“Brazen little minx,” the first continued, fumbling for his glass and missing it twice. “Struts about like she’s queen of bloody Babylon. Chin up, nipples out, as if every lad in London weren’t already picturing her legs up. Bet she moans like a duchess and bites like a doxy.”
Theo moved before rational thought could intervene. The sickening crack of knuckles against flesh rang out as he drove his fist into the man’s jaw.
The fellow gave a strangled yelp, staggered backwards, and collapsed into the ferns, dislodging leaves and a plume of soil as he went.
The noise silenced the room far more effectively than any declaration could have. A dowager near the refreshment table let out a shriek; a footman, startled beyond reason, dropped an entire tray of ratafia glasses with a tremendous crash. The music faltered mid-measure, the violins stumbling into a discordant tangle before succumbing to a stunned silence.
“Langley!” the other man cried, lurching back as his companion groaned on the floor. “Have you lost all reason?”
Theo adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his knuckles already blooming red. “No. But I am very near to it.”
“You are mad, that’s what you are!”
Theo stepped closer, his voice low and hard until the remaining man recoiled, sloshing brandy over the rim of his glass. “The two of you will apologise to Miss Tolliver at once. In writing. With utmost sincerity. And you shall never utter her name again, neither in jest nor in drink, nor in any squalid corner of London where you fancy yourselves men. Not unless you are prepared to have your teeth scattered across the pavement. Is that sufficiently clear?”
The man shrank back another pace, nodding quickly.
The other, sprawled amidst Lady Braithwaite’s most exquisite greenery – Mr Ashcombe, Theo now recalled, the third son of a lesser baron and currently nursing a rapidly swelling jaw – blinked owlishly, as if unsure how he had come to find himself prostrate beneath a potted plant.
“Splendid,” said Theo. “Let this serve as a reminder that folly in Mayfair carries consequences.”
Lady Braithwaite did not so much sweep as glide into the circle of stunned onlookers. Her gown, a formidable construction of grey silk and stiffened Honiton lace, rustled as she advanced, and her infamous fan – rumoured to have once belonged to an empress – snapped open. She surveyed the scene with the expression of one who had long since ceased to be surprised by the follies of men, andwho had no intention of permitting such vulgarities beneath her roof. “My lords. How very spirited of you.”
Silence fell across the crowd in earnest, and her withering gaze settled on the fallen figure of Mr Ashcombe, who was now attempting to sit upright amidst a tangle of fern fronds. “You, sir, will remove yourself from my presence with all haste, for reasons which require no explanation to any person possessed of ears, manners, or moral sense.”
She turned uponTheo, her expression unsoftened, though the tilt of her chin betrayed a gleam of amusement. “And you, Lord Langley, must likewise take your leave – not for want of justification, but because I do not care to see another of my potted plants sacrificed to your sense of gallantry.”
There was a ripple of uneasy laughter from the gathered onlookers.
Theo bowed low with a grace born of breeding and contrition. “Lady Braithwaite, you have my deepest apologies. I fear I was provoked beyond the bounds of civility.”
Lady Braithwaite gave a delicate hum, the fan now stilled in her gloved fingers. There was now, unmistakably, approval in her eyes. “And yet still comfortably within reach of a good right hook. How fortunate for Miss Tolliver.”
Theo bowed once more and then turned on his heel. As he made his dignified retreat, he caught the quiet exchange that followed behind him.
“See Mr Ashcombe to the street,” Lady Braithwaite murmured to her butler, who had materialised at her side. “Do be gentle, but efficient.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And instruct the musicians to resume,” she added, already turning away. “Nothing calms a scandal quite like a minuet in a minor key.”
And with that, Lady Braithwaite vanished once more into the glittering crowd, leaving in her wake a thoroughly chastened ballroom and a scandal that would be discussed over every breakfast table in London by dawn.
—♥—
Theo stumbledthroughthe streets of London, the pilfered bottle of whisky a poor companion in his grasp. He could have summoned his carriage and spared himself this humiliating walk, but no – he had chosen to stagger through the cobbled streets, for the last image branded upon his mind was that insufferable Marchmont’s dazzling smile, spinning Hetty across the floor like the very prize of the season.
He took another swig, the burn searing his throat and dulling his senses just enough. He had wrecked the evening with a single, ill-tempered blow, delivered not in defence of his own honour, but hers. And, truth be told, he was a damned fool for it; Hetty would be furious.
But what else could he have done? How dare those men speak of her like a common harlot. A whore… an actress. God, perhaps that was the root of his current problem – he was drunk and fully aroused. How long had it been since he’d taken a woman to bed? Too long… too damn long. The cold spring air did nothing to quench the heat that smouldered just beneath his skin. He fumbled with the bottle, nearly dropping it as his mind spun drunkenly between indignation andneed. Marchmont could have the damn dance floor; Theo needed a room with fewer witnesses and a bed that did not judge him.
So it was that he found himself at the modest lodgings of Miss Eliza Baines, an actress of some repute, and even greater skill at distracting him. The door swung open before he could raise his hand, revealing a coy smile framed by honeyed curls and eyes that promised exactly what Theo most desperately sought: oblivion.
Miss Baines was nothing if not efficient. Her hands set to work unbuttoning his coat and loosening his cravat as soon as the door closed, but no sooner had Theo begun to surrender to the moment than he caught sight of the actress’ blonde curls. He blinked, attempting to steady his wits. Alas, no amount of whisky could disguise the fact that he was thinking of the wild, dark-haired Hetty. He tried to focus on the warmth of Miss Baine’s hands and the softness of her lips, but his body betrayed him. The rakish Earl of Langley’s cock was decidedly limp.
Good heavens,he thought miserably,how utterly humiliating.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” Miss Baines murmured.
