Читать книгу A Little Bit Sinful - Adrienne Basso - Страница 9

“It looks as if the worst of the rain will hold off until morning,” Bianca Collins declared as she stared out the drawing room window. “Do you think Papa will arrive today, Eleanor?”

Eleanor drew her attention away from the sewing she held in her lap, raised her head, and smiled fondly at her younger sister. At eighteen years old, Bianca had fully come into her looks. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her features delicate and refined, her skin flawless and creamy white. Her hair was long and lush, the color of burnt autumn leaves, her eyes clear and sparkling and as green as the meadow grass in summer.

Yet Eleanor knew it was the sweetness of her personality, the goodness of her heart, and her optimistic outlook on life that gave Bianca her true beauty.

“‘Tis impossible to predict what the earl will do,” Eleanor said as she pushed her needle through the delicate muslin fabric on the hem of the gown she was sewing. “I fear our illustrious sire is rather like the weather.”

“I’ve been so filled with curiosity that I’ve barely slept these last few nights,” Bianca admitted. “Though I feel it deep down in my bones that Papa will have something wonderful to tell us.”

“Hmm.” The noncommittal murmur was all Eleanor could manage. She too had been sleeping poorly, anticipating the earl’s visit. But while her tenderhearted sister had been struggling to contain her excitement, Eleanor was trying to tamp down her feelings of dread.

The message from the earl saying that he would shortly be in residence had come over two weeks ago. The brief, terse note had not been sent to his daughters, but rather to his butler, in order to ensure that all would be made ready for him. In Eleanor’s mind that did not bode well for the visit, but she did not have the heart to point that out to her sister.

Bianca lived for these moments, these sparse times when their father remembered their existence and made a rare appearance in their lives. Spending but a few hours with the earl was all Bianca needed to make her feel as if she mattered to him, as if she were an important part of his life.

For Eleanor it was not as simple. She was very aware that the earl had long ago abandoned them. His various pursuits of personal pleasure, his travels abroad, and his social life in London all held far more interest for him than his two motherless children.

Eleanor had been raised by a succession of governesses, but at least she had experienced the gift of a mother’s love for the first eight years of her life. Poor Bianca had never known their mother—she had died a few days after Bianca’s birth. Perhaps that was the reason Bianca felt such unconditional love toward the earl; he was the only parent she had ever known.

The distracted, infrequent interest he demonstrated, the occasional affection he bestowed, seemed to be enough for Bianca. Not so for Eleanor. She wanted the impossible—she wanted her father to love her. Yet in her experience the earl had proven time and again that the only person he had ever loved was himself.

Eleanor knew she was not the ideal daughter. She was not blindly obedient, meek, or subservient. At times she had been too outspoken with her criticism of the earl’s parental neglect. But her worst crime of all was her inability to make a good marriage.

The earl had grudgingly given her one Season in Town and she had failed to make her mark, had failed to dazzle society, had failed to capture a husband. She had not brought wealth, property, or connections to the family and at nearly six and twenty, she was now too old. ‘Twas not surprising he had little use for her.

“I am hoping Papa will stay at least a few days once he does arrive.” Bianca’s face brightened. “There might even be time for him to meet Mr. Smyth. He has told me on more than one occasion that he would feel privileged indeed to make Papa’s acquaintance.”

No doubt. Mr. Smyth had recently taken up residence in their rural community. Claiming a distant relationship to Squire Williams had opened a few doors for the young man and he had taken full advantage of it, seeking to establish himself as a gentleman of means and culture. As far as Eleanor could tell, Mr. Smyth possessed neither in any significant quantities.

“The earl never mixes with the local society unless he has no other choice,” Eleanor said.

“I know.” Bianca sighed. “Still, I am anxious to hear his opinion of Mr. Smyth, though he is so much like Papa I am certain they will get along famously.”

“Hmm.” In Eleanor’s opinion, being like their father was hardly an admirable qualification. Yet Bianca’s remark was telling—and truthful. Eleanor realized that was another reason she disliked Mr. Smyth. He did possess the same controlling, domineering personality as the earl, traits Eleanor feared Bianca mistook for strength of character.

She also feared that Mr. Smyth had set his sights on Bianca not because he held her in any genuine regard, but rather because he thought the younger daughter of an earl would be a most fortuitous bride. If Eleanor believed he had true affection for Bianca she would have encouraged the budding romance, but she was highly suspicious of Mr. Smyth’s motives.

