Chapter Fifteen

" I threatened her, and I insulted her beyond apology. I probed into her privacy though I knew she did not wish it. And I managed to push her away, quite expertly. Now what do I do to remedy all that?" Anthony stood in front of his mirror, savagely tying his cravat, then pinning it unmercifully down. His reflection, angry and defiant, stared back at him, offering no advice.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?" His valet mumbled, the man's hands fluttering about Anthony's collar uncertainly, clearly wishing to re-tie the lumpy cravat but not daring.

Anthony huffed and massaged his temples. "I wasn't talking to you, Smithers."

"My apologies, my lord."

"If only it were that simple: apologize," Anthony sighed, pushing his hair back from his face with more force than was needed. "But I don't think she'd accept any apologies from me with any more courtesy than a musket-ball between my eyes." He laughed an empty, hopeless laugh.

"My lord?" The valet sounded concerned.

"Irony, Smithers. Cruel, fickle irony. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I am using the meaning of irony wrong. But then I never cared much for book learning." He growled and pulled on his waistcoat. "Perhaps if I had, I'd understand her a little better." His voice softened. "She's like a Greek tragedy, you know. So stoic and determined –"

The memory of her face as she'd ordered him out of her house that morning cut his sentence short. Was that what he'd seen, a flash of grim determination concealed so well underneath that imperturbable mask? It was, damn it, it was! Determination to take her destiny into her own hands, as she had told him only two nights ago she was already so used to doing. And that meant…

"Dear God, no."

"Beg your pardon, my lord?" The valet asked again.

"Change of plans, Smithers. I will not be dining at my club tonight. I shall be attending the Whitford ball instead."

"Yes, my lord. May I suggest the dark blue crushed velvet jacket?"

"By all means, and quickly. I have to get there before she does something she'll regret."