“Fine,” he snapped after telling seconds passed without the utterance of a word. He spun on his heel and stormed from the chamber.
“Millicent,” her mother said, turning to her, “you understand you will not be able to keep this from him, don’t you? He will discover the truth.”
Indeed he would, Missy conceded, but she owed James at least some forewarning. “What do you think he’ll do?”
Sighing, the viscountess returned to sit on the edge of the bed. “Something I’m sure he’ll regret. Your brother has such a dreadful temper.” Picking up her hand, her mother stroked the back with gentle fingers. “Why won’t you tell me before your brother hunts down every man you have so much as spoken to since you arrived in Town.”
Before she was again forced to deny her mother, her brother stormed back into the room, his expression coldly furious. “Is it Crawley or Rutherford?” He spat the two names.
Her mother’s hand stroking hers immediately stilled. Alarm stole Missy’s next breath.
“James?” the viscountess cried.
When Missy failed to respond, Thomas advanced until he stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clenched around the column of the bedstead. “No, don’t answer. I already know. If there is one thing I am confident of is that my friend would never ever take undue advantage of you. Therefore, that leaves only that bloody fop, Crawley.” He practically growled the man’s name.
“Who—how?” Missy found the recovery of her voice did not necessarily mean she could articulate well enough to communicate.
But her brother knew exactly what she asked. “Under the threat of punishment that I would tan their bloody hides, I forced your sisters to reveal what they know. They told me about a kiss with Crawley and an incident with you and Rutherford in the study at mother’s winter ball.”
Oh dear Lord, they had promised her they would never speak a word of it to anyone, especially Thomas. That’s what she got for trusting a seventeen-and fifteen-year-old with such secrets.
“Crawley is a dead man.” He gave the footboard a good shake before turning to leave.
“Wait!” Missy shouted, pulling herself into a sitting position.
Thomas halted at the threshold but did not turn to look at her. “What?” he snapped.
“It wasn’t Lord Crawley.” Her voice was barely audible.
Her mother inhaled a sharp breath. Thomas didn’t move and said nothing for a frighteningly long time. Finally, his shoulders rose and fell just once, as if he’d been forced to take a breath.
“Are you telling me my friend of ten years, a man who is as close to me as my own family, has betrayed not only our friendship, our mother’s trust, but has taken your innocence?” He spoke with a calmness that belied the current stillness of his form as he remained with his back to her, his hands taut and splayed on each side of the doorframe.
“If you want to blame someone, blame me. All of it was my doing. He only took what was offered.” The latter she said, her eyes downcast. It had taken all the courage she could muster to not only admit it to them, but to herself as well. This was a nightmare of her own creation.
From her peripheral vision, Missy saw her brother slowly turn to face her. She shrank deeper into the pillows.
“Now, Thomas,” the viscountess said in her most placating tone, rising from the bed to rush to his side. “It will never do for you to confront him in your present state.”
“One of my closest friends has ruined my sister, Mother. Just when do you expect I will be in the right state of mind to see him?” he asked coolly. With those words and a narrow, cold-eyed stare at Missy, he was gone.
Missy finally risked a look up. Her mother stood staring at the open door, her anguish evident in her eyes.
“I shall instruct Stevens to send Alex to James’s residence immediately,” the viscountess said.
“This is all my fault,” Missy said in a tiny voice.
Her mother did not disagree, instead she countered with a sad smile. “I have not forgotten what it is like to be young and in love. I only wish that…that you had waited, for your own sake, not mine. As it is, from what I have heard, James is all but pledged to Lady Victoria.”
Missy couldn’t help but smart at the mention of their coming marriage but she couldn’t concern herself with them—with him. James could do little to help her regardless of her circumstances.
“If I am expecting, I shall remain in America and have the baby there. I promise you, Mama, I will not allow what I have done to ruin Emily and Sarah’s chances of good matches.”
“My concern is for you now. I have no desire to ship you off to America to have a baby without your family present…without me.” Pain etched tiny lines around her eyes and mouth.
“Let us not think of that now. We still don’t even know whether I am with child.”
Coming back to her side, her mother pulled her gently into her arms and whispered, “We will get through this, no matter how trying. I could never abandon you.”
Missy tightly clutched her mother to her, drawing strength from her seemingly bottomless well of wisdom and love.
It was amazing that once a significant weight was removed from one’s shoulders—namely his—how different the world appeared. Somehow, the sun shone brighter than all previous mornings, and the gray pall that had clasped the city in its unyielding grip that morning had lifted, allowing its inhabitants to feel the real pleasures of summer.
James enjoyed the hearty breakfast he hadn’t been able to stomach before meeting with Lady Victoria. Scones topped with fresh strawberry preserves, eggs, ham, and piping hot coffee, black the way he took it—he consumed it all with a gusto that had been absent for weeks. With the matter of Lady Victoria settled, he’d made a decision regarding Missy.
He would marry her as he’d initially intended. It was that simple.
