Page 5 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“That was well done of you,” he said after a moment. “If they don’t discover you’re gone until then, barring catastrophes, we ought to pull this off. Though I’m something of a magnet for accidents these days, am I not, Humboldt?”

“If my lord were a little less impatient, there would be far fewer such incidents,” Humboldt replied, with the air of someone who’d repeated the refrain often and without success.

Wrexham snorted but didn’t deny it.

They subsided into silence, and Emmeline shivered as Wrexham stopped warming her hand and instead began stroking the back of it, tracing intricate little patterns. She wondered if he knew he was doing it, as he wore a distracted expression. The delicate touch of his fingers seemed to set all her nerve endings to quivering, the oddest sensation rippling through her, tugging fretfully at something deep inside her that had no business getting overwrought by the mere touch of his hand.

Emmeline tugged free of his grasp. “Thank you, I’m quite warm,” she said, annoyed to discover she sounded so breathless.

“Any time,” Wrexham replied, and said not another word for the rest of the journey to Euston.

Matilda, the Marchioness of Montagu, moved through the crowd. Only her many years’ experience at hiding her feelings kept her from screaming at the top of her voice and demanding someone find her husband. Now. This minute.

She could sense the excitement as word of the catastrophe—or, depending upon your point of view, the delicious gossip—circulated the room. Panic seized her lungs, and she wished for a moment that she might run and hide, that someone else might be the one to tell him. But no, that was cowardly, and she would never allow it, but the idea of being the person to break his beautiful heart was so appalling she had to blink hard and dig her nails into her palms to keep from weeping.

So she kept her head up, her expression serene, and moved purposefully with no telltale hint of anxiety or hurrying. He knew, though. The moment his silver gaze settled upon her, he knew something was terribly wrong. His expression did not change a whit. To any observer, Lucian Barrington, the Marquess of Montagu, was an exquisite block of ice, but she saw the way his shoulders stiffened, the distracted way he tugged at his cuffs.

“My lord,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Might I borrow you for a moment?”

He inclined his head, coolly apologised to the men he was speaking with, and offered her his arm. Matilda’s grip was too tight, and she forced herself to relax her fingers as he guided her through the ballroom.

“Cat.” He spoke their daughter's pet name as an inevitability.

“Yes.”

He let out a harsh breath as they exited the grand room, heading for St Clair’s private library. Once they were out of sight of the guests, Lucian took her hand.

“How bad is it this time?”

“B-Bad,” Matilda said, struggling not to cry. “V-Very bad.”

The colour drained from his face as he shook his head, staring at her. “No. No.”

Matilda could barely speak, emotion clawed at her throat as she saw the devastation in his eyes and nodded, driving the blade home. “Kilbane.”

For a moment, he did not move, did not even blink.

“I’ll kill him.”

He turned on his heel, and Matilda ran after him. “Lucian, no. Wait! I don’t think it was his fault.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice savage. “I’ll make this go away.”

“Darling, I don’t think you can this time. There were too many witnesses, if you would only wait—”

But Lucian flung open the door to the study so hard it crashed against the bookshelves behind it.

Huddled before the fire, Cat was sobbing as Lady St Clair held her tight and stroked her hair. Lady Helena sat on her other side, offering what comfort she could. Gabriel Knight and Jasper, Lord St Clair, stood behind them. On the opposite side of the room, alone and rigid with fury and indignation, stood Lord Kilbane. His posture was defensive, arms folded, but as Lucian exploded into the room, he paled, his arms falling to his sides. For a moment, Matilda felt a rush of sympathy for him.

“Lucian!” Gabriel exclaimed, he and Jasper moving as one to intercept him, but too late.

Kilbane crashed backwards against the bookshelves with Lucian’s hands about his throat.

“Son of a bitch,” Lucian growled. “I warned you what I’d do if you so much as looked at her.”

“Lucian, stop!” Matilda cried, for there was something in Kilbane’s eyes, a flicker of something desperate and hopeless. He wasn’t fighting back.

“Papa! Don’t hurt him. It wasn’t his fault, it was me! It was all me. Papa, I’m s-so s-sorry,” Cat wept, and the pain behind the wrenching sobs was perhaps the only thing that could have stopped Lucian from squeezing the life out of the marquess.