“And cause a scandal?” he asked cynically. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll scream, Miss Kinkead. But if you wish to, please feel free. Because I am going to claim my reward no matter what.”
And with that he reached out and pulled her close.
• • •
After taking Clorinda home, Justin returned to Grosvenor Square. It had taken several hours to assure her that he meant what he said when he told her that he wanted to end their liaison. It was past eight o’clock by the time he walked wearily through his own front door. Today had been the first time he had seen Clorinda since he had left London in pursuit of Megan three months before, and he had sought the woman out with the express intention of relieving his sexual frustration with the body of one whom he paid to be available. Instead, he had wound up giving her the congé as his mistress. As she had thrown herself at him in ecstatic greeting, he could not help comparing
her lush appeal to Megan’s slender beauty; the full charms that had been more than acceptable to him once now seemed grossly overblown, and to his own disgust Justin could not dredge up the smallest flicker of desire. Disengaging his mouth from hers after her first breathless kiss, he had told her gently to dress warmly because he was taking her for a drive. He had been breaking the news to her as painlessly as he knew how when he had caught sight of Megan in the park. For a moment he had felt absurdly guilty that she should see him with Clorinda, and then as he had recognized her companion his guilt had been swamped by rage. He had nearly stopped his curricle and confronted the pair of them there and then, but the simple practicalities of the situation had prevented him. He could not present Clorinda to Megan, nor would he want to. And he owed Clorinda the decency of an explanation. She had been good to him, in her way, and he felt no animosity toward her. If Megan had emasculated him to the point where he could want no other woman, that was not Clorinda’s fault. But the fury he had felt upon seeing Megan with Ivor had not been dimmed because of having to wait to vent itself. He meant to be waiting for her tonight when she got home from whatever function she was attending, and he meant to be stone-cold sober, something that he hadn’t been very often lately. So instead of going to his club after leaving Clorinda, he had come home.
As he expected, Ames informed him that both ladies were out. Justin accepted that information with a
nod, and started to go on to his study. He would spend the time catching up with some paperwork that he had grossly neglected of late. Then, thinking about it, he changed his mind. Instead of waiting around until all hours for Megan to get home, he would join her at whatever party she happened to be. He smiled grimly to himself as he pictured her consternation when he appeared. She must think herself safe until morning.
Ames was able to tell him about the Chetwoods’ soiree, and Justin, grimacing at the dull sound of it, almost changed his mind again. But his smoldering anger demanded action, and he knew that he would have no peace until he had torn a strip off Megan’s hide for her willful disobedience. If she wanted to punish him—and he admitted that she had every right to—she was going to have to find another means. He had no intention of standing idly by while she flirted with a bounder like Ivor.
It was nearly half past ten by the time he walked into the Chetwoods’ salon. A yellow-haired chit was caterwauling to the accompaniment of a piano; Justin winced at the sound, and nearly decided to leave again. But Lady Chetwood had caught sight of him, and hurried to make him welcome.
“This is a pleasure, my lord,” she gushed, her plump, matronly face wreathed in smiles. The Earl of Weston was notoriously elusive, and his presence would lend quite a bit of cachet to a party that even she, with her incurable optimism, had to admit was nothing above the ordinary.
“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” he said in a civil tone that he hoped would adequately mask the boredom that was already starting to claim him.
“You’ve come to join your wife,” the good lady said happily. Justin raised an eyebrow at her. Surely she must be the only person left in London who was not aware of his long-standing estrangement from Alicia.
“I was told she would be here,” Justin replied smoothly without giving a direct answer. “And my ward, as well.”
“Yes, they are. Let me see, Lady Alicia is over there,” Lady Chetwood indicated Alicia, who was seated next to her very dear friend Sally Jersey and gossiping madly. They ignored the singer. “And your ward—why, I believe that Miss Kinkead must have left us. You’ll probably find her in the refreshment room, my lord.”
“I thank you,” Justin bowed. She smiled at him, simpering a little, then withdrew her hand with a reluctant sigh and went to speak to a guest who had the good sense to plead a headache as an excuse for leaving early.