Eleanor wanted the very best for her sister. The magic of love, the promise of happiness, the respect of a husband who truly believed Bianca was a gift to treasure.

Of course, she had wanted that for herself too, but the opportunity had come and gone many years ago. When she was too young and too naive to understand its value. When she foolishly let it slip beyond her grasp.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. In order to achieve her heart’s desire she would have had to leave her father’s house and in doing so would have left behind a vulnerable, unprotected nine-year-old Bianca. The very idea had struck a nerve of guilt so deep and wide it still hurt to think of it.

Falling in love with a groom was such a cliché. The nobleman’s daughter and the servant. Yet she had loved John Tanner with all of her seventeen-year-old heart, and he had returned that love unconditionally.

They knew their relationship was an impossibility. The only way they could be together was if they started fresh where no one knew of their past. It had taken months of plotting to formulate a plan of escape. They would first travel to Scotland to be married and then make their way to the coast, where John would find work.

It was fairly easy to slip out of the manor house the night that they had planned to run away, yet telling John that she was not coming with him had been the most difficult thing Eleanor had ever done. Though she had wanted him with every fiber of her being, Eleanor knew she had to embrace the responsibility of caring for and protecting her sister or forever regret her choice.

It was not a part of her nature to dwell on the past, to think of what might have been. Yet in the subsequent years there were moments when she wondered how her life would have been if she had been free to take a risk, to follow her heart.

Eleanor pulled the white thread slowly through the delicate fabric, careful not to mar the lovely material of the gown she was remaking for Bianca. The dress had originally been Eleanor’s, a remnant of her disastrous debut Season. It was long out of fashion, but the quality of the material was timeless and with a bit of clever needlework it was a serviceable gown. More than serviceable, really, since anything Bianca wore looked elegant and refined.

The earl was not overly generous when it came to his daughters’ upkeep. By necessity, Eleanor had perfected her sewing skills, remaking many older gowns for herself and her sister. These days she spent far less time on her own garments, for she was determined that Bianca always appear in fresh, fashionable clothes.

Eleanor was debating whether to embroider a floral design at the base of the gown’s bodice when she heard the sound of heavy-booted feet stomping down the hall. Her hands stilled as she strained her ears, listening for the deep, booming voice that would certainly accompany them. It came all too soon, shouting at one of the footmen to open the drawing room door. Father.

Eleanor swallowed hard, hoping to calm the sudden pain in her stomach. Before she had a chance to fully compose herself, the door swung open and the Earl of Hetfield stalked inside.

Though well into his sixtieth year, the earl was still a handsome man. Tall, commanding, with a head of silver hair and a pair of piercing dark eyes, he dominated any room.

“Papa! You’ve come home.” Bianca rushed forward to embrace him.

Eleanor stayed seated. He was not the sort of parent who liked to show affection, though he tolerated Bianca’s attention without too much protest. As for herself, well, Eleanor could not recall an instance when her father had eagerly bestowed a hug to either of his daughters.

“Careful there, girl, or you’ll crush my coat,” the earl grumbled.

Eleanor’s shoulders stiffened at the callous remark, but Bianca laughed and hugged the earl tighter. For an instant she envied her sister’s naïveté. It protected her from hurt.

“I’m sure there is not a wrinkle to be found anywhere on your illustrious person, my lord,” Eleanor said, eyeing his pristine white cravat and polished black boots. “Your valet would never allow it.”

The earl tipped back his head and glanced at her, his brows drawing into a frown of puzzlement. Good Lord, does he not even know who I am? Her mouth dry, Eleanor forced her eyes to meet his, a shaky smile forming on her lips.

“I need a drink,” the earl declared abruptly. “The roads from Town were a disaster.”

“Let me get it for you, Papa,” Bianca offered.

Without waiting for his answer, Bianca skipped over to the sideboard. Her lower lip curled under in confusion as she contemplated the trio of crystal decanters and variously shaped glasses.

“Brandy,” Eleanor said, pointing to the tallest decanter. “And use the snifter.”

“I’m surprised you remembered,” the earl remarked as he swirled the generous portion of amber liquid in the glass Bianca handed him.

“I have an excellent memory,” Eleanor said, wishing she had the nerve to ask for a drink for herself. She rarely drank spirits, except for an occasional glass of wine with dinner. Yet she had a sinking feeling that this afternoon she was in need of a dose of false courage.

