Before he could respond, the door to his study burst open with such violence that all three occupants jumped in alarm. Mr. James Whitmore stood on the threshold, his face flushed with obvious anger and his usually immaculate appearance disheveled as though he had ridden hard to reach them.
"Your Grace," he said with barely controlled fury, "I demand satisfaction for the insult you have dealt my honour and that of Miss Greystone."
Devon's entire posture shifted to one of lethal stillness, his hands moving to clasp behind his back in the gesture Arabella had learned to recognize as a sign of barely leashed violence.
"Mr. Whitmore," he said with dangerous quiet. "How... unexpected. To what insult do you refer?"
"Do not play the innocent with me," Whitmore snarled, advancing into the room with the sort of aggressive confidence that suggested he believed himself to hold the superior position. "I have just come from Lord Huxley, who was most illuminating about the true nature of Miss Greystone's arrangements in this household."
Arabella felt her cheeks burn with humiliation and rage at this public airing of society's crude speculations, whilst Livia appeared to shrink into her chair with obvious distress.
"I would advise you to moderate your tone," Devon said with silky menace. "You are speaking of a lady who is under my protection."
"Protection?" Whitmore's laugh was harsh with disbelief. "Is that what you call it? When all of London knows that she serves as your mistress whilst masquerading as your sister's companion?"
The crude accusation sent Devon's control snapping entirely. In one fluid motion, he moved around his desk and seized Whitmore by the lapels of his coat, lifting the smaller man until his feet barely touched the ground.
"You will retract that statement immediately," he growled, his voice deadly with suppressed violence, "or I will forget that we are in the presence of ladies and demonstrate exactly what I think of men who dare to slander those I hold dear."
"Devon, no!" Livia cried out in alarm, whilst Arabella rose from her chair with every intention of intervening before the situation deteriorated further.
"Gentlemen, please," she said with as much authority as she could muster. "This display benefits no one and only serves to confirm the very gossip you both claim to deplore."
Devon's grip on Whitmore's coat loosened fractionally, though his expression remained thunderous with barely controlled rage.
"Miss Greystone is quite right," Whitmore said with malicious satisfaction, straightening his rumpled clothing with obvious dignity. "Which is why I have come to offer her the protection of my name once more. Marriage to me would silence all speculation about her current circumstances."
"Over my dead body," Devon snarled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"That can be arranged," Whitmore replied with cold precision. "I am prepared to call you out, Your Grace, for the dishonour you have brought upon an innocent lady through your selfish refusal to do what honour demands."
The challenge hung in the air like a poison cloud, and Arabella felt her world begin to crumble around her as she realized the full implications of what was being proposed. A duel between Devon and Whitmore would destroy any hope of containing the scandal, whilst the outcome, whatever it might be, would leave her position even more precarious than before.
"Stop," she said quietly, though her voice carried clearly through the charged atmosphere. "Both of you, stop this madness immediately."
She moved to stand between the two men, her chin lifted with the sort of regal dignity that her circumstances should have made impossible to maintain.
"Mr. Whitmore, I have already declined your generous offer of marriage, and my position on that matter remains unchanged. As for you, Your Grace," she turned to face Devon with eyes that blazed with desperate determination, "I will not allow you to risk your life and reputation for my sake. The time has come for me to remove myself from this household before any further damage is done."
"Arabella, no," Devon said with raw desperation, reaching out as though to prevent her from leaving through sheer force ofwill. "You cannot...
"I must," she interrupted with quiet finality. "Surely you can see that my continued presence here serves only to fuel speculation and place those I care about in impossible positions. I have savings enough to establish myself independently, and it is past time I claimed the freedom such independence provides."
The words were like daggers to Devon's heart, and Arabella saw him flinch as though she had struck him physically. Yet beneath his pain, she glimpsed something else; a reluctant understanding that her departure might indeed be the only solution to their impossible situation.
"Where will you go?" Livia asked with obvious distress, tears gathering in her dark eyes at the prospect of losing the companion who had become so dear to her.
"I have not yet decided," Arabella replied with forced composure. "Perhaps Bath, or one of the smaller cathedral cities where a lady might live quietly without exciting comment. The important thing is that I remove myself from circumstances that can only cause further pain to those I hold most dear."
"How very convenient," Whitmore observed with sarcastic satisfaction. "The fallen woman flees to avoid facing the consequences of her choices, leaving chaos in her wake."
The cruel assessment sent Devon's barely controlled temper exploding into open violence. Before anyone could intervene, his fist connected with Whitmore's jaw with a sound like a pistol shot, sending the other man crashing to the floor in an undignified heap.
"Get out," Devon snarled, standing over his fallen opponent with the sort of predatory menace that made even Arabella take an involuntary step backward. "Get out of my house before I forget that I am a gentleman and give you the thrashing you so richly deserve."
Whitmore struggled to his feet with obvious difficulty, his jaw already beginning to swell from the force of Devon's blow. Yet rather than retreating, he smiled with malicious triumph.
"You have just provided me with all the witnesses I require," he said with cold satisfaction. "No gentleman of honour strikes another without providing satisfaction. You will meet me, Your Grace, or be branded a coward before all of society."
