The crowd shifted, and he lost Adelaide for a few moments. He told himself not to worry. She was managing herself with aplomb even though he knew she didn’t like being the focus of so much attention—and she was probably feeling a bit torn up inside as well. At least he hoped she was, though at the same time he didn’t want her to be suffering the agony he was at the moment.
People shifted once more, and Adelaide’s profile came back into view. Her smile was stiff now, as if she didn’t want to talk to whomever she was talking to but couldn’t find a polite way out of the conversation. Trent couldn’t see who she was conversing with, even when he stood to his full height. What he wouldn’t have given for Griffith’s height at that moment.
A look around the ballroom revealed the rest of his family was engaged in other conversations or pursuits, leaving no one to rescue his wife but him. Which was as it should be, really. It was cowardly of him to park himself on the side of the ballroom and leave her to fend for herself, but pleasant inane conversation was beyond him tonight. Even his closest friends had deserted him after a brief conversation.
Trent cut his way through the crowd, twisting and turning as if he were in the ring instead of the ballroom.
He broke around a tight knot of gossiping mothers to see Adelaide’s own mother at her side. Lady Crampton was smiling and Adelaide was frowning. A dark, intense frown he’d never seen on her face before. Whatever was happening she didn’t like it, and the fire in Trent’s gut finally found a focus. Whatever was causing his wife distress was about to be vanquished by sheer determination if nothing else.
Especially when he identified the third person in the conversation.
Mr. Givendale was ignoring Adelaide’s frown, using the charm that had gotten him into more than one party without an invitation.
“You really should check with Lord Trent for when an acceptable time would be to meet with him.” Adelaide’s voice finally reached Trent as he veered around one last grouping of people. “You’ve wasted two afternoons this week alone coming by when he wasn’t there.”
Trent stumbled to a halt. Givendale had been coming by the house? On the pretense of having business with Trent? The only time Trent ever saw the man was in one of his sporting clubs. Trent would never trust him enough to have anything to do with him elsewhere. Didn’t really trust him at the clubs since the time he’d tried to hide weights on his opponent’s fencing foil.
Lady Crampton tittered as if there were something funny about the encounter. “You’ll have to excuse Adelaide, Mr. Givendale. She’s only been in London a short while. Have you met my son-in-law, Lord Edgewick? He’s quite the fencer and would be a welcome addition to your club.”
“I can hardly recommend a man I’ve never fenced with before, Lady Crampton. Perhaps Lord and Lady Edgewick could meet me at your house one afternoon. Lady Adelaide, you should come as well and visit with your sister while the match is taking place.”
While Adelaide might not have been sure of Givendale’s intentions, Trent certainly was. Everything about him reflected a man on a mission. Heat surged through him, bringing feeling back to his fingers and toes as he shouldered his way to his wife’s side. “That won’t be necessary.”
While his very skin seemed to burn with heightened emotion, his heart calmed into a steady beat as Adelaide’s shoulders relaxed and her gloved fingers wound tightly around his hand.
Mr. Givendale smiled. “Oh, you intend to be home this week, do you?”
Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I do. I’ve found my home quite pleasant to be at for several weeks now.”
The other man nodded. “Perhaps, Lady Crampton, we can schedule this meet-up in a few weeks?”
This was going to end right now. Trent might have an almost insurmountable obstacle between him and his wife, but he was going to take care of it. Somehow. And this man wasn’t going to get in his way. “Perhaps you can,” Trent said, “but rest assured that Adelaide will never be a part of it.”
“Strong words.” Givendale lifted Adelaide’s other hand and kissed the knuckles before she had the presence of mind to yank her hand back to her side. “Until we meet again, Lady Adelaide. Perhaps over tea?”
Lady Crampton tried to laugh, but it came out a nervous squeak. Trent had never had such a desire to punch a woman in his life. “Stay away from my wife, Givendale.”
“Oh, she’s your wife now, is she? A couple of months ago she was the woman who ran you out of your own home. I’ll just wait until you take up residence at Hawthorne House again. How long will that be? One week? Two?”
He couldn’t hit Lady Crampton, but Givendale was another matter entirely.
The screams that echoed off the ballroom walls brought the first conscious realization that he had followed through on his desires. He shook the haze from his eyes to see Givendale rising from the chalked dance floor, touching his nose to see if Trent’s punch had drawn blood. Adelaide’s hand was still clenched in Trent’s left, and he pried his fingers free so he could step fully in front of her.
Givendale stepped forward, clenching and releasing his fists. “That was unwise.”
Trent grinned, feeling in control and like himself again, even if that strong emotion still rolled through him. “But satisfying.”
A few giggles scattered through the crowd that was growing around them.
“You think you’re better than me, Lord Trent? I may not have the honorific yet, but at least I’ll come into a title one day. You’re simply going to fade away.”
“God willing.” Trent rolled his own shoulders, trying to ease the tension and make it look like a careless shrug. “The Lord knows I’d make a horrible duke.”
“You don’t make a much better pugilist.”