“Memory is a most unappealing trait,” the earl said as he sat down. “Especially in a woman of your years, Eleanor.” Raising the glass to his mouth, the earl downed the contents in a single swallow.

“You haven’t journeyed all this way for a drink,” Eleanor snapped, angry at the sting of hurt his words produced. Despite her best efforts, he still possessed the power to wound her. “Is there something specific you wanted?”

“I have come to take Bianca to Town,” the earl announced. “‘Tis high time she was properly presented to society.”

Bianca gasped with delight, clasping her hands together in glee. “London? Truly?”

Eleanor frowned in puzzlement. “The Season has already begun.”

“No matter,” the earl replied. “Things always start off slowly. All the truly important balls and soirees are yet to come.”

“It will take weeks to get ready,” Eleanor said. “Bianca needs clothes, as well as instruction in deportment, etiquette, and dancing.”

The earl waved his hand dismissively. “She needs only a single outfit to travel to London. We shall commission a wardrobe once we reach Town. As for the rest of it, I assume that you have taught her proper behavior. Are you now saying that you have neglected her all these years?”

Eleanor bristled at the unfair criticism. “I have done my best, given my limited knowledge. You might recall my time in society was rather limited.” The earl favored her with a wry glare as if he needed no reminder of it. Eleanor felt herself start to shrink into her seat. John Tanner had left the estate two weeks before she went to London to embark on her disastrous Season. Heartbroken, she had gone through the motions, not caring that her plain looks and subdued personality had rendered her nearly invisible.

With a shake of her head, Eleanor pulled herself upright. She refused to apologize for the past.

“Fortunately, Bianca possesses both beauty and wit,” the earl said. “She will be a smashing success, I am certain.”

What was this all about? Apprehension churned in Eleanor’s stomach, along with a healthy dose of fear. If their father’s honest intention was to introduce Bianca into society, why had he waited so long to let them know of his plans? Why had they not been given time to prepare? Even under the best of circumstances, it would be difficult for the provincial Bianca to make a success of it.

“I am sure Bianca will enchant everyone,” Eleanor said cautiously. “Though her success would be guaranteed if she were allowed the proper time to prepare. Why not present her next Season?”

“And miss out on this year’s splendid crop of eligible bachelors?” The earl walked to the sideboard, poured himself another generous dose of brandy, then sat on an upholstered chair. “No, I’ve made up my mind. She will go now.”

Eleanor felt another jolt of fear. The reason for the earl’s haste was clear—he wanted, nay, he needed, to find a husband for his youngest daughter. As soon as possible.

That must mean his finances were in worse shape than usual. Eleanor was well aware of the two outstanding mortgages on the estate, the back pay owed to many of the servants, the accounts to various merchants that went unpaid. Normally the earl juggled his funds in such a way that each was paid just enough to keep the more aggressive creditors at bay.

Something must have changed. Eleanor wished she had the nerve to ask him what had happened. Yet even knowing why the need for funds so suddenly arose would not alter the earl’s plans.

He was going to arrange a marriage for Bianca to whomever he could make the best deal with, the deal that most benefited himself. He most certainly would not allow anything as petty as his daughter’s personal feelings toward her future husband to deter his decision.

Poor Bianca. A chill feeling of dread crawled up Eleanor’s spine. Bianca’s sweet innocence was no match for the manipulating earl. Eleanor turned toward her sister and the dread escalated. Bianca was smiling with delight, completely unaware of her fate.

“We shall have the best time,” Bianca exclaimed. “Aren’t you excited, Eleanor? It’s been many years since you’ve been to Town.”

“Eleanor?” The earl turned a disparaging eye upon his oldest daughter. “Bianca, I have come to bring you to Town, not your sister.”

“Not Eleanor?” Bianca’s face crumbled with disappointment. “Why won’t she be coming with us?”

“She is not needed,” the earl said dismissively.

Eleanor bit the inside of her lip, trying to remain as outwardly serene as possible. The earl did not engage in arguments with his daughters. He dictated and they obeyed. Yet with the proper approach, he could be persuaded.

“But of course Eleanor must come,” Bianca declared, her voice shaking with emotion. “I shall be lost without her. Please, Papa?”

The earl briefly glanced at Eleanor. She forced herself to lift her head and stare at his stiff shoulders, refusing to be reduced to an insignificant afterthought. Bianca needed her and therefore Eleanor wanted very badly to go to London. But she would not beg.

