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She swallowed, hating the awful feelings stirring in her stomach, and then both the marquess and the viscount were there.
“Maschelly,” the marquess said jovially. “Just the man I wanted to see. I’ve always wanted a match with one of the bare-knuckle kings. What do you say we arrange—”
Unable to bear hearing the voice which had haunted her dreams for so long, she skirted from around the table, and with hurried steps made her way to the door.
“Vincent?” Lord Maschelly’s tone was sharp, questioning, concerned, but she did not slow.
“Who is the pup?” she heard the marquess ask and she almost cast up her accounts.
Verity broke into a run, passed many startled patrons, and down the stairs. She collided into a footman, and the tray of drinks tipped to the floor with a resounding crash.
She tried to dart around the mess and someone grabbed her. The shock of it pulled a startled scream from her. The hand disappeared, and before she could process what had happened, the man sailed in the air and crashed against a wall with a pained groan.
“No one touches him,” Lord Maschelly commanded, his tone flat and lethal.
Many gazes landed on her, then to the man behind her, but she did not pause, rushing outside as if the devil chased her.
Once there, she took deep breaths of fresh air, hating the tears pricking her eyes. Her throat burned, anger and shame filled her heart, and she stuffed a fist in her mouth choking on a ragged sob.
“Verity,” a soft voice said. “I should have never brought you here. I was a damn idiot.”
She spun around. “James…I…I mean Lord Maschelly…” Words deserted her as she stared at him. He seemed fierce and ruthless, as if he had arrived to vanquish whomever or whatever had upset her. He stepped toward her and she jerked back. It was an instinctive movement and she felt wretched for the shuttered look which covered his expression.
“I am not afraid of you,” she burst out passionately. “You…you are the very first gentleman I have felt safe around in years. I cannot explain it because you are so very large and intimidating…but I just do…because you are so real and unpretentious.”
James’s muscles were knotted with a terrible tension. He moved slowly, heavily, toward her as if drawn by a magnet. He saw her struggle to remain still and not jerk from him and it shredded something deep inside of his heart. Who had abused such sweet gentleness and created the wary mistrust staring at him with such large wounded eyes? What had frightened her?
“It was wrong of me to take you here,” he said gruffly, his heart throbbing with guilt…and fear that something might have scared her because he had pushed too soon. His rage had festered like a wound when someone had dared touched her.
“No, thank you. I needed to understand.”
“Do not thank me when I could have gotten you hurt, badly.”
“Do not be melodramatic,” she chided. “The man barely touched me.” She wanted to sound brave and nonchalant, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“May I come closer?”
She lowered her eyes away from his steady gaze. “Yes.”
“What made you run?”
A sob hitched in her throat and an icy resolve filled him. Whatever or whoever had hurt her would be vanquished. It was a risk, touching her, but he needed to see her face. James placed a finger beneath her chin gently and urged her face upward.
She reacted, gripping his finger, but she did not push him away. Instead, she clutched at his finger as if it were a lifeline. Her touch against his knuckles was like the delicate brush of the wings of a butterfly.
Large wounded eyes pe
ered up at him. “Sometimes I hear his laugh in my dreams, deafening and suffocating me.”
And he knew in that moment he would kill the man who had put such shadows in her eyes and pain in her voice.
“Tell me his name.”
She closed her eyes briefly before snapping them open. “I…”
He raked his fingers through his hair, turning its careful disarray into a tangled mess. “He was inside just now. That is why you ran outside. It was unbearable seeing him again.”
Her throat worked on a swallow. “Yes.”
