Chapter 11
Justina couldn’t believe the man she had once called her lover was holding her captive with a knife pressed to her throat.
Nigel had caught her unawares, slipping into the room while she was crying into her pillow, still upset after her conversation with Gregory.
He had her under his control before she even knew he was there.
She’d tried to break free, and when that hadn’t worked, she’d tried to reason with him, but he was beyond reason.
He seemed almost mad, in truth, and that terrified her.
Now Gregory was here, fury blazing in his dark eyes, and she didn’t know if she was relieved to see him or even more terrified because he might be hurt, and all because of her.
“Gregory—” She tried to speak, to tell him she was sorry and that she loved him, but the words gave way to a sharp hiss as the knife bit into her throat.
“Stop!” Gregory barked. “Let her go, Lovelace.”
“Why, good morning, Duke,” Lovelace said cordially, as if this were nothing more than a social call. “Do come in and shut the door behind you. We wouldn’t want anyone overhearing our conversation.”
Gregory turned and reached for the door knob, hesitating as he stared out into the empty corridor.
“I wouldn’t do it if I were you,” Lovelace warned. “Not unless you wish to see blood.”
Gregory shut the door and turned to face Justina and her captor. “Let her go, Lovelace,” he said, his voice hard. “Let’s discuss this like rational adults.”
Lovelace chuckled, and the sound sent shivers up Justina’s spine.
“There is nothing to discuss,” he said, tightening his grip on her arm. “I came here to collect Lady Dunne and that is what I intend to do.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” Gregory’s voice was mild, but she could see the restrained anger in the stiffness of his shoulders, and the clenching of his jaw.
“You can and you will,” Lovelace replied. “Justina is mine. This does not concern you, Paxton.”
“But it does. You see, that is my betrothed you’re holding at knifepoint, and I am not prepared to give her up so easily.”
Justina swallowed and kept very still, trying not to reveal her surprise at the lie. She only hoped Gregory knew what he was doing.
“Well, consider your betrothal severed,” Lovelace said, his grip on her arm so tight now it was sure to leave bruises. “Justina belongs to me until I decide I’ve finished with her.”
“She is finished with you,” Gregory said calmly. “Be a gentleman and concede defeat before anybody gets hurt.”
Gregory took a step toward them and Justina whimpered when the knife blade dug into her flesh.
“Come any closer,” Lovelace hissed, “and I will make her bleed.”
Gregory froze and held his hands up in a gesture of acquiescence.
“Nigel, please—” Justina whispered.
“Shut up,” Lovelace spat. “You have only yourself to blame for this. I told you I wasn’t finished with you, but you didn’t listen. And now I’ve been forced to take drastic measures.”
Fresh tears threatened to fall as she looked at Gregory, his usually boyish face hard like stone, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. She knew he felt helpless, just as she did, but she tried to hold onto the hope that she would somehow break free.
“What do you intend to do, Lovelace? Lock her away? Hold a knife to her throat indefinitely?”
“I won’t need to. Justina will come with me willingly.”
“She won’t. She’ll fight you.”
Gregory’s gaze met hers and the certainty there, the admiration, the love, made her feel strong.
Yes, she would fight this. She would never give in.
“She won’t,” Lovelace said. “Not if she wants to keep her sister safe.”
Justina’s gaze shot to Lovelace, and she found him watching her with cold eyes. She felt the blood drain from her face as Lovelace’s mouth curved into a smug smile.
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, “I know where your dear Lizzie lives. And I would hate to disrupt her comfortable little life in Cheshire.”
In that moment, Justina hated him more than she’d ever hated anyone or anything in her whole life.
The man had detected one of the few things that would keep her under his control. He knew she would never put her sister’s life at risk. She would have to do whatever he asked.
The realization broke her, and she fought the tears that threatened to spill, willing herself to be strong.
“Now, I think we’ve done enough talking,” Lovelace said. “It’s time we were on our way. Paxton, move away from the door.”
Gregory looked at Justina as he stepped aside, the regret in his eyes splintering her heart.
With the knife at her throat, Lovelace pushed her towards the door, his grip biting into her arm like a vice.
“Open the door,” he ordered her. “Slowly. And if you even think about shouting for help, I will see that you regret it.”
Nodding her understanding, Justina reached for the knob but just as her fingers touched the cool brass, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
This was her chance.
She could not hesitate.
“Come in,” she called out, ignoring the sting of the knife at her throat.
“Shut up,” Lovelace hissed, but it was too late. The door swung open, and though he tried to evade it, the heavy door caught him in the arm. His hold on Justina loosened and she pulled free and out of his reach.
“What in heaven’s name is going on here?” an unfamiliar female voice said from the doorway.
“Mother, your pistol!” Gregory yelled as he charged Lovelace and attempted to wrestle the knife away from him.
Mother? Justina watched in shock as the woman reached into her reticule and withdrew a small pistol.
“I do not know who you are, sir,” the duchess said coolly, “but I suggest you take your hands off my son now or I will be forced to shoot you.”
Lovelace looked at the woman pointing a pistol at him and his momentary distraction allowed Gregory to punch him in the face, knocking him back. The knife fell to the floor and Gregory scooped it up and pointed it at Lovelace.
“I should kill you for touching her,” he growled, his voice shaking with his anger. “If you ever come near her again, I will.”
“Gregory...” Justina laid a hand on his arm, and he looked at her, the rage in his eyes fading as he met her gaze.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes as relief struck her, so powerful it rendered her mute.