Yet with each passing moment of silence, her fear heightened. What would become of her sweet sister if she were not there to oversee things? What manner of man would the earl choose for his youngest daughter? Eleanor shuddered. She had no confidence in their father’s judgment or motivation.

“If you bring me, I can serve as both companion and chaperone,” Eleanor said quietly.

“Please say yes, Papa,” Bianca implored, hurrying across the room. She sank gracefully to her knees in front of the earl’s chair. “I cannot manage without her.”

Though it pained her to watch her sister subjugate herself in such a manner, Eleanor kept silent. Finally the earl raised one eyebrow and leveled a haughty, disapproving look at his eldest daughter.

“If it pleases you, Bianca, then of course your sister may come along,” he declared in a cool, languid voice. “Provided she makes herself useful.”

Peter Dawson’s fingers moved with elegant ease as he deftly shuffled the deck, then cheerfully dealt the cards. Sebastian, seated across from his friend, disciplined himself to appear calm and relaxed. After all, this was merely a friendly game of cards among gentlemen. Suspicions would surely arise if he appeared too anxious or agitated.

The Duke of Warren’s ballroom was crowded and stuffy, making the card room a haven for the gentlemen needing a respite from the dancing and conversation. There were five of them seated around the table, but only one man truly interested Sebastian—the Earl of Hetfield. His prey.

It had taken Sebastian two weeks of careful planning to reach this point. He had returned to Town a few days after his grandmother’s funeral bent on revenge, only to discover the earl was not in Town. Frustrated, Sebastian had spent his days waiting anxiously for the earl to return, honing his already impressive sword skills and perfecting his keen shot.

Then finally some good news. The earl had returned to Town four days ago. Assuming he would soon be out in society, Sebastian had visited three different events tonight in search of him. It was somewhat of a surprise to locate Hetfield at the duke’s party, for it was far and above the most respectable entertainment of the night.

“Cards, gentlemen?” Dawson asked.

Sir Charles declined, Lord Faber took one. The earl took two, then drew on the stub of a cheroot. He looked younger than Sebastian had imagined, and to be fair, far less sinister. Though he had known for years the identity of his mother’s lover, Sebastian’s promise to his grandmother had rendered him powerless to confront the man. He had therefore avoided meeting Hetfield, worried he would be unable to restrain himself.

Yet as he now gazed at the man who had driven his mother to suicide and forever changed his life, Sebastian was surprised at how calm he felt. Perhaps it was because his plan for revenge was so simple?

Sebastian knew the course he must take had to be an honorable one. Hence a duel would be fought between himself and the earl.

The practice of dueling had been employed for centuries by gentlemen throughout the world as a means to appease honor and exact justice. Though frowned upon by society, it occurred nevertheless and in far greater numbers than many believed.

Sebastian knew he had the grounds to accuse the earl of causing his mother’s untimely demise, but he would not reveal the truth and sully her memory. Amazingly, his grandmother had managed to keep her daughter-in-law’s suicide a secret. There had never been a whisper of scandal attached to his mother’s name either before or after her death and Sebastian was determined to keep it that way. As far as society knew, this duel would be fought for a completely different reason.

It would be fought for something foolish and ridiculous and false—an accusation of cheating at cards. The ironic justice of it all sat well with both Sebastian’s conscience and macabre sense of humor.

It would actually be fairly simple to call the earl’s honor into question. After Hetfield had won an especially large pot, Sebastian would accuse him of cheating, demand satisfaction, set the duel, and thoroughly disgrace the man. Either swords or pistols would serve nicely, since Sebastian was an expert at both.

“Benton?” With a practiced gesture, Dawson held out the deck. “Will you draw?”

Sebastian gave his cards a cursory glance, declined any new ones, then tossed a coin in the center of the table. The key to winning at vingt-et-un was an awareness of what cards had already been played, coupled with the ability to calculate the odds as to which cards would next appear. It was something Sebastian excelled at doing.

He watched closely as the earl lifted the edge of one card and stared down at it, contemplating his next move. Sebastian’s adversary was a strong player, his moves bold and decisive. Of all the gentlemen at the table he was clearly the most skilled. Except for Sebastian, who was deliberately tossing away most of his winning hands.

At Dawson’s signal the players turned their cards face up. “Twenty-one,” Dawson said. “Lord Hetfield wins.”

“Damn, Lady Luck is certainly smiling upon you tonight, Hetfield,” Lord Faber grumbled. “That’s three times in a row you’ve won.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to switch to hazard, Lord Faber?” the earl asked with a smile.

