He leaned in and this time she did shrink away, edging back behind the pillar. He did not follow, but his eyes tracked her with an avaricious gleam. “There’s no need to be nervous,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re in the middle of a ballroom, after all.”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking to see who might be watching. Phoebe took the opportunity to stand on her tiptoes, hoping to see a member of her party. Unfortunately, she saw no one she knew, and the crowd was now so dense it would be almost impossible to make her way back to Meredith at the head of the room. Lady Framingham’s guests were packed in as tightly as a herd of cattle driven through narrow streets to market.
Again she met the stranger’s gaze and again she was struck by his cold eyes and the dissipated lines of his face.
“Such a mad crush,” he sighed, “and so typical of Lady Framingham. The woman never knows where to draw the line. I cannot in good conscience allow you to disappear into this crowd. Heaven only knows what could happen.”
“I thank you, but there is no cause for concern. I would be most grateful if you would let me by.”
He gave her an oily smile. “The guests will be going down to supper in a few minutes, and the room will begin to thin. Do me the honor of waiting with me and then I will escort you down myself.”
Impatience flared under her growing sense of unease. Sophie was ill, and this rude man kept her from completing her task. She could only hope Annabel had been more successful in finding Lord Trask. “Thank you, but no. I will be joining my friends for supper.”
Now he affected a wounded look. “You grieve me. I would not have thought it possible for so beautiful a woman to be so cruel.”
He surprised her by stepping forward and making her a flourishing bow. Phoebe scrambled back, again banging her elbow against the pillar. She bit off the oath that sprang too readily to her lips.
“If I cannot persuade you to join me for supper,” the stranger said, “then perhaps you would take pity on your already devoted admirer and grant me a dance.”
Really, the man was a complete fool. “I do not dance tonight.”
He gave a soft laugh that sent a chill rushing up her spine. “You are the stubborn one, aren’t you? I like that. A challenge always whets a man’s appetite.”
She blinked at the outrageous comment, a combination of nerves and frustration tangling her tongue.
“If you won’t dance, perhaps you’d like a glass of champagne.” His gaze, openly greedy now, slid over her face and chest.
“Again, no,” she ground out. “I would ask you once more to let me by. My party will begin to wonder where I am.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I think not, or they would have found you by now.”
Angry and a bit frightened, Phoebe tried to slide by him. He blocked her path.
“Sir,” she exclaimed, “I insist you move aside.”
When he reached out to touch her, she jerked away, fetching up directly against the pillar.
He chuckled. “Your resistance is quite entrancing and wholly feigned, I suspect. I’m tempted to do something outrageous. Like kiss you.”
This time, Phoebe did gasp in shock. She debated slapping him, although the very thought of acting so violently made her queasy. Unfortunately, the awful man was lowering his head as if he really was going to kiss her. She raised a hand, preparing to defend herself, when a welcome voice interrupted her.
“There you are, Miss Linville. Never thought to find you tucked away in the corner at the far end of the ballroom. Silly of me not to have thought of it in the first place. Girls always seem to end up in corners at mad crushes, whether you expect them to or not.”
Phoebe almost collapsed with relief as Mr. Nigel Dash slipped smoothly around her tormentor to stand by her side. She grabbed his arm, swaying toward him. With a concerned look on his kind face, he steadied her.
“Mr. Dash,” she blurted out. “I am so happy to see you. I was searching for Lord Trask, and I got caught up with this . . . this . . .”
From the angry expression in Mr. Dash’s eyes, her explanation was not necessary. Startled, Phoebe peered at him. She had only met him a few times, but he had impressed her with his gentleness. However, right now he glared at the man still blocking them, clearly furious enough to do something they might all regret. If she wished to avoid a scene, it appeared she must act quickly.
“This gentleman noticed I was unattended,” she said. “He graciously offered to escort me to dinner. I was in the process of explaining that I was looking for my party, Mr. Dash, when you arrived.”
She finished by pinching the inside of his elbow, just to make sure he understood.
