ”
Heat shot up the back of his neck. “You would know, since you are hardly the most honorable of men.” It wasn’t a direct accusation, but merely a hint.
“That is a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” One of the viscount’s black eyebrows rose in challenge. “The life of a spy wasn’t kind to you.”
“Thanks to you.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. You and I have never met with the exception of seeing each other in society.”
“Stop the charade. I know you’re the Jackal.”
Something flickered over the other man’s face. “I rather doubt that.”
“Think what you want, but I was good at what I did.”
“The key word is ‘was’. Now you’re a disgrace to everyone around you.”
God, he despised this man. While a few of the guests filtered out of the drawing room to go into the dining room across the corridor, Michael remained quiet until he was alone with the viscount again. “Why the hell are you here?”
“I was invited, of course.”
“But why are you really here?” A glance over his shoulder showed Evangeline speaking with Mrs. Cunningham and Ravenhurst’s duchess. When he focused back on the viscount, he glared. “You aren’t that altruistic.”
“You are perceptive, Darkemore, I’ll give you that.” His gaze went to Evangeline. “I wanted to see if you would truly wed the lady.”
“Clearly, I have. Did I thwart you in that?” It was a shot in the dark, but he couldn’t help uttering it.
“I won’t deny that I had designs on her. Lady Evangeline has always fascinated me, even while Marklesfield was alive.”
A surge of possessiveness went through Michael’s chest. “Well, you can put her out of your mind, for she belongs to me now.”
“Mmm, for a time.”
“What the hell does that mean?” He tightened his fingers on the head of his cane.
“Just that life is unstable at best, especially this year, don’t you think?
” A sardonic grin curved the viscount’s lips.
“I’d hate for anything to happen to you, but if it does, I will still be there for her to pick up the pieces…
and will probably wed her myself.” The grin widened, and it held a terrifying edge.
“Hell, Marklesfield promised I could have her after he left this mortal coil, though he refused to share her while he had claim to her.”
“Too damn bad for you, Echerson, for I’m not about to give you that satisfaction.” He drilled a forefinger into the other man’s chest. “In fact, if you come near my wife, I’ll kill you.”
“Since you did a shit job of that the last time we met, I rather doubt that.” Echerson’s eyes narrowed.
“However, if it comes to that point, I’ll put a ball in you first and finish what I’d started three years ago.
Then I’ll marry her and you can roll over in your grave knowing I’m fucking her every night. ”
White-hot anger filled Michael’s chest. Either way, Echerson would die. “Get out of my house.”
Amusement danced in the man’s eyes. “I’m an invited guest and wish to partake in the wedding breakfast.”
“I don’t care. Get the fuck out of my house unless you wish for me to have you tossed out.”
“No need to come the crab, Darkemore.” The other man—Evangeline’s brother—intervened that that point. “We will leave after we’ve spoken with my sister.”
“Fine.” The word was propelled from his throat on the heels of a growl. “Go into the breakfast. She’ll be along shortly.” Only after he’d had her alone for a few moments.
Anger and ire had replaced his blood. It thrummed through his veins with every heartbeat as he abruptly turned about and reentered the drawing room to seek out his wife.
When he gained her position where she spoke quietly to Averly’s duchess, he put his cane into his near-useless right hand, grabbed her upper arm with his left, threw a dismissive glance at the other woman, and then pulled Evangeline through the room toward the door at the opposite side.
“I want you. Now.”