A Hasty Betrothal

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.