He flashed her a startled glance, then wry understanding filled his gaze. “How kind of Lord Castle,” he said in a dry voice. “But you needn’t worry, my lord. I’ll see Miss Linville back to her party.”
Lord Castle leisurely inspected Mr. Dash through a quizzing glass that had just appeared in his hand. “Always ready to lend fair maidens and aging dragons a helping hand, eh, Dash? What would the debs and old matrons do without you?”
Mr. Dash ignored him. “Are you ready to return to your party, Miss Linville?”
“Yes,” she said, fervently. “I most certainly am.”
Unbelievably, Lord Castle held up a restraining hand. “Before you whisk away the most interesting woman in the room, Dash,” he said, “perhaps you could give me a formal introduction. That way I could ask the lady to dance without fear of offending the proper authorities.”
Under her fingertips, Phoebe felt the muscles in Mr. Dash’s arm grow rigid. Lord Castle must be entirely the wrong sort of person if he balked at a formal introduction.
Now what would they do? The impertinent man simply would not leave her alone.
Just then, Lucas appeared out of the crowd, and he looked ready to breathe fire.
“Sorry, Castle,” he growled, inserting himself into the middle of their group. “You’ll dance with her when hell freezes over.”
It had taken Lucas ten agonizing minutes to make his way through the damnable crowd and across the ballroom. He’d been avoiding Phoebe all evening, but he’d kept an eye on her from a distance. As long as she remained with her cousins she had nothing to fear from the rakes who prowled the overheated rooms of the ton, hunting their next willing—or unwilling—victims. Though still angry with her, and himself, for that ridiculous scene in his uncle’s library, that didn’t lessen his obligations. She might be a starched-up little Quaker, but she was also unbearably innocent and far too likely to fall into harm’s way if he didn’t prevent it.
Unfortunately, he’d lost track of her when he allowed himself to be lured into Sarah Dorkington’s bosomy clutches. The widow had been after him for months, but his unforgivable lapse had led to Phoebe’s entrapment in Castle’s much more dangerous snare.
When Lucas had first spotted her, backing behind a pillar in apparent retreat, rage had burst through him like an exploding shell. She’d fallen prey to the most vicious rake in London, a man Lucas knew all too well. If it hadn’t been for Nigel’s timely arrival, Lucas would have plowed his way through the crowd without a care for havoc or injury. Still, he’d jostled more than a few complaining dancers as he forged straight across the packed floor.
Now, as Phoebe stared up at him, her big eyes full of relief, he had to struggle to contain another flare of anger, both with himself and with Castle. It was his fault she’d tumbled into trouble. After tonight, he’d make damn certain she never found herself in this or any kind of danger again.
Castle’s lips peeled back in a cruel smile. “Ah, it only needed this to make the evening more delightful. Major Stanton, as crude and vulgar as always. Or, should I say, Lord Merritt. Really sir, your language in front of the lady is appalling. Perhaps you forget this is a ballroom, not a battlefield.”
Without answering, Lucas removed Phoebe’s hand from Nigel’s arm. He tugged gently on her gloved fingers, prepared for her to resi
st, but she came willingly and plastered herself to his side. A slight tremor rippled through her body as she settled against him, and a tiny sigh of relief escaped her lips.
That little sigh made his heart throb with guilt. Castle had frightened her, and Lucas had to fight to repress the impulse to beat the bastard to a pulp.
He smiled down into Phoebe’s face, giving her a quick, reassuring wink. Her eyes brightened and her mouth quirked up into a rueful smile. With a defiant tilt of her elegant chin, she stared at Castle, a stern expression settling on her pretty features. As delicate as she was, Phoebe had done her best to stand up to the vicious viscount, but the thought of her alone with someone of his ilk raised icy prickles on the back of Lucas’s neck.
“Are you ready to go down to supper, Phoebe?” he asked, his voice gone gruff. “Aunt Georgie and the others will be waiting for us.”
“You cannot imagine how ready I am,” she said in a voice so enthusiastic he had to choke back a laugh. And the surprise on Castle’s face almost made the whole nasty situation worth it.
