The Dangerous Duke

by Christine Wells

  A red haze swept over Vane’s vision. He wanted to tear Brinsley apart with his bare hands. He wanted to leave without dignifying that insane, indecent proposal with a response. He wanted to forget Lady Sarah Cole existed, excise her from his mind and heart.

  But he couldn’t. He couldn’t save her from Brinsley’s loathsome schemes either. He’d tried. She’d spurned him with her cold, cruel smile. But what if the little weasel took this offer to another man with fewer scruples than Vane? What then?

  “I ought to kill you, Cole.” Vane kept his voice low, aware that a party of men had left Crockford’s and headed their way. “Exterminate you like the vermin you are.”

  Brinsley didn’t even blink. “Ah, but I’m well acquainted with your sort, my lord. And I know you would not kill a man without a fair fight.” He fingered his bruised throat, then shrugged. “Call me out if you wish to see Sarah’s name dragged through the mud. I won’t meet you.” His expression darkened. “I married that little bitch, my lord Marquis. Short of bloody murder, I can treat her however I damned well please. So think well before you threaten me, sir, or your sweet Lady Sarah might suffer the consequences.”

  Blind rage, all the more dangerous for its impotence, threatened to overwhelm every principle Vane held dear. He faced Brinsley in the darkness, panting with the effort of keeping his hands by his sides instead of wrapping them around the little weasel’s throat. This time, he wouldn’t have the strength to let go.

  He’d never killed a man before . . .

  Their misted breath clashed and roiled upwards. The moonlight glinted off wet cobbles, threw Brinsley’s profile into high relief. The thoughtful poet’s brow that hid a conniving, low mind; the noble nose that sniffed out weakness and despair; the sculpted lips that now curled in a self-satisfied sneer.

  Damn him to hell. Brinsley knew he had won.