Page 69 of The Trouble with Tweed

“It wasn’t me,” she murmured, her eyes going wide momentarily before she remembered that they were the object of much scrutiny. “It was Sylvia.”

Michael frowned, but if Claire had expected him to erupt at the news that it was his little sister and not her who was the object of that lecherous man’s unwanted advances, she was disappointed.

“Is she all right?” he asked.

“Quite. She’s in the ladies’ retiring room. I told her I’d fetch you and the carriage.”

“Very well. As soon as this dance is finished, I’ll⁠—”

“That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid,” she quickly said. “I need you to go and deal with the man himself.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I intend to.” Michael’s tone was low and full of dark promise.

For some reason, the first swarm of butterflies was joined by a second. Claire did her best to ignore them.

“I mean now.” She unintentionally squeezed his hand with her anxiety. “You see, I saw them together and intervened, and while I’m fairly certain he’s not dead, I think you’d better go and check.”

Michael gave a slow smile. “Dear Claire, what on earth did you do?”

“I may or may not have struck him in the face with a rock?” She said the last with a tiny, unladylike squeak that made the statement sound like a question.

He tipped his head back and laughed. Claire might have been impressed that he was able to keep time and steps with the dance while doing so, but she barely refrained from shushing him. If people hadn’t been watching before, they most certainly were now.

“It isn’t funny,” she finally hissed once Michael had recovered enough to grin down at her. “He fell backwards into a bush and I have no idea if he’s still alive.”

Visions of a trial and prison cells danced in her mind. Though Claire believed her past had forged her into something stronger than the average lady, she still didn’t think she’d enjoy sleeping that close to a waste bucket.

Some of Claire’s very real fear must have leached into her words, for Michael didn’t laugh again, like it appeared he wanted to.

Instead he said, “I assure you that Nelson’s head is too thick for you to permanently injure him. I once witnessed a draft horse kick him because he’d pulled its tail.”

“Do you really think so?” Sudden hope had her blinking up at him.

“I’m certain of it, but I’ll go check and remove him quietly from the premises.”

“Thank you.” Her relief threatened to make her misstep.

Michael escorted her to the edge of the crowd, where Margaret was standing next to the Duke of Ettrick.

“Ettrick,” Michael said with a nod. “Would you walk with me?”

A moment of confusion flickered over the large man’s face even as he silently nodded his assent and fell in step with Michael, following him from the ballroom.

“What was that about?” Margaret murmured.

“Would you do me a favor?” Claire asked, ignoring her question. “Would you please find Lady Rutheridge and unobtrusively inform her that Sylvia isn’t feeling well and to call the carriage around? I’ll bring her to the front door shortly.”

“Of course.” Margaret frowned in concern. “Is she all right?”

“Nothing terribly wrong—just a stomachache. But you know how the gossip mill loves to speculate about young ladies who leave a ball early.”

“Too true.” She nodded. “She’s just over there—I’ll tell her immediately.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

Claire slipped from the ballroom and found Sylvia waiting behind a screen in the ladies’ retiring room. It was only a matter of waiting until they had the room alone before they could speak freely.

“Is this what love feels like?” Sylvia surprised Claire by asking.