But that didn’t change his position on the type of marriage he would have. It would be a marriage without the promise of fidelity or love. He’d take a mistress if he so desired, for Missy would not take the lead in the matters of the marriage bed. No, he would rule that domain as he pleased. Unlike his father, he’d never plead for a taste of passion from the one person who should give it freely. The fact that he desired her as he’d never desired another was an entirely separate matter that would have no bearing on their marriage. But he would need to curb his insatiable lust for her lest she sense that chink in his armor. Lust and desire were weaknesses easily exploited.
Sated from the large meal and quite satisfied with his decision, James had only settled in the library for five minutes before Smith appeared at its entrance. “Lord Armstrong to see you, milord,” he intoned.
“See him in,” he instructed, setting down the morning edition of the Times.
He rose to his feet, his smile easy and cordial when his friend entered and swiftly approached. What he didn’t see was the fist that came sailing at him with the force of a gale wind, but he felt its impact all the way down to his toes. It slammed into his right eye, sending him staggering back.
A kaleidoscope of colors exploded in his head. “What the—”
“My own goddamn sister. You bastard.”
Oh God, he’d found out about him and Missy. Another blow caught him beneath his jaw, slamming his lower teeth into the soft skin of his upper lip. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
He glimpsed his shocked butler scurrying from the doorway, undoubtedly to bring back suitable reinforcements to break up the melee.
James pulled himself up, just as Armstrong was bringing his arm back for another powerful blow, and managed to evade that one, momentarily unbalancing his friend. James took that opportunity to hurry behind the desk, creating adequate distance to keep him out of Armstrong’s reach. He couldn’t very well fight back—not under the circumstances. He knew he had it coming—every single blow—but that didn’t mean he had to like it and that certainly didn’t mean that he wouldn’t do everything in his power to minimize the
damage.
“I’m not marrying Lady Victoria,” he said, panting, his hands clutching the cushioned back of the leather chair.
“I don’t give a damn,” Armstrong said, pushing aside an ottoman with his foot in an effort to get to him. “You’re intent on despoiling every woman I care about,” he growled, ending in a roar.
With an agile leap to the side, James wound his way around the desk, trying to maintain a distance that would keep all of his body parts clear of Armstrong’s large fists.
Oh Lord, Armstrong was also referring to Lady Louisa, whom his friend had thought himself in love with six years back. Bloody hell, she had kissed him, not the other way around. Surely, Armstrong didn’t still hold that against him?
“I didn’t despoil Lady Louisa. I didn’t even touch her. I’d thought we had put that whole matter behind us.”
When his friend had caught his would-be fiancée trying to seduce him in the gardens at a ball, Armstrong hadn’t said a word, hadn’t reacted overtly. James hadn’t even known Armstrong had seen them until a week after he’d ended all communication with her. Given that James had politely but firmly declined her offer to make her his future countess, his friend had found him exempt of fault.
Or so he’d thought.
Armstrong’s only response was a low grumble in his throat. The man wasn’t going to listen to reason.
“And I plan to marry Missy.” He could only pray that those words would do the trick, and cool the fire burning hot and green in Armstrong’s narrowed eyes and contain his bared teeth.
He laughed. The bloody man had the audacity to laugh. It was humorless, hollow, and mocking. Affront softened James’s stance, leaving him unprepared for the assault that came when Armstrong pitched himself across the desk, the jarring impact of his hands on James’s shoulders thrusting him back into the sideboard.
“Oomph!” His lower back took the full brunt of the impact, sending him sliding to the floor. The pain in his back now eclipsed the pain in his eye and jaw, which only told him how badly it hurt. And he must suffer this all because he was the one in the wrong. Damn chivalry and honor, right now he’d rather be a reprobate and defend himself.
As much as it pained him, he sprang to his feet, not in a remotely lithe or particularly coordinated manner but at least it got him there—his hands raised in defense. He and Armstrong were evenly matched in their pugilist abilities but he didn’t have rage on his side. Rage counted a great deal when it came to fighting—and winning.
Armstrong charged at him shoulder down, a fury of flesh and lean muscle. Seeing no avenue of escape, except with him lying bloodied and pummeled to a pulp on his own library floor, James made a swift side step and brought his forearm down on Armstrong’s back with the weight of his body. Armstrong staggered and fell with a thud on the parquet floors. But on his way down, he grasped James by the legs, yanking him from his feet to land in a heap, his legs pinned underneath his friend’s broad chest.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” James shouted, grimacing, trying to free himself from the incredible hold Armstrong had on his legs. His jaw was swelling rapidly, making speech an effort. “I told you I’m going to marry her.”
“Over my dead body.” Armstrong launched himself forward, now straddling his chest, and caught him with another blow, this time to his left jaw.
Pain exploded like the blast of a cannon in his head, and he braced himself for what was to come.
Then, just as swiftly as the onslaught had begun, it ended, the weight on his chest gone. James opened the other eye—the one that still could—to see Cartwright struggling to stop Armstrong from pouncing on him again. James’s breaths came pained and ragged as he tried to lift his head from the floor.
“Let me go, dammit.” Armstrong struggled in Cartwright’s grasp but with the assistance of James’s very able-bodied footman they were able to wrestle him to the floor.
“What the hell is going on?” Cartwright rarely raised his voice, his cool, even temper seemingly always held in check. Today, however, he shouted the question while trying to control his friend’s attempts to wrest himself from his grasp and that of the footman.
