by Liana Lefey
There was a moment of shocked silence followed by a spattering of nervous laughter. The man had just gone beyond the pale and everyone present knew it.
Heat flashed across Sorin’s skin, and his heart began to pound.
“Don’t,” mouthed Marston, shaking his head.
But it was too late for that. Rising from his seat, he went to confront Eleanor’s detractor. “What interesting tales you tell, Sir Yarborough. Do continue.”
Blanching, Yarborough nevertheless stood to face him. “What business is it of yours what I say about some nameless whore?”
A hush fell in the room, and Sorin felt all eyes on him. Steady, now. “I should think it both an honor and a duty to warn one’s friends concerning such a female as you have just described,” he said lightly, gesturing to the other man’s companions. “Come. You are among friends, are you not? Speak her name so that we may be warned against this man-trap.” He waited while beads of sweat formed on Yarborough’s brow. “No? How very curious. Don’t you think it curious?” he asked Marston, who’d come to stand at his side.
“Indeed,” agreed Marston with a toothy grin. “One wonders at the meaning of his sudden silence when but a moment ago he was a veritable magpie.”
Yarborough’s eyes darted between them. “You have no proof that I was speaking of…her,” he finished low through clenched teeth.
The blood roaring in his ears, Sorin smiled. “I don’t need proof.” Without offering any other warning, he followed his statement with a satisfying fist to the other man’s jaw.
It was a brawl worthy of any dockside tavern. The pair that had come in with Yarborough leaped to their feet in his defense, and within seconds everyone in the room was trading indiscriminate blows. The club’s frantic proprietor came running in to break up the fight and received a punch to the nose for his trouble. Thus were the odds evened, for the man at once charged back into the fray like a maddened bull. Though the reinforcement was welcome, Sorin and Marston needed no help. Having spent a goodly amount of time as sailors, both knew how to take a man down quickly and did so now with great gusto.
When at last Yarborough lay moaning on the floor in bloody surrender, Sorin looked down on him in contempt. “Get up.”
Yarborough stared up at him with fear-filled eyes. “If you mean to challenge me—”
“Oh, I do.” Consequences be damned. He’d already broken the rules of gentlemanly conduct by striking the blackguard. “I warned you this would happen. At your own peril you chose to ignore that warning. Now name your weapon and choose your second.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” gasped the other man, swiping at the blood trickling from his nose, “but allow me to remind you that the king has declared a prohibition against dueling.”
“Only within the boundaries of London itself,” replied Sorin, feeling the red tide of rage rise up in him once more. “I believe we both possess horses, do we not?”
But Yarborough only shook his head and spat out a bloody tooth. “I will neither defy my king nor risk my life for the sake of satisfying your antiquated code of honor.”
Those watching muttered in frank disapproval. No true gentleman would publicly disparage a female so, or fail to answer such a challenge.
Fury set fire to Sorin’s veins. “Coward. You risked your worthless life the moment you opened your lying mouth to wrongly malign the woman I love.”
“Love?” Yarborough let out an irreverent snort. “If you think she could ever love you, then you really are an old fool.”
“Perhaps I am, at that,” Sorin replied, gratified to see the younger man flinch as he took a step closer and bent low to peer into his battered face. “But this fool will gladly lay down his life to defend her good name. If you will not answer my challenge, then you admit your statements concerning the lady are false in their entirety.”
His pale face flushing, Yarborough glanced around at the men circling them.
Sorin could see there was not a sympathetic face among the lot. Even the braggart’s friends, those who’d defended him with their fists only moments ago, stared down at the fallen man with hard eyes. If a man has not his honor, he has nothing…
Swallowing, Yarborough bowed his head in defeat. “Very well. Before these witnesses, I offer you my humble apology and retract my offensive words concerning the lady.” He looked up and met Sorin’s gaze. “You have taken my dignity, sir, and can ask no further reparation. Do you accept?”
Utter disdain filled Sorin, and he did nothing to prevent it showing on his face. “You leave me little choice.” He weighted his next words with deadly cold. “But know this: if I ever hear you speak falsely of her again—in fact, if I ever hear you’ve spoken of her at all, prohibition or not, I will find you and put a hole in your craven hide.”
Turning to the proprietor, whose previously nondescript face now bore a great deal of character in the form of a spectacularly broken nose and an assortment of cuts and bruises, he took out his purse. “My apologies,” he said, dropping enough money into the man’s outstretched hand to cover the cost of reparations thrice over.
“Nod ad all, by lord,” said the man, smiling in spite of what had to be a painfully split lip. He bowed, making it clear to all that Sorin, at least, would be welcomed back.
“You know you’ve just committed yourself to a course from which there is no turning back,” said Marston as they walked out. “It’ll be all over London by morning. The good and the bad. You must go and see Ashford at once.”
“Agreed. But I cannot take myself to his house at this hour, especially looking as I must.” His right cuff was torn, and his cravat and jacket were spattered with blood—Yarborough’s, he hoped—and he could feel the beginnings of an ache in his jaw where someone’s fist had connected with it. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
Marston eyed him. “Perhaps you’re right. When you do see him, best be prepared to tell the truth.”