“Ha! Hazard’s a game for young fools,” Lord Faber replied. “Makes no sense at all to throw away good coin on a pair of dice.”

Play continued. The earl won the majority of the next dozen hands, his pile of winning coins nearly double the size of any of the other players. Dawson was his usual congenial self, dealing the cards with good humor as he tried to keep the game light-hearted and friendly. Sir Charles continued drinking at a steady pace while Lord Faber pressed his luck with mediocre hands, inching the play to a higher pitch as he tried to recoup some of his losses.

Nerves on edge, Sebastian pushed his whiskey glass out of easy reach, not wanting to tempt himself. For this plan to work he needed to be sober and clearheaded. Accusations hurled by a man too deep in his cups were never taken seriously.

Sebastian would have preferred to confront the earl in a gaming hell, where the clientele was seedy and desperate, but that could have easily put his plan in jeopardy. Accusations of cheating in the hells were a common occurrence. With the rare exception, the recipients of these charges were less concerned about their honor and more focused on being allowed to continue in the game. Things rarely escalated to a duel.

“The bet is to you, Hetfield,” Dawson said.

The earl had a six and five displayed and a third card turned facedown. He hesitated. Sebastian marveled at his outward calm, for he knew the concealed card made the earl’s hand unbeatable.

Taking a deep breath, Sebastian smiled at the earl with the most serene expression he could muster. Hetfield returned the grin and tossed in another coin. Excellent.

“Another twenty-one?” Lord Faber exclaimed bitterly when the hands were revealed. “You really do have the devil’s own luck tonight, Hetfield.”

Finally! Lord Faber’s annoyance could not have been timed more perfectly. Emotions raging, Sebastian cleared his throat.

“Strange, the last time I checked there were four kings in a deck. How is it exactly that you were able to play a fifth, Lord Hetfield?” Sebastian asked, his tone carrying an edge of accusation.

“A fifth?” Sir Charles spoke in a slow, slurred voice. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Sebastian replied forcefully, knowing it was indeed the truth, since he had been the one to maneuver the card into the earl’s hand.

“That’s preposterous!” the earl cried.

“No, wait, I think Benton might be on to something,” Sir Charles said. “I believe I did see the king of spades earlier in the game too.”

“Hell, Charles, you’re too foxed to see much of anything!” the earl exclaimed.

“Rubbish!”

Sebastian held his smile. Sir Charles’s exclamation of indignity would have been a bit more effective if he hadn’t followed it by downing the rest of the brandy in his glass. Still, that was one player on his side. Two more to go.

“Did you notice anything amiss, my lord?” Sebastian asked, turning to the gentleman on his left.

Lord Faber coughed nervously, his thick, stubby fingers pressed against his mouth. “Now that you mention it, I might have seen the king of spades in the first round of play.”

“You did,” Sebastian insisted.

“What are you suggesting, Benton?” the earl asked, his voice sharp.

“I am suggesting nothing,” Sebastian drawled. “I am simply stating a fact. ‘Tis impossible for you to have played that particular card legitimately.”

A gasp was heard, followed quickly by the low, muttering drone of voices. It spread through the card room like wildfire. Good. Let them all talk. An accusation of cheating was never lightly dismissed, even among the most hardened gamesters.

The tension in the room grew palpable and a remarkable stillness settled over everything. Play ceased at the nearest tables as the occupants turned their attention to the drama unfolding. Though it set him further on edge, Sebastian welcomed their interest. The more men who saw the exchange, the harder it would be for Hetfield to walk away.

“There is of course only one way for a true gentleman to settle the matter.” Sebastian set his hands on the table, then pushed himself to his feet. “Name your second, Hetfield.”

“What?” The earl jerked awkwardly to his feet, toppling his chair.

“I believe I have made myself perfectly clear. Are you going to defend yourself or not?”

A faint hint of emotion flashed in the earl’s eyes. Fear? Recognition? Had he finally figured out that Sebastian was Evangeline’s son, the woman he had scorned so cruelly all those years ago? The woman who had taken her own life because of the earl’s disgraceful behavior.

Two spots of red burned in the earl’s cheeks, yet his voice was calm when he spoke. “This is simply preposterous. You are, of course, mistaken, Lord Benton. I refuse to dignify this ludicrous bit of nonsense with a response.”

