Page 165 of Pride: The Rogue
That gave Latimer pause.
Taking down two big, overprotective, angry uncles would only complicate things even further.
“Fowler? Bram? Is there a problem?”
That unexpected intrusion brought Latimer and the lackeys’ gazes up to the top of the staircase.
With just a single glance at the well-built, elegantly clad, well-spoken figure marked the stranger as nobility. He’d asked the question of his men but kept his hard stare on Latimer.
The Earl of Maxwell, then.
Livian’s brother-in-law.
“This one’s come to see Miss Lovelace,” Fowler called up; the man’s gravelly voice boomed by nature.
The earl narrowed his eyes. “Has he?”
No words were needed to confirm not only did Maxwell know Latimer’s identity, but also that he’d caused her pain.
Yes, well, he’d not expected winning Livvie would be easy.
He cleared his throat. “My—”
“Do you know this one, boy?” Bram asked over Latimer’s intended greeting.
“Loosely,” Maxwell called down. “He is a recent acquaintance of Miss Lovelace.”
A look of understanding instantly filled the previously clueless fellows’ eyes.
“Is he the reason for Miss Livvie’s being sad,” Fowler whispered.
“Aye,” the earl snarled. “I suspect he is.”
The previous harmless expressions of the big men turned lethal.
Bram cracked his knuckles.
Latimer firmed his jaw. Forget moving mountains; he was going to have to kill for Livian. It was fine. He’d murdered men before and would happily do so now if it meant having a chance to beg her forgiveness.
“Permission to kill him, Malcom,” Bram boomed in jovial tones that belied the threat in his hardened eyes.
“And deny me that pleasure?” Maxwell called. “I think not.”
As their expressions fell, the earl softened that denial. “I will, though be sure and leave him alive enough for the two of you to have a go at him,” he said coolly, heading down to meet Latimer.
The earl’s promise appeared enough for the older men who fell back and waited with eager eyes, in the shadows.
The moment Maxwell reached Latimer he gave him a hate-filled once-over. “The bloody fucking gall of you to arrive on my doorstep, you rotten piece of shite.”
That crude greeting better suited a showdown in the Dials than an earl’s country estate.
To the man’s credit, he calmly delivered those icy insults to Latimer with a life-hardened, hate-filled, grin.
Alas, in Latimer’s fight for Livian’s love and hand, murdering her beloved brother-in-law would prove a complication. As such, Latimer called forth every scrap of restraint.
Several inches past six feet, Latimer wouldn’t be short by any stretch of the imagination. Maxwell, however, had an extra inch even on him, and now used that slight height advantage to give Latimer a scathing once-over.
Latimer, however, had spent the better part of his life being treated and viewed as a lesser—this time, given how he’d wronged Livian, he happened to deserve it.