The truth. Though part of Sorin dreaded the prospect, another rejoiced. Whatever the outcome, there would be no more secrets, no more lies. He would learn once and for all the nature of Eleanor’s feelings for him. Then he would have to live with them—one way or another.
Now that he’d declared his love for her publicly and drawn blood in defense of her good name, they must marry. There was no other way to avoid what would doubtless be the scandal of the Season. Eleanor would marry him, but the nature of their marriage would be determined by her will alone.
If by some miracle she found it within herself to eventually return his full affection, he would give heartfelt thanks to God every day for the rest of his life. Even now he prayed it would be so.
If, however, the only thing she would accept was the protection of his name, then so be it. Through no fault of hers, it had come to this. He wouldn’t impose upon her more than she desired. He wouldn’t even subject her to his presence, if such was her wish. To ensure her happiness, he would deny her nothing within his power to give, even if it was his absence.
If she found his love repugnant, he’d simply have to learn to live without his heart, for it would remain with her no matter how far away he went. Such would be the penance for his selfish act, for having robbed her of the life she would have had with someone more deserving.
Chapter Nineteen
Pacing the familiar length of the salon, Sorin was more nervous than he had ever been in his life. He’d tiptoed out at dawn to walk the short distance to Charles’s house, something he hadn’t done since before his days at university. But he had needed to get out before Mother awakened—before she could hear of his disgraceful conduct last night and panic over the unfolding disaster. He would explain everything to her later, after it was done.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting. I came as soon as I could get away,” said Charles, coming in. “What brings you here so early? Has Yarborough been arrested?”
He’d forgotten all about that, actually. “It should be happening as we speak, but my visit is
not about that.” His gut tightened at the perplexed look on his friend’s face. “I can see the gossip has not yet reached you. I’m glad. I wanted to tell you myself.”
“Tell me what?” Charles shook his head. “What gossip? Bloody hell!” he exclaimed as he came closer. “What happened to your face?”
Sorin put a hand to his sore, purpling jaw. “It’s nothing. Charles, I’ve done something that I fear will have significant consequences for all of us.” He took a deep breath. “Last night while Marston and I were at the club, Yarborough came in and began speaking ill of Eleanor to his fellows. I’m afraid I quite lost my temper.”
Charles frowned. “I don’t…” Comprehension dawned across his features. “You hit him.”
Though he tried to dredge up a modicum of remorse for his actions, Sorin couldn’t fool himself and wouldn’t attempt to fool his best friend. “I laid him out on the floor in front of nearly a dozen witnesses,” he said unabashedly. “I challenged him, but the coward refused to face me. He offered a full apology for the insult. I accepted. It’s done.”
Quick as lightning, his friend’s bewilderment turned to anger. “The man is going to prison this morning!” he spluttered. “Could you not have held your peace for one bloody night? No one would have believed him! But now—you should have walked away and let him be!”
The very idea made Sorin’s blood hot all over again. “To do so would have been to let his lies go unchallenged and let everyone think I cared nothing for her honor!”
“Her honor was not yours to defend!” snapped Charles, his face reddening. “But now everyone will assume otherwise!”
“Believe me, I know what a bloody mess this makes of things, Charles!” He lowered his voice. “Which is why I’ve come to ask for her hand. At least as my wife, Eleanor will be safe from the storm that is about to break.”
“A storm of your making!” accused his friend, jabbing an angry finger at him. “None of this would be happening had you simply kept to the plan. Your plan!”
“I’m keenly aware that the fault is mine, and I will do everything I can to minimize the damage,” Sorin vowed. “A marriage will help. We are, after all, already well-associated in Society’s eyes.”
“If she’ll agree to it,” said Charles, clearly doubtful.
“She must. And for more reason than just her reputation.” He stood before his closest friend and steeled himself. It was time. “I’d hoped to woo her slowly over the course of the Season, but now everything has gone wrong and there is simply no more time.”
“Woo her? What the devil do you mean, ‘woo her’?” Charles’s wroth expression transformed to one of profound shock. “Are y—are you in love with Eleanor?”
Sorin forced himself to meet his eyes. “I’ve tried to deny my feelings for her, but my efforts have proven ineffectual. I did everything in my power to stop it, Charles. I even left England. At the time, travel was a welcome escape from the torment of watching her succumb, as I thought she surely must, to some other man’s charm. But year after year I waited for the news that never came, until I finally had no choice but to return.”
“Upon my word,” whispered Charles with wide eyes. “I think I need a brandy.” Rising, he went to the decanter and poured out a glass. He downed it, and then poured himself another. Lifting the decanter, he offered his guest a glass.
“Thank you, but no,” Sorin responded, feeling slightly queasy. “I had enough last night to have lost my taste for it today.”
Charles came and sat back down. “Why the devil did you not say something before now?”
“I did not wish to put a strain on our friendship, especially after you entrusted me to act as her chaperone.” A trust which he’d broken in the most flagrant manner possible.
A frown again creased Charles’s brow. “Though I admit to being displeased by the deception, I understand why you felt it necessary. But surely you must know I would not have objected to your suit. Eleanor could ask for no better match, in my opinion.”
