Chapter Nineteen

H art swallowed hard as he approached the front of the receiving line. There were too many people crammed into the Bartleby’s front foyer. Under his evening jacket, a line of sweat rolled down his back. The tight-fitting style of the evening wear rubbed against the scars on his shoulders every time he moved his arm, irritating the sensitive skin. The cravat that had taken his valet more than fifteen blasted minutes to tie was strangling him. Why had he accepted the Bartleby’s invitation?

Trudy’s hand squeezed his forearm, and he glanced down at her. She winked saucily. They were the reason he was here. He owed Lucy an opportunity to refute the rumors that he was some damaged beast luring her into ruin. And after his lack of control the other day, he needed to prove it to Lucy as well. He looked over his shoulder where Lucy stood behind them chatting with Lord Blakely’s daughter. Her eyes flitted to his, and a small smile played across her pink lips. She looked stunning tonight in a dress of icy blue silk.

The line moved, and they stepped in front of their hosts.

“Good evening, Your Grace. We are so pleased that you have chosen to attend our little soiree,” said Lady Bartleby.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” he replied automatically.

“When we saw you at the theatre, and your aunt mentioned you wanted to support Miss Middleton’s season, we knew our ball would be the perfect opportunity for you to be seen.”

“Seen doing what?” he replied with a frown.

“Why supporting her in her season, of course. There will be many eligible gentlemen here tonight. My parties are famous for attracting the younger set.” Lady Bartleby gave a wide smile. “Enjoy your evening.”

A growl of displeasure rose in his chest at the thought of Lucy dancing or even talking with any eligible men.

“Thank you, dear.” Trudy dipped her head elegantly. “I’m sure we will. You throw the best fêtes.” Then she grasped his arm and tugged him away, Lucy joining them on Trudy’s other side.

“No scowling, young man. Our task tonight, my dears, is to continue to refute the rumors that your interest in Lucy is anything but magnanimous. You must be perfectly behaved.” She glanced pointedly at Lucy. “And Hartwick, you must mingle and speak with people. Let us dispel that nonsense about you being a monstrous recluse luring hapless maidens to their ruin.”

Lucy looked across at him and raised one finely arched eyebrow. He rolled his eyes in return. Surely, one tiny tidbit in a scandal rag from more than a week ago couldn’t be all that dramatic. They slowly ascended the marble staircase that led to the first-floor ballroom. Hart had to concentrate in order not to miss a step with his right foot and end up stumbling like some damn fool. The irony was that in the past, his stumbling would have been chalked up too much drink and dismissed. But now, he couldn’t bear to see pity in people’s eyes if he were to miss a step and bump into someone.

When they entered the ballroom, it was appalling how hot the packed room felt. His sense of being trapped was immediate as they waded into the crowd. Going to the theater had been tolerable because of the private box, but this crush made his pulse race and sweat break out across his brow.

Trudy turned to face him and Lucy. “Why don’t you two dance?”

Hart grimaced. “I simply cannot.” He motioned to his eye.

“Oh yes, of course. Then how about you take her on a stroll about the room? I need to go speak with some friends.” She glanced to the side at three matrons who stood nearby. The ladies’ fans flapped wildly as they stared in their direction. “You two go walk around, smile, and be polite. Go on.” She shooed them with her hands.

Lucy looked up at him and shrugged. He offered his elbow. Lucy laid her hand lightly on his arm, and they walked away.

They strolled down the side of the long, narrow ballroom. Along one side, gilt-edged floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected candlelight from the row of chandeliers that hung from the ornately painted ceiling. He and Lucy skirted dancers and passed guests seated on green damask settees along the edges of the room. The further along they walked, the more the tightness in his throat increased. In an effort to distract himself from the growing panic clawing at his chest, he caught Lucy’s eye. “The lady you were speaking with in line, is she a friend of yours?”

“Yes, that was my good friend, Lady Violet Blakely. Why do you ask?”

“I met her the other day. I went to see her father about the symbol, the Knot of Isis, I mean. I saw her speaking with your Mr. Murdoch.”

Murdoch had definitely been flirting with her friend Violet outside her father’s study. Hart wondered if it would be petty of him to tell Lucy. Probably.

“You met Mr. Murdoch?” Lucy’s hand rose to her throat.

“Don’t look so nervous,” Hart said. “He seemed perfectly nice if a bit obsequious.”

“Well, he was meeting a duke and the one that watches over me. Of course, he would be.”