James sat up as quickly as the pain throbbing in his jaw—both sides—his eye, and his back would allow. If he feared that Armstrong would break hold of his captors, perhaps he’d have acted with more haste. But he seemed relatively secure, lying facedown still twisting hopelessly on the floor, his hands secured at his sides, Cartwright’s knee pressing solidly in the center of his back.
With the back of his hand, James swiped at the blood trickling down the side of his mouth. On top of everything else, a steady dull throb penetrated through to the back of his skull. He groaned harshly as he pulled his broken body to his feet.
“Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on?” Cartwright asked, with exaggerated patience.
Armstrong made one final attempt to free himself. When he failed, he sank down and rested the tip of his forehead on the area rug, resigned. “Ask that bloody bastard,” he bit out.
Cartwright inclined his head toward James. James, on the other hand, was too cognizant of the footman, his valet, and his housekeeper standing at the library entrance, their expressions revealing the kind of rapt mortification and curiosity one would see in the audience of a traveling circus featuring a two-headed man. He certainly wasn’t going to discuss his personal business with his servants present. Before the sun set, the gossip mill would spin with delicious abandon and Missy’s reputation would be forever sullied.
Motioning with his hands, James issued a brief nod for his servants to depart. They did so slowly, Mrs. March glancing back several times before she disappeared from view, her curiosity trailing behind her.
“I’m sure Armstrong would not like me to air our personal business for all to hear,” he said, pain punctuating every word. “If I have his guarantee that he won’t take the first opportunity to lunge at me again, perhaps we can discuss this like civilized human beings.”
The viscount pulled his head up, his neck muscles taut, and turned to observe him between narrowed eyes. He then glanced at Cartwright who was watching him pointedly, one thick brow quirked.
“I won’t touch him,” he agreed in a growl. “Now would you get the hell off me?”
Although he received the begrudging assurance, James was careful to give him a wide berth, circling the threesome warily and then collapsing onto the sofa with a sigh and a grimace.
Cartwright removed his knee from the viscount’s back, and his footman released the clamping hold he had on his legs. Armstrong pulled himself up, shaking his hands out as if trying to revive the blood flow.
The footman questioned him with a look. James inclined his head in dismissal. The young man quit the room without a word, making certain to close the door firmly behind him.
“He had it coming and more.” Armstrong’s glare was one of pure loathing.
Cartwright moved to position himself between the two men, as if he feared Armstrong would go back on his word. “What the hell did he do? You look like a madman.”
“Go ahead, James, why don’t you tell him? Tell him how you ruined Missy and left her to bear your bastard.”
Chapter Eighteen
The physical blows he had so recently endured compared little to the mental blow dealt by Armstrong’s words. James’s sharp indrawn breath rent the quiet stillness of the room. As the charge registered in the cognizant area of his brain, he stared—slack-aching-jawed—at the man who had just delivered it.
Armstrong, appearing oddly at ease for the first time since he had barreled in, fist swinging, stood braced on his heels, his arms crossed, wearing an expression mixed with smug satisfaction and unbridled fury. That he gained some sort of perverse pleasure from James’s shock was clear.
“Missy is expecting?” James said softly, dazed and confused.
“What do you think has her fainting about the place?” Armstrong’s voice resembled a feral growl.
“Good God, you didn’t.” Cartwright turned to him, wide-eyed and incredulous.
Any pleasure Armstrong had derived from shocking him with Missy’s predicament quickly melted away. He gave Cartwright a terse nod.
James said nothing, still too stupefied to speak. She’d lied to him. When he had asked her about the possibility of a child, she’d assured him there would be no such consequence. But so too had Lady Victoria, assured him similarly. It seemed the two women had more in common than their penchant for sneaking about calling on gentlemen. They were both excessively good liars.
But what he had done, regardless of the provocation, had been reprehensible. And that she was the sister of one of his closest friends lent the deed an even more unsavory air. No, there was little he could say in his defense. And this new revelation only strengthened his resolve. Without a doubt, he would take Missy as his wife. There was no other recourse.
“I plan to marry her,” he said with such simplicity one would think the matter required no consideration.
Armstrong stiffened, his hands dropping to his side in clenched fists. His eyes darkened and he looked as if he was ready to do battle—again. “I trusted you. You were supposed to cure her of it, not take her to your bloody bed.” Amid his anger, James heard a note of hurt in his friend’s voice at his betrayal, and it cut him to the quick.
“You must know I didn’t mean for this to happen.” It was as close to an apology as James could manage at present.
The viscount blistered him with such a look, James’s guilt quite easily superseded his physical pain. “I will see you in hell before I permit you to marry her.”
Cartwright looked at Armstrong as if he’d gone mad. “Although I realize these are not ideal circumstances, and certainly not what you would have wished for Missy, but considering she is enceinte, I don’t see that you have any other choice.”
James was more than happy to allow Cartwright to talk some sense into him. As he was not presently high on Armstrong’s list of favorite people, it was probably best he said as little as possible. The man would soon be his brother-in-law, whether his friend wished it or not.
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