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Yarborough puffed up like a rotten carcass. “Protective!” He sneered. “Is that what you call it?”
“I’ve known her since before you showed your ugly face in Wincanton,” Sorin growled, stepping close enough to prevent anyone overhearing. “I have no shame in admitting she is dear to me. And as long as I draw breath, I will protect her from greedy little bastards like you. If you have any wisdom at all, you’ll leave off and seek your fortune elsewhere.”
“If you cannot have her, no one can—is that it?” said Yarborough, sarcasm dripping from each and every word. “I should think the lady has a right to choose her own husband.”
Ice filled Sorin’s veins, eradicating the heat of before in an instant. “Indeed she does—but she won’t choose you. That I can promise.”
Yarborough looked at him with open contempt. “You are neither her father nor her brother to speak for her. You are nothing to her. I will woo Eleanor, and I will win her—whether you approve or not.”
The time for gentle manners was long past. Time to take off the gloves. “You’ve already tried and failed,” Sorin told him bluntly. “The lady has ignored your invitations, eschewed your company, and given you no encouragement whatsoever. Why do you continue to lay siege to a woman who is so plainly uninterested in you?”
“She would not be so difficult if you did not influence her!” snapped the other man, his face reddening.
His words were a balm to Sorin’s soul. He crossed his arms and regarded the pompous little whelp with amusement. “First you say I am ‘nothing’ to the lady, and then in the next breath you cite my influence as a stumbling block. Which am I?” He chuckled, further enraging his would-be rival. “Don’t let temper overrule good sense, my lad. If you think I cannot put an end to your unwanted pursuit, you are wrong. One way or another, you will leave her be.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t make me call you out.”
Yarborough paled, yet still he had the stones to scoff at the threat. “Don’t be ridiculous. People don’t duel anymore. It’s against the law. Yet another sign that you’re a relic, an old man dreaming of something he can never have.”
Sorin skewered him with a hard stare and spoke quietly. “I wonder, were we to face each other on the field of honor, how quickly your bravado would crumble?”
“Are you challenging me?” said the other man, his voice trembling.
Sorin let a slow smile take over his mouth. How he would like to do just that! But it would cause a terrible scandal, and Eleanor would bear the consequences of it. “Consider this the warning shot across your bow,” he said lightly. Stepping an inch closer, he breathed, “You’ve already committed offenses against one whom I love. If you continue on your present course, know that I will indeed challenge you. Know also that should it come to that end, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
All color fled Yarborough’s face.
“This is the only warning you will receive,” Sorin continued. “Think carefully before committing yourself to any act you might come to regret.” Not waiting for a response, he gave Yarborough his back and strode away.
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Perhaps it had been unwise to show his cards, but he had no regrets. He’d be happy to lay down his life for Eleanor’s sake, but doubted Yarborough felt likewise. If the man’s greed was such that it drove him to act rashly, however, then so be it. Sorin, being a perfect shot and equally as deadly with a blade, didn’t fear a confrontation.
Ascending to the gallery, he leaned against the balustrade to observe the ballroom from a better vantage point. He wanted to have an eye on Ellie, not because he was worried that Yarborough might tell her about their little tête-à-tête—only a total fool would tell a woman he wanted for himself that another man was willing to die for her—but because Yarborough wasn’t the only man out to bag an heiress.
Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be seen. Where the devil had she got to? He peered out at the swirling mass, searching for her rose gown.
A hand touched his sleeve, causing him to start. Turning, he came face-to-face with the very one he sought.
“Come with me, quickly,” she urged, drawing him away.
The look on her face told him there was trouble. “What has happened?”
“It is Caroline,” she answered, her features pinched with concern. “She has just had an argument with…” Her eyes surveyed the closeness of the crowd, and she lowered her voice. “A certain gentleman of our acquaintance. Come. This way.”
She led him through the crush and then ducked down a relatively quiet hall. Stopping in front of a closed door near the far end, she knocked twice, paused, and knocked again. The door opened a crack, and a red-rimmed eye the color of cornflower peered through the aperture briefly before the door swung wide to admit them.
“I’ve brought Lord Wincanton,” murmured Eleanor as she entered. “He will take us home.”
“Thank you,” said the girl thickly, her face blotchy and streaked with tears.
“What of Charles and Rowena?” Sorin asked. “Why are they not here?”
A guilty look crossed Eleanor’s features. “I went to them first and told them Caroline was unwell and that you’d already agreed to escort us home. I know it was wrong of me,” she rushed as his frown deepened, “but I did not wish to upset Rowena.”
He stared at her reddening cheeks, incredulous. “You lied to them?”
“Sorin, please. You misunderstand my intent.” She came to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Rowena is with child again—but you must not tell Charles! She wants to wait awhile before informing him. I did not tell them about this because I did not want to increase her worry. She’s been so ill of late and the added stress…”
“I understand,” he said at once, joy for his friends’ good fortune warring with a sudden pang of envy. “Wait here,” he commanded, going to the door.
