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He finally cleared the path and emerged in front of the gazebo. One quick glance told him everything he needed to know. A man’s hands dug into Bitt’s arms. She was kicking his shins.
He pounded up the stairs and yanked him away from Bitt. The man fell away easily, stumbling backward and plopping onto the bench. Miles advanced, his vision hazy and his knuckles aching to connect with the coward’s face.
“Miles, no.”
Elizabeth’s tugging on his shirtsleeve broke his concentration. Her face looked unbearably white in the shadows of the gazebo, her eyes huge and shiny.
“All is well. Leave Lord Wrottesley be.”
Miles dragged in a ragged breath, willing his body to calm so that he might deal with this situation. Not daring to move too far from Wrottesley in case the man attempted to leave, he cast a careful eye over Bitt’s visage. She appeared unharmed, but everything was askew from her hair to her dress. One sleeve appeared to be torn, though he couldn’t be sure.
Scowling, he crossed his arms in front of him. “All does not appear well. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, and her hand dropped from his sleeve. “Lord Wrottesley was under a mistaken assumption.”
The strength of her words roused Wrottesley from his lethargy on the bench. He lunged upward, face contorting. “Now see here, I only came to check on her, but she attacked my person.”
Miles squinted. Upon closer look, he did spot an outrageously long scratch along the man’s cheek. A sound from Bitt prompted him to look at her. She did not bother hiding her disdain.
“You well deserved what I gave you.” After delivering that arch reply, she glanced at Miles. “Mr. Hawthorne, I would much appreciate your escort to the house, as Lord Wrottesley seems incapable of gentlemanly behavior.”
Wrottesley shot them a withering look. “You will regret your actions tonight, Elizabeth.”
“I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name.” Her chin notched up in a way that filled Miles with pride, despite the urge still barreling through him to smash Wrottesley’s face to pieces.
He sneered at Miles. “And you...we will see what is to become of you.” The man pushed past Miles and disappeared down the pathway.
Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Miles took Bitt’s hand and pressed it between his. Her cold skin filled him with concern. “Are you sure you do not need to sit, my lady? Perhaps find your composure?”
“I’m quite composed. Just take me to my mother, please. I feel the press of a megrim and wish to leave at once.”
“As you will, madam.” He tucked her arm beneath his, only too aware of her small stature. If he had not come outside, there was no telling what Wrottesley might have done to her.
The dread pooling in his gut did not dissipate, even when they neared the house. Before entering, he pulled Bitt to the side and faced her. The familiar lines of her features struck him tonight in a different way. He had the strangest desire to run his thumb along the line of her lips, to press his cheek to hers and feel the sweet warmth of her skin. She stared up at him, eyes wide and trusting. For all her bluster, for the many times he knew he’d upset her, they shared a childhood closeness. He needed to be sure of her safety.
Needed to make certain she was not terrified.
“Whatever is the matter with you, Miles?” She pulled her arm away. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Lord Wrottesley’s actions... I must know—did the man compromise you?”
Even in the darkness, he could see the flush upon her cheeks. “He forced a kiss, but that was all.”
Miles restrained a growl. “It will not happen again. I shall make sure of that.”
“And so shall I. A foolish thing for me to wander alone. I realize that now, but you must not worry for me.” Her gaze softened. “Truly, I appreciate your presence and hope your rescue shall sufficiently satisfy your need to protect me.”
“Your hair is mussed.”
She patted the unruly strands. “It cannot be helped. Thank you again, Miles, and while I feel I should be miffed at you for following me... I cannot help but be grateful you appeared. It was something out of a story, perhaps, and surprisingly expedient.”
The soft light from candles shining from the windows flickered across her features. If she had a husband, this would not have happened. “Very well, if you are not harmed...”
“I truly am not.” Her pretty mouth curved upward. Her hair spilled in wisps from its confines, brushing her high cheekbones. The strands were darker than he remembered. The last time he’d seen Elizabeth was several weeks ago and her hair had been put up. Between childhood and adulthood, the color had deepened to a pretty auburn. Perhaps it became so dark from never venturing outside. She had skin the color of cream and often complained about the sunlight, but he knew her appearance bothered her.
More so than she’d ever admit.
He shifted on his feet, remembering an episode when she was fifteen and he’d been visiting John at Windermar. He’d heard crying in the stables one evening, the quiet kind of weeping designed to mask deep distress. Not one to ignore someone in need, he listened carefully and finally pinpointed the source of the sound coming from behind a bale of hay. He walked over, unexpectedly finding Elizabeth, who covered her mouth in a desperate bid to hold in her sobs. Even now he remembered the pain that had lanced through his chest at the sight of her tears, and the frustration he’d felt when she refused to divulge the reason for her weeping.
Discomfited, he retreated, but he determined to find the cause of her pain. The information came quickly enough from a foolishly loquacious groom who lost both his job and several teeth on the same day. The lad had broken Elizabeth’s heart. Told her he could never love a woman who looked as she did.
Miles had never divulged that he knew what had happened. He would do anything to never see her cry again.