“He didn’t mention his connection to you at all. I thought it odd, but I didn’t want to press him in front of Blackpool. And your friend seemed a bit scattered. Everything about the visit was strange, to say the least.” He was still reeling from what he had learned about his father. Although why he should be so surprised, he didn’t know. Ton marriages were infamous for their infidelity. But to betray a friend showed a lack of character in a man that Hart had always looked up to as a paragon of right and wrong.

“Perhaps she was also surprised to encounter a duke in the house. Violet is usually delightful. She is my only bright spot in this whole season. We commiserate as her parents are also parading her around to find her a match.”

The tension he felt melted as he chuckled at her view of the season. “In my experience, most debutants are excited about the husband hunt.”

“Is that so? And have you been hunted then?” She bumped her shoulder gently against his arm.

“Of course. I am a duke, after all. I suppose I understand your reluctance to Trudy’s matchmaking since you already have a husband picked out.”

“I do? Oh yes, that is exactly it. I don’t need anyone else. Mr. Murdoch is the one for me.”

They hit the end of the room and made a turn to reach the other side. An older couple, Lord and Lady Dalmore, nodded as they passed. “Evening, Your Grace.”

“Good evening.” Hart nodded politely but did not stop. He needed another turn around the room before he was ready to actually converse with anyone.

Lucy gave him a quizzical look as he whisked her past the couple.

He shrugged.

Lucy smiled and patted his arm. “Let’s get some punch. It is dreadfully hot in here.”

Hart nodded, relieved she wasn’t going to make him make small talk just yet. They hadn’t gone but ten feet when a red-faced Lord Fitzwilliam stepped out in front of them. His fists were clenched at his sides. “You bastard.”

What the hell? Hart glowered. “Language, Fitzwilliam. We are in mixed company.”

“You just wanted her for yourself. You refuse my suit just so you could snatch her into your clutches.”

Hart crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I refused your suit because the lady did not want your attentions nor your manhandling, you little weasel.”

Lucy stood frozen next to him, her eyes wide with shock, darted back and forth between him and Fitzwilliam. Conversation in the vicinity ceased as everyone turned to hear what Fitzwilliam was yelling about.

Hart leaned close to the man. “I expressly told you to never come within fifty feet of Miss Middleton ever again. Get out of our way,” he growled.

But the idiot would not stop his fool mouth. Fitzwilliam turned to Lucy. “You little tart. Flirting with me but whoring around with him.”

Lucy came to life, her cheeks blazed with color. “How dare you! I would never waste my time with the likes of you. You assaulted me in the gardens at the Ponsonby’s. You are nothing but a desperate fortune hunter.”

Hart’s first inclination to pummel the man into the ground was replaced by admiration for Lucy’s fiery set down.

He smirked. “How is your chin, mate? She’s got quite the right hook.”

“You monster.” Fitzwilliam lunged forward.

Hart raised his cane in front of himself in an automatic defensive motion, but his opponent still managed to shove him hard. He stumbled backward several steps.

“Hart!” Lucy cried out.

She stepped between the two of them with her arms outstretched, her palms facing up. But Fitzwilliam, already in attack mode, had a fist in forward motion. He made contact with Lucy’s face and sent her falling backward, landing on her backside at Hart’s feet. Someone in the crowd screamed.

Hart’s vision went red. He reached out and grasped the stunned and sputtering Fitzwilliam by the front of his jacket. Then he clocked him out cold with one satisfying punch.

Hart fell to his knees next to Lucy. “Are you hurt? Where did he hurt you?”

She sat with one hand over her right eye. The other was glassy with tears. “He hit me. I can’t believe he hit me.”

“I will kill him.” He glanced behind him.

Two men were attending to Fitzwilliam, who had groggily come to. The volume of conversation around them rose to a crescendo. The onlookers were a suffocating circle around them. Lucy’s hand grasped his in a panicked grip. He had to get her off the floor and away from here, to somewhere he could assess her injury. Somewhere he could breathe again. Where Lucy would be safe.

He scooped her up into his arms and rose, leaving his cane on the floor. Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his jacket. His shoulder screamed in protest. But he would not put her down until he had her safely away from the gawking crowd.

Hart strode across the dance floor, the dancers parting like the Red Sea.

Lord Bartleby and his wife rushed toward them. “What’s happened?”

“Fitzwilliam struck her.”

“No,” Lady Bartleby gasped.

Trudy appeared at his elbow. “Oh dear, oh dear!” she exclaimed.

“Fitzwilliam was attacking me, and unfortunately, Miss Middleton got in between us.”

“Oh dear…” Trudy’s fan waved back and forth like a deranged hummingbird. “Oh dear,” she muttered again.

He addressed Lord Bartleby. “We need a private room to assess her injury. And some cool water and a cloth to make a compress for her eye.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Right this way.”