“Yes, quite right, my lord.” Dawson stuck his index finger inside the top of his cravat and tugged nervously on it. “I am certain there was only one king of spades. This was all a misunderstanding that’s best forgotten by everyone. No harm done, eh, Benton?”

Sebastian whirled upon his friend, seized by a strong impulse to grab him by the throat and shake him until his teeth rattled. “Stay out of it, Dawson,” he ground out between clenched lips. “This is between me and the earl.”

But his friend would not be silenced. Dawson moved closer and set his fingertips against Sebastian’s chest as if trying to keep him from lunging at the earl. “Christ’s blood, Benton, let it go,” he whispered. “I doubt the earl was cheating, but even if he was, what does it matter? The wagers were not overly extravagant. Only Faber has lost a significant amount of coin and I am certain if you drop the matter he will follow your lead. Damn it all, if you keep pressing like this, things will turn very ugly, indeed.”

Sebastian cast a dark glower at his friend. It had been a selfish mistake to allow Dawson to play. The man had too much integrity and common sense. Sebastian had wanted the security of having an ally at his back, but he had miscalculated badly. He had not told Dawson he intended to draw the earl into a duel, because he knew his friend would object to such a blatant act.

But he had reasoned that Dawson would take his side if something did occur. Integrity was so damn inconvenient! Sebastian tensed, the blood pumping furiously through his veins. Friend or no, he would not allow anyone to deny him his revenge.

“Either stand with me or stand aside,” Sebastian said forcefully.

Dawson’s head jerked back in surprise, his eyes filling with a curious mixture of confusion and hurt. “I swear, Benton, if I didn’t know you better I’d think you were trying to provoke Hetfield into a duel.”

Sebastian shrugged off that all too true comment and faced Lord Faber and Sir Charles. The two glanced uneasily around the card room. “Perhaps it would be best to let the matter go,” Sir Charles suggested.

Struggling, Sebastian dredged up what little restraint he possessed. “I believe that question should be posed to Hetfield. ‘Tis his honor that has been tainted.”

All eyes turned expectantly to the older man. Panic lit his face, but he regained his composure. Sebastian saw the fine sheen of sweat on the earl’s face. It was going to be very difficult for him to simply walk away at this stage. His honesty, and honor, had been called into question. He would have to accept the challenge to save both. I’ve got you now, you damn bastard.

“I still insist that no cheating occurred, but if there was something amiss with the cards, it must have been my error,” Dawson interjected. “After all, I dealt the cards. Any blame must fall on me, not Hetfield.”

“But you barely won any of the hands,” Lord Faber insisted. “Unless you and Hetfield are in this scheme together?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian said with a sneer. “Dawson is the most honest, honorable gentleman I know. He would never cheat.”

The response was instinctive. Sebastian did not even realize he had uttered the words until he saw the relief on the earl’s face. Shit.

“Your confidence in me is most humbling, Benton. Thank you.” Though he spoke congenially, Dawson’s brow was furrowed as if he were trying to decipher a perplexing puzzle.

“All right then,” Lord Faber said. “We all agree the accusation has no validity.”

“The matter is closed.” The earl’s voice was urgent and curt. “We shall speak of it no more.”

Sebastian barely heard the muttering of agreement from Sir Charles and Lord Faber. The earl turned and strode away. No! Sebastian felt the bile rise in his throat as he stared after Hetfield knowing he was powerless to stop him. A coldness welled up inside him, so strong and deep it stole his voice.

How had this happened? He had been so close, so near. It had all been going according to plan. That is, until Dawson stuck his nose into the mix. ‘Twas like having a fish on the line, tugging and fighting. Inch by inch, yard by yard, reeling the prize closer, closer, and then, just as the fish was pulled from the water, it slipped from its hook and swam to safety.

Beside him, Sebastian heard Dawson exhale with relief. At the sound, his control snapped. A primitive part of Sebastian’s brain shouted at him to pummel his friend until Dawson’s face was bruised. If he could not taste the earl’s blood, the blood he craved, he would settle for whoever blocked his path.

Fearing he would succumb to his rage, Sebastian rudely turned away. Shoving aside a dandy standing in the doorway, he practically ran from the room. With each angry step he couldn’t stop thinking that if Dawson had not intervened and smoothed it all over, this dilemma would have finally had a resolution.

Come morning he would have been facing the earl over crossed swords or pistols. By afternoon, the earl would have been disgraced, wounded, and in the most just circumstances of all, fighting for his life.