Unfortunately, as Lucas prepared to guide Phoebe into the flow of people heading to the supper room, Castle put up a restraining hand. “Merritt, you can’t run away now. Not before properly introducing me. I take it this young lady is General and Lady Stanton’s mysterious relative from America.”
The bastard unleashed a particularly nasty smile. Lucas recognized that smile, and it boded ill.
“I should have guessed, of course,” Castle drawled on, still blocking their way. “She does have the quaintest accent. Quite charming, really, if one goes in for that sort of rustic style.”
Lucas weighed his options. He could either plant Castle a facer now, thus precipitating a scandal, or deal with him later when the ladies weren’t present.
Before he had a chance to decide, Phoebe interrupted with an irritated huff. “For heaven’s sake,” she said. “If an introduction will end this absurd scene, then, yes, I am Phoebe Linville, niece to General and Lady Stanton. You, I take it, are Lord Castle. I wish I could say it has been a pleasure to meet you, but that would be a lie, and I never lie.”
Castle’s face went slack, and Lucas didn’t bother to hold back his grin. Even Nigel, who had impeccable discipline, couldn’t repress a snort of laughter.
Magnificently unaware of the impact of her words, Phoebe carried on. “Now that we are introduced, I ask you once and for all to move aside so we can join our party. I have suffered quite enough of your unwelcome attentions for one evening, and I do hope you will have the courtesy to spare me a repeat if we ever have the misfortune to meet again.”
By the time she finished her little speech, Castle stopped looking stunned and started looking furious. He took a menacing step forward.
“I wouldn’t if I were you, old man,” Nigel interjected in a sharp voice. “Ladies present, and all that.”
“A lady?” Castle sneered. “I very much doubt that. After all, I found her wandering about the ballroom unescorted. And Miss Linville seemed more than happy to receive my attentions.”
Against his side, Lucas could feel Phoebe quiver with outrage. “That is most untrue, and thee knows it! Thee should not tell such awful lies.”
Castle’s eyebrows practically shot up into his hairline. “Thee? Good God, Merritt. I had discounted the rumor, but I see now it’s true. A Quaker! How delightfully odd. The Stantons do have a habit of taking in all kinds of strays, don’t they? Whatever next, I wonder? A trained monkey?”
Phoebe went rigid beside him, and Lucas ruefully shook his head. He could almost feel sorry for Castle, too stupid to understand the hellfire he would shortly rain down on him.
“I suppose you’re looking for something different in a woman,” Castle said with deliberate malice. “But a religious fanatic from America . . . how quaint! Esme would be so amused, if she knew.”
Phoebe threw Lucas a startled glance. Suddenly feeling old beyond his years, he repressed a curse. Would he never be free of the legacy of bitterness Esme had left in her wake?
“Lucas, we must go,” Phoebe whispered. “Aunt Georgie is waiting.”
He heard the worry in her voice, and her need for him to step away from the looming confrontation. But he couldn’t. Not from Castle. He owed the man nothing but his contempt, and he had no bonds of family to hold him back.
“In a minute,” he replied in a soft voice.
Nigel rolled his eyes and sighed, then moved to take Phoebe from him. But when Nigel tried to draw her away, she resisted.
Ignoring her flustered protest, Lucas stepped forward, mere inches away from Castle. The other man had breadth across the chest and shoulders, but Lucas still topped him by a good three inches. He had no problem using his height and size to make his point.
“You’ll apologize to the lady, Castle,” he said quietly.
The viscount let out an ugly laugh. “Or, what? You’ll challenge me to a duel?”
Lucas stared at him, not bothering to voice the obvious.
Castle snorted. “Really, Merritt. I fear all those years in combat have addled your brain. If I wouldn’t fight you over Esme, I’m certainly not going to fight you over this chit.” His lips curled into a sneer. “Why would I bother?”
Lucas gave him a lethal smile. “Because no one insults my fiancée without paying the price.”
Chapter 13
Phoebe stared at Lucas as the floor seemed to tilt under her feet. The heat of the room stifled her, but the dazed wooliness in her head resulted from the stunning announcement Lucas had just calmly delivered.
