Page 14 of My Own True Duchess
A thump sounded, possibly an elbow hitting a wall. Fabric tore.
“You little hellion,” Davington said at the sound of a slap.
Theo marched into the alcove, grabbed Davington by the hair, and twisted as hard as she could. “Have you lost what few wits you were born with?”
Davington kept a hard grip of Bea’s wrist and wrenched out of Theo’s grasp. “Go away, Mrs. Haviland. The lady and I were having a private moment.”
“I am not going away, and if you don’t turn loose of her ladyship, I shall scream down this house.” That was a bluff. If half of polite society came running from the conservatory to find Bea’s gown ripped, Bea and Theo would both be leaving Town, and not for a cozy cottage in Hampshire.
“Perhaps you’re jealous,” Davington said, gaze traveling insolently over Theo’s breasts. “Alas, I don’t care for brunettes. They tend to show their age so much sooner.”
Theo didn’t hear Jonathan Tresham step up to her side so much as she felt him. A large, male presence, scented like a garden of exotic flowers upwind on a summer night.
“Kick him,” Tresham drawled. “Kick him where he stores his pride, my lady. Keep your gaze locked on his, lest he divine your intention, and silently draw back your foot. Don’t glance at the target—just let fly and demolish it. I’ll be happy to do the same over pistols three mornings hence.”
Davington turned loose of Bea and scurried back, stumbling into a potted fern. “Tresham. You’re misconstruing the situation. We became a bit passionate, and the lady had a mishap with her décolletage.”
“Or swords,” Mr. Tresham said, drawing off his evening gloves, finger by finger. “The choice will go to the rodent whose behavior necessitated the object lesson.”
Bea jerked her dress together and took Theo’s other side. With Mr. Tresham, they blocked Davington’s exit from the alcove.
“Your choice,” Tresham said, as if discussing the offerings on the dessert table. “Name your seconds now, and I’ll even leave you a week or so to brush up on your fencing and marksmanship. You’ll want to put your affairs in order as well. Pay off your debts of honor, make a will. That sort of thing.”
Davington had gone paler than moonlight, while Theo, who’d been married to a hopeless wagerer, got the sense that Mr. Tresham was bluffing and doing an outstanding job of it. Enjoying himself, even.
“Tresham, for God’s sake,” Davington said. “She’s a widow.”
Mr. Tresham backhanded his gloves across Davington’s cheek—his right cheek. Theo hadn’t sensed the blow coming and neither, apparently, had Davington.
“So sorry,” Mr. Tresham said, pulling on his gloves. “I thought I heard you use the fact that a woman has been bereaved of her spouse as an excuse to prey upon her, ruin her good name, and violate her person. Surely what you meant to offer was an abject apology?”
Theo had read the Code Duello of sad necessity. After a blow had been struck, no apology should have been availing, and yet, Davington must apologize if scandal was to be averted.
“You will find it difficult to sully the reputation of two widows at once,” Theo said. “I know what I heard and what I saw. I know that your finances are in disarray and that you conveyed that information to a certain baroness in Lord Petersham’s library last week.”
Davington sank back against the wall. He no longer looked like a dashing rake. He looked like a stupid, frightened boy.
“I would like to see both the ladies kick you,” Tresham said. “Repeatedly. Make up your mind, Davington. Paris is far less expensive than London, and you are in the wrong.”
Of the three arguments—the violent, the financial, and the honorable—the latter was clearly of the least moment to his lordship. That Mr. Tresham would include honor on the list meant a lot to Theo.
On Theo’s left, Bea was ominously silent, likely battling rage and tears both. On her right, Mr. Tresham looked bored.
Davington stood tall and jerked down his waistcoat. “Apologies. Meant nothing by it. Bit of flirtation. No harm intended.”
Mr. Tresham made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound. “Look the party you have wronged in the eye and admit fault. Offer to make reparation.” He might have been instructing Diana.
Bea glowered at Davington.
“I am sorry, my lady,” Davington said, running a hand through his hair. “I imposed and I took liberties. It won’t happen again.”
“I’ll send you the bill from my modiste,” Bea said. “If and when you do slink back from Paris, I will warn every woman I know to avoid you, especially the pretty widows.”
That was clearly not the polite acceptance his lordship had anticipated. He stood, hands at his sides, looking helpless.
“Have my coach brought to the mews, Davington,” Mr. Tresham said, “then repair your appearance and dance with every wallflower in the ballroom. The shy ones, the stout ones, the ones with meager settlements. Charm them and flatter them, but if you so much as steal a disrespectful glance, my seconds will be calling on you.”
Mr. Tresham took a step back, and Davington bolted from the alcove like a tame rabbit fleeing the nursery.