“That is exactly what I told him,” said Rowena, entering the room.
“You knew of this?” said Charles with unconcealed hurt.
She entered and closed the door behind her. “I began to suspect it during our journey to London, but I learned the truth of it only a short time ago.”
“And yet you shared neither your suspicion nor its confirmation with me,” her husband said grimly.
“Don’t blame her,” Sorin told him. “I made her promise not to tell anyone, including you. I felt it only right that I should be the one to inform you of my intent. As to why I waited to do so, I could not risk Eleanor learning of my true sentiments prematurely.”
“As she would have done had you begun dropping ‘helpful’ hints,” cut in Rowena, patting her husband’s arm. “I offered to speak with her on his behalf, as well, but he made me swear not to say anything that might influence her.”
“Why?” asked Charles, baffled. “We would have been glad to intercede on your behalf. I’ve no doubt it would have been an easy matter to convince her to accept you—she adores you already.”
“As a friend only,” Sorin clarified bitterly. “I wanted to wait until I’d had the opportunity to make her see me as more.”
“Yes, well, as you’ve said, time has run out,” his best friend pointed out.
“Charles.” Rowena stared at him, one brow arched in silent command.
Closing his eyes, her husband passed a hand over his face. “Of course. Yes. I give you leave to ask for Eleanor’s hand.”
“Thank you,” Sorin replied, every bone and sinew atremble with relief. He sat in the nearest chair and tried to gather his wits. “I’ve so dreaded telling you the truth. In all honesty, I was unsure how you’d react.”
The look Charles directed at him was one of compassion. “Daft fool. You ought to have known better. I’ve considered you family almost from the day we met.”
Sorin found speech impossible at the moment, so he nodded. Taking a deep breath, he marshaled his self-control. “Now I must decide how to tell Eleanor.” If telling Charles had been hard, telling her would be bloody awful.
“A word of advice, if I may,” said Rowena, her eyes boring into his. “Under the circumstances, she has little choice but to accept you. But if you declare yourself now, at least she’ll know your proposal is more than just a matter of honor. Tell her the truth.”
Rowena was right. Come what may, it was time. He nodded.
“I’ll go and get her,” she said, rising.
Feeling like a leaf caught on the surface of a rushing river, Sorin watched her leave. His fate was out of his hands now. All he could do was hope.
Charles looked at him for a long moment. “You know, I’d venture to say your worries are needless.”
“What? Why?”
His friend’s face was wry. “Because at one point I thought I might have to speak to Eleanor about you. She pestered you so when she was younger, always hanging at your elbow, full of endless prattle. Everything was ‘Sorin said this’ or ‘Sorin did that.’ She practically worshipped you. I thought it would diminish as she grew older and made other friends, and it did, to some extent. But not nearly enough. I worried that you would be bothered by it, but you never seemed to mind.”
“No. I never minded,” Sorin replied, smiling fondly. “Our friendship has always been a natural and easy one. If I was overly tolerant, it was because I knew how much she needed someone to just listen.” He looked at Charles. “You must believe that I never intended anything more than friendship. When I realized my feelings had begun to change, I fled on the fastest ship I could find.”
“She was devastated when you left,” said Charles, shaking his head. “Such that I was concerned she’d developed the sort of tendre dramatic young ladies sometimes do for an older gentleman in their acquaintance. But after we returned from London her melancholy seemed to ease. I introduced her to every young man we knew, hoping one of them would catch her eye. But none did, and
I could not understand it.” He fixed Sorin with a piercing gaze. “Now I begin to wonder if I was right after all and she already had her heart set on someone else.”
The temperature in the room climbed a notch, and Sorin debated confiding in him that Eleanor had been comparing those other men to him. He elected against it. She’d included Charles as part of her comparison criteria, after all, and she certainly hadn’t given him any reason to believe that he was viewed any differently than her cousin. With one exception. And that event was not something he cared to divulge to Charles. Ever. “If so, then she concealed it from me.” He shifted nervously. “Charles, I will not impose myself on her against her wishes.”
His friend flushed to the roots of his hair. “You cannot make such a promise. Not when you both love her and require an heir.”
“I won’t sacrifice her happiness for my own,” Sorin insisted, vowing it to himself at the same time. “I’ve controlled myself thus far. I can do so forever, as long as she is happy.”
His friend chuckled. “If there is one thing I’ve learned from marriage, it is that a wife is never content unless she owns her husband body and soul. And a husband in love with his wife is never satisfied with less than his love returned fully.”
“He did what?” Eleanor sat abruptly as flashes of heat and cold warred with each other across the battlefield of her flesh.
“Shh!” hissed Caroline, hurrying to close the door. She lowered her voice yet further, so that it was barely above a whisper. “I overheard one of the footmen say he’d heard it from his sister who works as a maid for Lady Wincanton that Lord Wincanton came to blows with Yarborough last night at his club. And now he’s here—before breakfast!—asking to speak with your cousin.”
It couldn’t be true. “Are you absolutely certain the footman was not speaking of someone else?” Her heart seemed to pause as one fiery brow lifted in answer. She bit her lip. “Yarborough must have said something truly vile.”
