Page 59 of No One's Bride
“Good Lord! They’re all heading this way.” Helen looked for her husband, relieved to see him approaching. “We’re about to be ambushed by every eligible male in London.”
The urge to raise her skirts and race to the retiring room had Ailsa’s heart pounding against her ribcage. The handsome Lord Brockton bounded past his competitors and was first to the gate.
“Miss MacTavish.” The lord captured her hand and bowed. “Please say you’ve marked my name on your dance card.” He stepped closer, the smell of sickly cologne invading her nostrils. “You look remarkable tonight,” he whispered for her ears only. “The belle of the ball.”
The compliment turned her stomach.
Holding this man’s hand made her want to wretch.
Mr Frampton grew tired of waiting and pushed forward, snatching her hand from Lord Brockton to press his moist mouth to her glove. “Will you accompany me to the supper room, Miss MacTavish? Shall I secure us refreshment?”
Nicholas St Clair stepped into the fray and muttered a curse. He looked ready to beat back her eager admirers, round them up and shut them in their pens.
But then warm fingers gripped her wrist and her head shot in the newcomer’s direction.
She met Lord Denton’s gaze, though his eyes flamed with the devil’s fury. “Loath me to break up the party, but get your hands off my betrothed before I break your damn necks.”
It wasn’t the threat of violence that had everyone gasping.
“Your betrothed?” Lord Brockton mocked. “I don’t recall reading the announcement in the broadsheets.”
“You’ll read it soon enough.”
Lord Brockton sneered. “You said you have no intention of marrying until you reach your dotage.”
The viscount puffed his chest and straightened to an intimidating height. “Are you calling me a liar? Will you insult Miss MacTavish’s moral character? The lady agreed to be my wife, and that’s the end of the matter.”
Ailsa stole a glance at Helen, who stood staring like a virgin in a brothel.
Nicholas came to his friend’s aid, saying, “Let me assure you, those closest to Denton are aware of the couple’s plans.”
Still, that did not appease her suitors. It was Mr Frampton who said, “But only five minutes ago, we saw you in a clinch with Miss De Luca. Men are listing bets in the book at White’s, laying odds she’s the only woman who can persuade you from bachelorhood.”
In a clinch with Miss De Luca?
The sudden pain in Ailsa’s throat made it hard to swallow.
Tears gathered behind her eyes.
“One might think you invent gossip for theScandal Sheet, Frampton.” Lord Denton’s tone was as biting as an arctic wind. He reached for Ailsa’s hand and clasped it tightly. “That damn rag is full of inaccuracies, but allow me to give you the facts. Miss De Luca accosted me by the potted fern, where I made it clear my attentions were engaged elsewhere. You may have seen her grabbing my coat, though I did not lay a hand on her person.”
Amusement passed over Mr Frampton’s dark features.
“Seeing you maul my betrothed has put me in the mood for a fight.” Lord Denton hit the man with his piercing stare. “One more word and I’ll make sure you cannot eat solid food for a month. Now bugger off.”
Lord Brockton raised his hands and stepped away. The other men followed suit, scattering into the crowd like spooked vermin.
A tense silence ensued until Helen said, “Well? Do you mean to tell me what on earth is going on?”
“Not now, Helen.” The lord spoke in his usual dogmatic way. “Be patient. All will become apparent in due course.”
“And that’s it?” she snapped.
“Not quite. I mean to dance with Miss MacTavish, discuss our shared interests and escort her safely home.”
Safely home? Whatever happened when they were alone together in his carriage would be deemed scandalous.
“Home? Or to that iniquitous den in Aldgate?” Helen whispered.