“Enjoy the rest of the ball, for I shall be doing my utmost to leave immediately.” She offered him a saucy wink. Taken aback, he followed her into the ballroom but stayed near the wall, watching as she tracked through the crowd to find her mother. People turned to look at her. Then they looked at him.
Rather odd.
He pushed away from the wall, passing a familiar face as he headed for the doors. “Good eve, Lady Swanson.”
The countess did not glance at him, but gave him her back. A cut direct. The first he’d ever received. How very strange. Surely there could be no rumors already. He tried to remember exactly how disheveled Bitt looked, and how quickly he’d entered the ballroom after her. Casting the countess a befuddled look, he continued to the door, where he gave instructions for the bringing of his rig.
Lord, watch over Elizabeth. God could certainly do a better job than Miles. As for Wrottesley, Miles planned to take care of him.
* * *
Elizabeth rose late the next morning, almost missing the array of food on the sideboard. She meandered by the eggs and finally decided on a generous helping of porridge coated with sugar and fresh cream. Her stomach rumbled. Last night’s dramatics seemed a distant dream, slightly disturbing yet infinitely less important than the demands of her belly. She inhaled the rich scent of sausage as if she had not eaten the very same thing yesterday.
There were a great many toils associated with being an heiress, but having an abundance of food was not one of them. Pushing the events of the previous evening to the back of her mind, she forked two sausages onto her plate and decided to scoop up eggs, as well. Thus fortified, she found a seat at the little table where she’d placed a gem of a book she’d checked out from Hookham’s Circulating Library. The novel promised the wonder of an adventure.
The Arabian Nights.
It was a classic she had not yet explored, but passing the Season by delving into it seemed a pleasurable way to avoid the haute ton. She opened the book, relishing the thick texture of the page and the sweet smell of leather binding that rose to greet her. The endearing scent almost surpassed her desire to eat, but her stomach quickly rebelled against such an inane thought. She managed to hold the book open with one hand and fork food into her mouth with the other.
She was deep in a riveting scene between the merchant and his wife, who were arguing over his laughter, for he’d heard animals talking, when the morning’s gossip rags were slapped over the words of her book.
Startled, she dropped her fork on the plate. She looked up. Mother stood above her, cheeks scarlet and lips pressed tightly together. A most unnerving sight. Elizabeth pressed her napkin against her mouth. Unlike Grandmother, her mother did not give in to fits of emotion. The obvious anger in her eyes torqued a nervous clench in Elizabeth’s belly.
She preferred avoiding conversation with her parents. Four years ago, during her first come out, she overheard them expressing their embarrassment at her visage to callers. It was a conversation that, at the oddest times, repeated in her mind like an unceasing headache. Old, familiar pain palpated within. She tightened her posture and looked her mother in the face.
As usual, Mother’s eyes skittered to an invisible speck upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. Far be it that she must see the shameful birthmark upon her daughter’s face.
She wet her lips. “Good morn, Mother.”
“Read the gossip.”
Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the paper lying atop her book. The front page headline filled her with dread: Heiress Returns Disheveled.
The writer did not name her, but it became obvious as the story progressed that it was about her, Lady Elizabeth Wayland. An heiress returned from Lady Charleston’s gardens disheveled, hair almost undone, followed by a notable factory owner. The writer then speculated that a rendezvous had occurred... Elizabeth tore her eyes away, appetite dead.
Worry raced through her in uneven clops, like a startled horse galloping without restraint.
“You understand how close you are to being ruined, do you not?” Mother slid into the chair opposite Elizabeth. “If this becomes fodder for the gossips, it will damage John’s position in the House, his career aspirations and our family’s reputation. This is disgraceful.” Mother took a shaky breath and Elizabeth wondered how she could breathe at all when a steel vise had tightened around her own ribs, making inhaling almost impossible.
She did not want to marry, but that did not mean she wished to be ruined. Not to mention the damage she might cause to her family’s reputation, sullying all that they’d worked for... She squeezed her eyes tight and tried hard to think.
“Are you sure it is me they refer to? There is no mention of—” the words hurt to emit, but she forced them out “—my birthmark.”
“There will be. Soon enough.”
Elizabeth winced at the defeat lacing Mother’s answer.
Venetia rubbed her brow. “I must ask—are the rumors true? Was there a dalliance with a man last night? Who could it be? Is that why you claimed a headache and practically forced me to bring you home early?”
Elizabeth pushed her plate away. “Dalliances are the furthest thing from my mind. Trust me, I want nothing more than to return to Windermar and take care of Grandmother. This Season is a farce. I’m an heiress, not a fatted calf.”
“Elizabeth.” A sharp edge tipped her mother’s tone. “Every young woman deserves a home of her own, children and a stable future. Accept your responsibility as the daughter of an earl, the granddaughter of a duke. We will have to decide what to do with this.” She tentatively tapped the edge of the paper as though it were a hot plate. “Your father must be told at once.”
Her lids fluttered as if the colossal import of the situation weighed upon her. “Have you perhaps considered Lord Wrottesley? He has expressed interest in you.”
