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“Nothing will stop me. I’ve waited too long.”
What if he twisted the knitting needle away from her? What if he succeeded in his attack?
With growing desperation, she sought to recall her lessons. She had no knife. No pistol. Only the hard metal needle clutched in her fist which suddenly felt too slim to inflict any real damage or strike fear into a heart twisted by violence.
He bent toward her, his breath scorching her face.
She raised the knitting needle behind her back and prepared to drive it against his jugular, not enough to pierce the skin, only to show him that she was in control, that she wasn’t helpless.
“Leave or I’ll make you sorry!” she said in a low, steady voice.
“The lady asked you to leave,” a bass voice spoke.
Viola paused with the knitting needle half-raised.
Lord Sprague dropped his hold on her arms and whirled around. “Whoever you are, you’ll be the one leaving.”
“Westbury!” Viola caught her breath.
The duke glowered at Lord Sprague with blue eyes gone gray and stormy. Shoulders wide and strong and tensed for action. Fists raised.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said menacingly. “But you are, sir. You’re going to a special place in hell. Put up your fists. Because you’re going to need them.”
Chapter Eight
Viola blinked. The duke remained standing there. Filling her doorway.
My, but he was formidable. Blunt jaw and powerful frame. A lethal mountain of duke rising to her rescue. It did make her slightly weak at the knees.
But that was probably just the relief of it all. She hadn’t really wanted to test out her improvised weapon.
“Now then, there’s no call for fisticuffs,” Lord Sprague said smoothly. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You see, this is my house. And you’re intruding.”
“No misunderstanding.” Westbury’s voice was harsh. “Stand and fight.”
“Your Grace,” Viola said. “It’s very good of you to come. Lord Sprague was about to leave, isn’t that right?” She couldn’t look at the baron, at his repulsive lips and furious eyes, but she also didn’t want bloodshed in the house. The duke looked ready to kill.
“I...” Sprague’s voice wavered. “I have the right to remain here.”
The duke stalked toward him, leading withthose enormous fists. With a sudden movement he grabbed Lord Sprague by the collar and dragged him onto his toes. “You don’t own Miss Beaton. You will not treat her as your property.”
Lord Sprague scrabbled at the duke’s fingers but couldn’t free himself. “How dare you attack me in my own home!”
“I’m the Duke of Westbury. And I’ll attack you wherever and whenever I feel the urge. When you least expect it, I’ll be there.” He pulled Lord Sprague’s face to within an inch of his own. “I’ll be watching you. And if you ever go near Miss Beaton again with anything other than the greatest deference and respect, there won’t be anything left of you to identify you as a man. Do I make myself clear?”
Lord Sprague gulped. “Perfectly clear.”
“Now I think I’ll break your nose, just to make sure you understand.”
“No, please! I’ll leave. Don’t harm me.”
She touched his arm softly. “Your Grace, there’s no call for violence. Let’s be civilized, shall we?”
She held the duke’s gaze for a moment. His stormy eyes cleared but his expression remained stern and lethal. He released Lord Sprague, who stumbled backward, straightening his cravat.
“You say that you own this house, Sprague?” he asked the baron.
“I do.”