Lord Castle gaped at Lucas. “Miss Linville is your fiancée?”
His disbelief certainly echoed hers. She wondered if Lucas was drunk. There seemed no other explanation for his astonishing behavior, especially after the scene in the library. Flushed, she raised a hand to her perspiring forehead, feeling dizzy.
Her movement brought Lucas’s head around and their eyes met. He frowned, his worried gaze sweeping over her, searching for the cause of her distress. His eyes were clear, and he appeared as somber and sober as a magistrate. With another stab of shock, she realized he was serious. About everything.
He gave her a fleeting smile of reassurance, then directed another challenging stare at the viscount. That stare was so cold and so eerily calm that a whisper of premonition shivered down her spine. Phoebe had never witnessed a man in a killing mood, but she imagined he would look much as Lucas did right now.
Lord Castle broke the suffocating tension by jerking his attention to Phoebe and letting out a sardonic laugh. “Well, this is wonderful, to be sure.” He bowed to her, clearly intending mockery rather than respect. “My dear Miss Linville, allow me to offer you my congratulations. Your engagement will surely be the talk of the town, and I mean that in the best possible way.”
Lucas narrowed his eyes to frozen gray slits, while Phoebe almost groaned. Shaking off her paralysis, she grabbed his sleeve. “We must go. We are attracting attention.”
A quick glance around her confirmed it. Several men and women had paused to watch, evidently anticipating an amusing scene, or even a brawl.
Lucas gently removed her hand. “I’m still waiting for Lord Castle to apologize to you.”
Phoebe wanted to shake him. “I do not need an apology. The wrong Lord Castle has committed is against himself.”
Lucas glanced down at her. As he studied her face, his eyes flared with an admiring heat that made her heart thump and the blood rush to her cheeks. His mouth kicked up in a different sort of smile, one that seemed to curl around her with a lick of fire.
Lord, her wits had gone begging if he could affect her so greatly in such embarrassing circumstances.
“You may not need an apology, love,” he said, “but I do on your behalf. And we’re not leaving until I get it.”
Perhaps she was losing not just her mind, but also her hearing. Lucas could not be making a declaration in the middle of a ballroom filled with strangers. It was simply too out
rageous a notion to contemplate.
Lord Castle barked out an ugly laugh. “Really, Merritt, you and your fiancée are more amusing than the acrobats at Astley ’s. Perhaps you should consider joining the circus.”
Something snapped in Phoebe’s head. She stepped in front of Lucas and glared up at the viscount. “You, sir, are a poltroon, a braggart, and a . . . a loose fish,” she stormed.
Lucas, Lord Castle, and Mr. Dash froze in unison. Uncle Arthur often used those same words to great effect, and Phoebe had every intention of adding them to her vocabulary from now on. “You have bothered us long enough, Lord Castle. I insist you take yourself off before I really have something to say about it.”
She seized Lucas again, trying to drag him away, but he refused to budge.
“Phoebe,” he said, the warning clear.
Her frustration spiraled, exploding through her body. Some great force outside her control took hold, and she jabbed Lucas in the arm as hard as she could.
“No! There will be no apologies, no arguments, and certainly no talk of duels, which we all know is where this conversation is headed. I insist thee takes me to Aunt Georgie, Lucas. Or help me find Lord Trask, whose poor wife is waiting for him.”
“Best do what she says, old man,” Mr. Dash cut in, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. “We’re starting to attract quite an audience.”
Phoebe glanced around, and some of her anger dissipated. She had been so caught up she had failed to notice how large the group of spectators had grown. It included a few haughty matrons she recognized as Aunt Georgie’s oldest friends. They looked on with horror, while the rest of the fashionable guests openly snickered.
Phoebe closed her eyes briefly as a humiliating flush crawled up her face.
“Yes, old man,” mocked Lord Castle. “Best do what she says. After all, you do have a habit of allowing the ladies to lead you around by the nose, don’t you?”
Lucas growled and took a step forward. Fury, so palpable it seemed a living thing, swirled between the two men.
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