Elizabeth flinched. “He is the last person I’d ever marry. Besides, he is a fortune hunter.”
“You do not know that.”
“I suspect it.”
Mother sighed in a way that suggested Elizabeth was a great drain on her energy. “You cannot afford to be picky now. I shall speak to your father. Perhaps we can arrange terms.”
Elizabeth swallowed back a retort, for she knew no way of escaping the rumors that had forced her into this situation.
Despite her brave words to Miles, she found that deep within, she truly could not subject her family to such a scandal. A betrothal might put the gossip to rest, but could she put aside her own happiness for the sake of her family? Every fiber of her being shouted no. Martyrdom lacked appeal. Especially with Lord Wrottesley.
Who else would want to marry her, anyway? A reclusive heiress with an unsightly birthmark?
She was going to have to give up her dreams of love because of one foolish action. After returning from the gardens, she’d entered the ballroom, gone straight to her mother and they’d left immediately.
Who would have spread such tittle-tattle about her? Perhaps a man out for revenge? A man who had discovered a way to put his greedy hands on her money?
Wrottesley.
She shuddered. Had he succeeded in ruining her?
Chapter Three (#ulink_08398376-ae82-5545-8cd6-0c2e8a35f41a)
Wrottesley was not home.
Annoyed beyond reason, Miles rode back to his house with the urge to box the cad itching his knuckles. When he arrived home, he saw John’s carriage.
He had barely gotten in the door when John appeared in his hall. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?”
Miles handed his coat to his valet. “News?”
“Regarding Elizabeth.” Her brother pivoted, disappearing into Miles’s study.
Biting back exasperation, he followed John. This was not how he’d intended his morning to go. He hadn’t intended to tell John of Wrottesley’s perfidy against Bitt either, but since he was here, perhaps he already knew.
Did he want Miles’s assistance? He rubbed his palms together, anticipating the moment Wrottesley learned the consequences of assaulting Elizabeth. He entered the study. As he made his way inside, his mahogany desk greeted him like an old friend, staid and reliable in the familiar room. He’d inherited this office from his late father. Sighing, he sank into the plush chair accompanying the desk.
John watched him steadily from his own perch on a less comfortable chaise at the side of the room.
“What’s this about Bitt?”
His old friend leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Expression serious. “She has been compromised. But I suppose you know that already.”
Miles felt his brows lift. “She has been in London only a month. What happened?” His mind raced. Last night, the cut direct he’d received, Elizabeth’s disheveled state...still, that should not be enough to get tongues wagging so quickly.
Unless someone started the gossip. Someone intent on making her look bad.
“It’s in all the papers. Not her name, specifically, but it might only take a few days for the ton to realize who this heiress is, and once that happens, she will be ruined. She was seen in the company of a factory owner.” John’s mouth tightened. “You were at that ball last night.”
“What are you saying?” Miles asked flatly. But he knew. How foolish he had been.
“No one knows that I am whatever man was described in the papers. And you say her name is not mentioned? There is no reason for you to be here, John. You’re distraught. Give it a day or so. The gossip will die down.” Though they had been good friends since childhood, they rarely saw each other now that John stayed busy with his estates and his work with the House of Lords.
“I am here to demand honor for my sister.”
“You believe I dishonored her?” Miles straightened in his seat. Shock curled through him. “I would never treat her in such a way.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” John’s laugh was dry. “But according to that article, the ton believes you have.”
“My name is not mentioned. I fail to understand how Elizabeth’s predicament is my concern.” And yet, even as Miles spoke, he realized that he did indeed see the part he had played. For if she really was on the verge of ruination, then his actions last night had partially caused the problem. He should have insisted she straighten herself. Or perhaps he should have returned to the ballroom by a different way.
It had been so long since he’d attended a ball or paid any attention to society’s strictures. Not since Anastasia...and he would not have gone last night if it were not for the personal invitation.
John dragged in a deep sigh. “I have come to insist you marry Elizabeth, should the need arise.”
Panic, sharp and visceral, sliced through Miles.
“Politics have turned you daft,” he said in a casual tone, hiding the terror rushing through him. He knew he owed John a great deal. He had been a bastion of support for Miles years ago when Anastasia died. As the powerful son of an earl, John had made sure the circumstances of Anastasia’s death were kept quiet and out of the gossip rags.
But he could never marry again. He simply could not.
“I know that your marriage was less than ideal,” John continued. “I would not demand this of you if I did not think it necessary.” He shoved a hand through hair a shade lighter than Bitt’s. “There is a chance the gossip shall pass. I have not spoken to my sister as of yet, but from what I’ve garnered, there is little to support the accusations.”
“Speak to Elizabeth. It could be that she will happily retire to Windermar with the dowager duchess.”
“Grandmother left for her estate this morning. She doesn’t stay in London long. I can’t imagine the uproar that would occur if she heard of this. Things are not so simple as you imply. There are other factors to consider.”
“Your reputation?” he asked drily.