Trent’s grin was true and wide. There wasn’t much Trent knew in this life, but he knew he could box and fence with the best of them. If it came down to it, he could have Givendale carried out of here in need of a surgeon and not even break a sweat. Trent boxed for the enjoyment of it though, and this wasn’t a war that could be won with fists anyway. He’d started it too publicly. The winner of this battle wouldn’t be the one who hit the other hardest, but the one who won the crowd over to his side. He’d seen too many public confrontations to think it would go any other way.
Fortunately Trent was almost as good with words as he was with his fists.
“How about we find you someone else to fight, if you don’t feel I’m up to your standards. Perhaps one of the other men you’ve pretended to visit under the guise of business? I have a feeling I’m not the only man whose house you’ve watched to know when he’s in residence.”
It was a shot in the dark but one Trent felt was likely to land somewhere. Givendale’s method was too polished, his expectations too clear, for it not to be something he’d done many times before.
Gasps rolled through the crowd at Trent’s accusation.
The other man sneered. “You’ve no proof.”
Trent crossed his arms and settled into the most arrogant stance he could muster. He thought he might have even managed to lift his right eyebrow a little. “I’ve no need of any. You just gave it by not denying the accusation outright.”
The appearance of arrogance clearly riled Givendale, so Trent took it one step further, turning to address the crowd and taking his eyes off his opponent. He kept himself between Givendale and Adelaide but tried to look unconcerned. “If you care about your wives, men, take care in doing business with this man. Not only is he without principles, but he is also without discretion.”
“You dare?” Givendale spit out. “I could see you at dawn for that.”
Trent narrowed his gaze at Givendale. “Did you or did you not tell at least three people at Gentleman Jack’s that you knew more about my private business than you should?”
Murmurs ran through the crowd as men worked their way to the edges with anger in their clenched jaws. He didn’t see his brother or his friends among them, but he was counting on them to have moved in to
flank Adelaide, offering her protection should this crowd get unruly.
“Frankly, Givendale, I don’t care what you do. There will always be those who turn a blind eye to the life you like to lead. I, however, am not one of them. So I say it again. Stay away from my wife.”
“While you’re staying away from my daughter, you can avoid my wife as well.” Lord Crampton stepped up and crossed his arms at the edge of the circle. If the venom in his glare was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be one of the ones carrying Givendale out if things turned ugly. He’d likely help in the beating.
Trent felt his neck heat up, knowing Adelaide’s father was witnessing this. At the same time he was glad that at least one of her parents seemed to care about her.
Givendale spit at Trent’s feet. “You’ve humiliated me.”
Trent crossed his arms over his chest and gave his head a sad shake. “No, you’ve humiliated yourself.”
Then Givendale attacked.
Chapter 34
If there’d been anyone in London who hadn’t heard about his marriage before, there wasn’t one now. Nor would there by any more rumors that the marriage had been anything other than a love match. Starting a fight in the middle of a ballroom tended to quell that sort of thing.
As Givendale slammed into Trent, sending him down to the floor where his shoulder drilled into the wooden surface with the force of both men’s weight, it was almost enough to convince himself.
The strength of Givendale’s hit sent the pair sliding across the floor, making finely dressed men and women scatter and squeal. A fist barreled into Trent’s ribs as he scrambled to his feet. Fists flew as Trent adjusted to Givendale’s movements. He took two more punches before taking control of the fight and making sure the weasel wouldn’t be stealing kisses from anyone anytime soon. In return Givendale connected his knee to Trent’s side. Evening clothes with seams, buttons, and other accoutrements weren’t as forgiving as the linen shirt and breeches he normally boxed in. He wasn’t sure if it was the seam of his waistcoat or his flesh tearing, but the pain that lashed through him gave him a pretty good guess.
Trent’s rebuttal was a swift punch to the breadbasket that sent Givendale doubling over, making it simple work to send him to the floor with a less than gentle nudge of Trent’s knee.
A few men came forward to assist Givendale from the premises with less than helpful intentions. Trent winced as more than one foot trod on Givendale’s toes and a couple of fists connected with ribs Trent had already bruised. There would probably be a few butlers getting new instructions when it came to Mr. Givendale. It was well known that at least half the ton marriages were little more than a sham, but woe be to the person who actually got publicly caught, particularly if he was caught by the very man he was making a fool of. Givendale wouldn’t be doing much of anything in the near future, which was a good thing, since that meant he couldn’t call for pistols at dawn.
The fight would be old news before Givendale could call for retribution. Oh, it wouldn’t soon be forgotten, and Trent was sure to be infamous for a long time to come, but Givendale’s suffering would probably be short-lived.
Unless he tried something with Trent’s wife again.
Noise exploded through the ballroom as Givendale and his escorts cleared the door. Trent’s chest heaved with breaths so harsh he thought he might actually be breathing in the noise along with the smell of sweat and blood. He looked down at his still-clenched fist to find a smear of red across his hand. The burning emotional monster still rode him, and he knew he needed to leave.
