Page 70 of The Trouble with Tweed

“What? How do you feel?” Claire pressed a cool hand to Sylvia’s forehead, which felt the same temperature, if not a bit clammy.

She grimaced. “Like I’m going to be sick upon the carpet.”

“That’s not love.”

“At least there’s that. Though I never thought I’d risk my propriety for a man I didn’t love.”

“Why did you accompany him to the gardens?”

“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” Sylvia wrung her hands. “Mother is going to kill me. And that says nothing of Michael.”

Claire patted her shoulder. “Michael won’t kill you. He may have some choice words for you on the matter, but you’re going to be just fine.”

She shook her fingers out. “Michael’s going to make me marry him, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely not,” Claire said. “That would be an outcome much weighted in Lord Nelson’s favor.”

“Why did I ever go out there?” Sylvia wrung her fingers again until Claire had to resist the urge to slap at her grip. “I never should have gone with him.”

“You’re not the only one who has been caught in such a position, and you won’t be the last.”

“Yes, but those young ladies have all been ruined,” Sylvia hissed.

“That’s not true. I would hazard a guess that most such incidents are kept very quiet indeed.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, hope naked in her voice.

“Of course.”

Claire didn’t add that most males wouldn’t want their female relative’s indiscretion discussed. She didn’t think it would be a helpful comment, given the circumstances.

“But what if we were seen?” Sylvia hissed. “And what if he tells someone?”

“That, of course, is exactly what Michael will prevent from happening.” Claire patted Sylvia’s hand and tried to project confidence. “Though I would advise against stepping out into the gardens with gentlemen in the future. Even when you do meet one that you are fond of.”

“I’m never leaving a ballroom again.” Sylvia looked at her, wide-eyed. “It all happened so quickly. First there was the champagne, and then…”

“Who brought you the champagne?”

“It hardly matters now,” Sylvia moaned.

“It matters to me.”

Sylvia shook her head and another of her lavender locks loosened from her updo. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I was the one who suggested it. I don’t know.”

“It’s all going to be fine,” Claire said. “Let’s get you to your carriage. I have no doubt that Michael will take this matter well in hand.”

CHAPTER 22- MICHAEL

Michael had taken the matter well in hand. In fact, he had his hand wrapped around Lord Nelson’s very throat.

He had just been moaning and coming to when the Duke of Ettrick had pulled him out from beneath the bush by one of his booted feet. Now Lord Nelson was as pathetic a figure on the outside as he was within—dirt caked one side of his body. Blood had begun to dry beneath his nose. Leaves and twigs had collected in his hair—apparently the man’s pomade had acted as some kind of a mastic.

“I won’t—” the man gasped. “It was only a joke. I’ll never do it again, I promise.”

“I don’t find it funny. Ettrick, do you think it’s funny?”

The huge duke shook his head, his arms crossed. He said in a deep voice, “Nor do I find it amusing that you asked Miss Margaret Preston to walk out with you before that. You’re lucky it was Lord Rutheridge who found you first, for I was looking.”