“What is going on in here?” Mr. Allyn, the rail-thin, craggy-faced innkeeper, bustled into the room. “I heard shouting and—”
He broke off as he took in the scene, his eyes going wide behind his spectacles.
“Ah, Mr. Allyn, I’m glad you’re here,” Gregory said. “This gentleman”—he fairly spat the word out as he gestured at Lovelace with the knife—“accosted the lady and attempted to remove her from the inn against her will.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Mr. Allyn murmured, his eyes still round with disbelief.
“If you would be so kind as to call for the magistrate then bring me some rope, we’ll hold the prisoner in your private parlor until the magistrate arrives.”
“Yes, of course. Right away, sir.”
The innkeeper hurried off and returned minutes later with the requested rope and two brawny men who took Lovelace by his arms and muscled him toward the door. As the viscount was escorted from the room, Gregory looked at Justina.
“I’ll be back shortly. Will you be all right in here?”
She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
He looked as though he wished to embrace her and Justina wanted him to—she wanted it desperately—but he didn’t touch her. And she couldn’t blame him. Not after the way they’d left things. Fresh tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away.
“I’ll look after her, Gregory,” his mother said. “Go on now. We’ll be fine.”
Gregory nodded and then, after one last look at Justina, he was gone.
Leaving her alone with the Duchess of Paxton.
The two women were silent as they looked at each other, taking the other’s measure.
The dowager duchess was a small woman, elegant and smartly-dressed, but her size did nothing to minimize her aura of commanding confidence.
Her eyes were dark and sharp, her hair the same shade of auburn as her son’s, but that was where the resemblance ended.
She had none of Gregory’s softness—her nose was beakish, her chin pointed, her mouth severe, a duchess through and through.
“I ought to be cross with my son for forgetting the introductions,” the duchess said, “but under the circumstances, I suppose I must forgive him.”
Justina forced a polite smile. “It is lovely to meet you, Your Grace. I am Lady Dunne.”
After everything she’d heard about the dowager duchess, lovely didn’t seem quite the appropriate word, but considering the woman had just saved them all from a terrible situation, Justina figured she owed it to her to keep an open mind.
“Shall we sit?” the duchess said, motioning toward the chairs by the fireplace.
Justina nodded, feeling suddenly very nervous. It seemed as though the duchess had something she wished to say to her, and Justina could think of only one subject she would want to discuss, and that subject was Gregory.
Heavens above, she was in no condition to deal with an overprotective mama right now. Especially one who was also a duchess.
But it would seem she had no choice.
“Now then,” the duchess said as they both settled in their chairs. “I understand my son asked for your hand in marriage.”
Justina blinked, her face flooding with heat. Apparently there would be no beating about the bush today.
“He did, Your Grace.”
The duchess stared at her as if waiting for her to say more, but Justina stubbornly held her tongue and stared right back at her.
“I also understand that you refused his proposal.”
“I did.”
“Hm.”
The older woman continued to study her with cool brown eyes, her face devoid of emotion. Justina laced her fingers in her lap, trying to resist the urge to squirm in her seat.
“Not many women would pass up the chance to be a duchess.”
Justina lifted one shoulder. “I have never cared very much about titles.”
The duchess nodded as if in understanding, though she was silent for a long while before speaking again. “Your husband was the Baron Dunne, yes? I do not believe I ever met him, but I was sorry to hear about his death. He must have been quite young.”
“Just four-and-twenty,” she replied with a regretful smile. “He was the best of men. Everybody who met him came to love him.”
“And you? Did you love him?”
Justina stiffened. She did not wish to discuss Phillip or her feelings for him, especially with this woman—this stranger—who seemed to think she had the right to ask whatever questions she wished, for a purpose only she knew.
“I did. Very much.”
The duchess studied her for another long moment then drew in a deep breath. “I understand now why you cannot marry my son. Your heart still belongs to your husband, doesn’t it?”
Justina’s lips parted, a reply on her tongue, but the shock of what she’d almost said struck her like a thunderbolt, rendering her speechless. Good Lord, had she truly almost said no? How could that be? Of course her heart belonged to Phillip. It always had and always would.
Allowing herself to have feelings for Gregory would be a betrayal to her husband, to their marriage, to his memory. She couldn’t have feelings for Gregory.
But there was no denying that he mattered to her. He had touched more than just her body, had slipped past her defenses and under her skin in a way she never thought another man could. What did that mean?
What did she want it to mean?
Before she could answer the duchess, however, there was a knock at the door and then Gregory let himself into the room. Her heart stuttered at the sight of him, her body urging her to run—not from him, but to him, straight into his arms and stay there forever.
She would always love Phillip, but perhaps she could make room for another man in her heart. A special man. A man like Gregory.
“The magistrate has been sent for,” he said, looking at his mother and then to Justina. “I’m afraid we’ll have to give him our statements, which will further delay our departure, but I think we should still reach your sister’s house by nightfall. If that is still where you wish to go.”
Justina swallowed, her heart beating a frantic tattoo as she thought of saying goodbye to this man, of letting him go. She pictured a future without him, a future just like these past three years had been, lonely, isolated, colorless.
She stared at him, a multitude of emotions swirling within her. Fear. Hope.
Courage.
Gregory cleared his throat. “Can I get either of you anything while we wait? Tea? Sherry?”
“Thank you, dear, I’m fine,” the duchess said.
Justina shook her head. “I’m fine, too.”
“Very good,” he said. “Then I shall go outside and wait for the magistrate. If you need me—”
Justina shot to her feet, her heart hammering. “Wait, Gregory. Please stay. I...I need to speak with you.”