He looked back at Adelaide for the first time since the confrontation began. She was still where he’d left her, supported on either side by Miranda and Amelia. The fight had moved him halfway across the ballroom, and people were quickly filling in the gap, but he could still make out the stunned face and pale features that hit him harder than anything Givendale had managed to land. What would she think of his forceful answer to the problem of Givendale? If she actually cared for the man, he’d probably just given her the final push that would send her to his side.
She might even go to him tonight to nurse his wounds. It wouldn’t change the fact that she was married to Trent, but it could change everything else.
And to think he’d wanted a courtship. What would he have done if Adelaide had been free to walk away? He could hardly have punched every man who tried to win her heart.
Her horrified blue gaze met his tortured green one through the glare of her spectacles.
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t go to her, covered in sweat and the blood of the man she might care for more than him.
So he did the only thing he felt he could do.
He looked for Griffith.
He didn’t have to look far. His mountain of a brother was cutting through the crowd to Trent’s side, Ryland immediately behind him. “Get her home for me. Or wherever else she wants to go if she doesn’t want to be there. Just get her out of here safely.”
Ryland placed a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Consider it done.”
The Duke of Marshington looked across the crowd to his wife and jerked his head toward the side door opposite of where Givendale had been taken out. After a brief nod, Miranda began ushering Adelaide through the crowd, slipping quietly along the edge so as not to draw attention to their departure.
Ryland looked at Griffith. “You’ve got him?”
“As long as he can walk.”
Trent scowled at the pair of them, but as long as Adelaide was taken care of, he didn’t care what they did with him. Someone bumped into his back, and fire shot across his shoulder, nearly sending him to his knees.
“Off we go, then.” Griffith wrapped a hand around Trent’s arm and guided him outside with more speed than skill. “My carriage is around the corner.”
Breathing harshly through his teeth, Trent nodded and turned the way Griffith had pointed, his forceful stride eating up the pavement at a pace that actually exceeded that of Griffith’s normal long stride.
The footman saw them coming and jumped to open the door. It wasn’t until Trent was faced with climbing into the vehicle that every hit Givendale had managed to land made itself known. A groan vibrated through his gritted teeth as he climbed in and threw himself onto one of the seats.
Griffith unhurriedly climbed in after him, carrying one of the carriage lanterns. As the conveyance began to roll, he set the lantern on the floor. “How bad is it?”
Trent undid the buttons on his waistcoat and pulled the linen shirt from the waist of his trousers. Every move was agony, and he was soon breathing harder from the effort to move sore muscles than he had been after the exertion of the actual fight. His side had a definite, distinct pain.
Air hissed through Griffith’s teeth as Trent pulled the shirt up. “You need a surgeon.”
Trent looked at his side. In the light of the lantern it did look bad. The blood wasn’t running freely though, so he guessed it was more of a scrape than anything else. “I’ll clean it up at home.”
He looked up at his brother’s stern expression. “I promise if it’s worse than a scratch I’ll send for the surgeon myself.”
Griffith crossed his arms over his chest.
Trent flopped onto the seat, leaving his ruined clothes in their state of disarray. “Honestly, Griffith, do you think Mrs. Harris would let me do anything less?”
His brother grunted but said nothing else on the fifteen-minute ride to Trent’s house. He started to get out and help Trent inside, but Trent held up a hand to stop him. “I can make it inside on my own. I won the fight, remember?”
“Did you?” Griffith lifted an eyebrow as he let the question sink in.
Yes, he had won the physical fight with Givendale, but whether or not he’d won the prize remained to be seen. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Trent didn’t wait for a response as he walked into the house with as much grace as possible. His legs weren’t damaged or even very sore, so it was mostly his bac
k and side causing him to walk like an overworked laundress. His hands also hurt, but that didn’t affect his walk any.
When Fenton opened the door, Trent simply held up a hand in a bid for silence as he walked past and stumbled up to his room, shucking his cravat, jacket, and waistcoat as he went.
Trent rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the discomfort as he achieved the sanctuary of his bedchamber. He pulled his shirt over his head and turned to look at his back in the mirror. The light from the lamp played over his skin, picking up the darker colors that were starting to discolor along his ribs.
He washed the blood off, revealing that the wound on his side was indeed a long scrape with a shallow cut near the front that had caused most of the smeared blood. Considering his own stiff movements, he was fairly certain that Givendale wasn’t cleaning himself up tonight.
Trent couldn’t find a lot of sympathy for his opponent. He’d probably be begging God’s forgiveness for that in the morning, but tonight he was caught in the mire of his human fallibility and couldn’t help but be glad he’d gotten the best of the man who seemed intent on ruining his chances for a happy marriage. Not that Trent hadn’t done at least as much damage himself. He clearly didn’t need outside help in that effort.
He stretched his arm once more, wincing at the pain but knowing that he couldn’t let the muscle tense up—that would make the pain much worse.
Despite the energy still flowing through his veins, he tried to convince himself to go to bed. Wandering the room wasn’t helping his sore body, and any moment the pulsing frenzy would leave his system and his energy would fade into nothingness.
He leaned toward the mirror to check his face one more time to make sure the small cut along his cheekbone wasn’t bleeding again.
An Uncommon Courtship Page 29