Left to himself, Justin walked briskly across the room, intent on finding Megan as quickly as possible. Alicia saw him, and raised her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise at his presence. She knew from bitter experience that he hated functions of this sort, and usually avoided them. He ignored her and left the room. His whole purpose in coming here was to find Megan, and he meant to accomplish it as quickly as possible so that he could leave.
She was not in the refreshment room, nor in the hall, nor in any of the other chambers that he checked. His frown deepened with each passing minute. Where the hell could she be? His anger increased as he searched again, more carefully. Still no luck. He was standing in the hall, undecided about whether or not to question Alicia, who after all was the girl’s chaperone and ought to have some notion of her whereabouts, when he heard a slight sound from beyond the curtains at the far end of the hall. Justin crossed to them, and stood for a moment listening. He had no wish to intrude on some couple’s private moment, as long as it wasn’t Megan. Though he heard nothing further, some sixth sense persuaded him to push aside the curtains and enter the room. What he saw froze him in his tracks for the space of two heartbeats.
Megan was pushing and shoving at Ivor’s scrawny shoulders as he bent her back over his arm, his mouth searching for hers. Justin clenched his teeth as he realized what Ivor’s intentions were. Then he was across the room, his hand hard on Ivor’s shoulder as he tore him away from Megan. Ivor barely had time to register the identity of his assailant before Justin was hitting him, his fist slamming with satisfying force into Ivor’s face. Justin felt bones and flesh disintegrate under his hand, and smiled savagely as he repeated the blow. Then Ivor seemed to come to himself, and parried Justin’s blows with punches of his own. One caught Justin on the side of the nose, making him bleed a little, but
he barely noticed the pain as he sank his fist deep into the other’s midsection.
“Justin, stop it! You’ll kill him!” Megan had recovered from her shock enough to fly at him, catching his arm and trying to pull him off Ivor’s groaning body. Justin paid no attention to her entreaties, concentrating on beating the man to a bloody pulp. Finally, when Ivor sagged to his knees with a groan of surrender, Justin backed off but stood over his downed opponent, fists still clenched, breathing hard.
“Justin?” Megan’s voice was shaking, and her hand was unsteady as she put it on his arm.
Justin turned his head to look at her. Blood from his nose covered the lower half of his face and dripped onto his elegant evening clothes, but he was unaware of it. His eyes were fierce as they moved over her.
“Did he hurt you?” he rasped.
Megan shook her head. Justin saw the swollen state of her mouth, the little rip in the shoulder of her gown, and swore furiously.
“By God, you’ll meet me for this, you damned blackguard,” Justin snarled at Ivor, who now lay flat on his back on the floor. One whole side of his face was unrecognizable from Justin’s blows, and his breath rattled painfully from beneath his bruised ribs. “Tomorrow morning, six o’clock, on the Heath. Do you hear me?”
Ivor looked up at him then, his eyes vicious as they slid from Justin to Megan and back again.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
Justin stared at him a moment longer, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides as if he would like to wrap them around Ivor’s neck there and then. Megan noticed this and moved closer to him, her eyes raised beseechingly to his.
“Justin, take me home,” she said low. Justin’s mouth compressed as he looked down at her, and then he reached out an arm and drew her close against his side.
“Six o’clock,” he said tersely to the man on the floor, and then, keeping Megan pressed closely to his side, he led her away. Fortunately Madame Diaz had begun to sing again, so no one witnessed their dishevelment as Justin whisked them through a side door and into the night.
CHAPTER
13
Long after the house had quieted for the night, Megan paced the floor in her bedchamber. Justin had refused to say a syllable to her during the hansom ride home, and upon entering the house he had immediately ordered her to her room. Megan, frightened and trembling, took one look into those golden eyes and obeyed without question. Justin was in a mood to do murder if he was defied in any way, and she was uncomfortably aware that her conduct that evening had been far from blameless. But surely she had been punished enough? Her skin still crawled as she remembered the way Lord Ivor had kissed her; the greedy thrust of his tongue in her mouth and the feel of his hands sliding over her body had made her quiver with revulsion. He had paid no heed to her frantic struggles to escape him, and Megan shuddered to think what might have happened if Justin had not appeared so opportunely.
Justin’s violence had terrified her. She had never witnessed anything like it. For a few moments she had thought that he meant to beat Ivor to death with his
bare fists, and that was when she had flown to his side. Ivor’s conduct had been atrocious, he had frightened and repelled her, but it did not deserve death. And Megan was very much afraid that Justin intended to kill Ivor tomorrow.
Or he might be killed himself. Megan closed her eyes and groaned. All her professed hatred seemed to melt away at the thought of Justin’s life blown from him because of her folly. Justin had warned her about Lord Ivor; she had wanted to revenge herself upon him so much that she had taken positive delight in flouting his express command. Tonight she had paid for her hardheadedness; tomorrow either Justin or Ivor would pay.
They could not be allowed to meet. But how to prevent it? Megan had not the slightest notion. She could only go to Justin and beg him, for her sake, for the sake of the child she might or might not be carrying, not to go through with this madness. In her mind she pictured two lonely figures facing each other across a width of green field, pistols rising, firing, smoking—and then one of the figures falling, bleeding, dying. She shuddered convulsively. It could not be allowed to happen.
She would go to him and plead with him not to persist in this folly. She would crawl on her knees if necessary.
Clutching the high neck of her blue-sprigged wrapper about her throat, Megan blew out the candles in her bedroom and then let herself out into the hall. It
was lit by a single cluster of candles in a silver candelabra affixed to the wall. The feeble light showed her that the hall was deserted. Lady Alicia would most likely not be home until dawn; the servants, except for Alicia’s maid, who would be waiting wearily in her mistress’ chamber, had long since retired. Still, Megan was very swift and silent as she sped toward Justin’s suite. With all the other difficulties besetting her, it would be the last straw to have one of the servants see her creep into Justin’s room in the middle of the night.
She hesitated for a moment with her hand on the knob, her heart pounding in her throat, listening for any sounds from within that might mean that Manning had not yet left his master. She heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and went in.
The room she entered was the small sitting room which connected the master’s and mistress’ bedrooms. Lady Alicia had long preferred to sleep on the other side of the house, so the bedroom that should have been hers was unoccupied. Megan was glad of that. If Bettina, Alicia’s maid, should hear her talking with Justin, there would be hell to pay.
The sitting room was furnished in an intensely masculine fashion in shades of brown and gold with touches of orange. The delicate Louis XIV furniture which was Alicia’s taste and which was so much in evidence throughout the rest of the house was absent here. The chairs flanking the fireplace were large, dark leather wing chairs, and a leather settee sat against one wall. A hand-loomed Indian carpet covered the
wide oak planks of the floor; a pair of crossed dueling pistols adorned the space above the fireplace. They gleamed in the firelight which was blazing strongly. Looking at them, Megan felt her mouth go dry.
“Up to your old tricks again, I see.” Justin’s sardonic voice came from across the room. Megan whirled, startled, to see him standing in the doorway which connected the sitting room to his bedroom. He was dressed in the same elegant black evening breeches that he had worn earlier; his coat and waistcoat had been discarded, and he had changed his bloodstained shirt for another, a frilled white one that was open halfway down his chest to show a tantalizing amount of hair-roughened flesh. As she stared at him, wide-eyed, he leaned his shoulder negligently against the doorjamb, his eyes moving over her in an insulting fashion. It was only then that Megan saw the half-empty bottle which dangled from one hand. As she looked at it, she realized that it was all the explanation she needed for the wildness of his hair, and the faint redness which rimmed those golden eyes.
“You’re drunk,” she said accusingly, her eyes moving up to fasten on his. He laughed, swinging the bottle idly to and fro, his eyes mocking as they returned her angry glare.
“Oh, yes, my darling. This time, you are exactly right. I am very drunk.”
Megan was too afflicted with contradicting emotions to object to his calling her his darling; in fact, she scarcely heeded it. Relief and terror warred for supremacy
inside her. If Justin was drunk, surely he couldn’t be intending to engage in a duel with Lord Ivor in approximately five hours. On the other hand, if he was intending to meet Lord Ivor at six o’clock that same morning, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He couldn’t even stand without swaying, much less shoot a man.