Page 38 of When He Was Wicked
“She?” The marquess peered at her from a swollen eye, an ugly smirk on his face. “What did I do, not leave enough coins?”
She flashed him a look of pure disdain. “You took something from me: Peace and happiness, and you will not get another minute, you vile, revolting excuse of a man. You are a maggoty coward!”
Anger flashed in his eyes, and he stepped closer. Yet she did not feel intimidated. She stepped forward, felt James’s start of surprise, but before he could stop her, she balled her fist and let it fly. Pain jerked along the bones of her arm, but with satisfaction, the marquess's head snapped back.
With a roar of fury, he charged at her, and with a nimbleness that rivaled James's earlier elegance, she danced from beneath his reach to behind of him. A murmuring of admiration swept through the crowd, but she did not direct her attention to their reaction. The marquess spun around, and Verity saw the perfect opening. She stepped in with sure swiftness and kicked him in the balls with all the pent-up pain she had lived with for almost five years.
An odd high pitch squeal tore from his throat as he tumbled to the floor, clutching at his man parts. Tears leaked from his eyes and sweat coated his body. No remorse filled her. Verity wished she could do it again when she thought about every other woman whom he might have hurt. All the other ladies who mightnot have had an aunt to rescue them. Or a brother and a father to defend their honor. Or a…James.
Verity stared at him, reached up and pulled the short wig from atop her head. It was important that he knew who had brought him to his knees. The marquess stared up at her, confused, and she still saw no recognition in his eyes. Unable to halt the need burning inside, she withdrew the pins that had ruthlessly confined her hair so and dropped them on the floor. The room had remained silent at this unusual display, and the clatter of hairpins seemed to echo loudly. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in dark waves. The marquess gasped, and his eyes widened.
“You!” he spat like an oaf.
“Yes,me,” she whispered, clenching her fist at her side.
The Marquess stumbled to his feet, his cheeks flushed red with rage and embarrassment. James came up behind her and rested a hand atop her shoulder. Comfort. Warmth. Safety. The touch had been brief, but it centered her against the tearing emotions ripping through her chest. Her lower lip trembled, and she felt the urge to cry.
“You will never look in her direction again,” James said beside her with such lethal softness for a moment she felt afraid.
Then it vanished to be replaced with a warm glow of security.
“If you ever come close to her again, or even approach her, I will kill you,” James murmured.
The marquess paled alarmingly. “Maschelly, I—”
“I will absolutelykillyou.” The cold, ruthless conviction settled in the space between them, and no one spoke or moved for several moments.
Then James turned and held out his hands. Without hesitation, she slid her hands in his, the thin leather strips preventing the soft, heated contact she wanted. Then he escorted her from the ring and to the side where he hurriedly put onhis shirt, waistcoat, and jacket. He stuffed the cravat in his pocket, and they made their way through the stirring crowd who watched their departure.
When they neared the door, a lady in a green filigreed mask whispered, “Upon my word! Is that Lady Verity?”
A shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and stood in front of them. It was the owner of the club. “I do not need to know the offense, but I can tell it had been grievous, Maschelly,” Viscount Worsley said, his gaze stark and compassionate. “Durham will be blackballed from my club.”
James stared at the viscount. “He is a future duke.”
Worsley smiled. “And you are my friend.”
James nodded. The viscount's eyes touched on her face, and then he bowed. "Lady Verity."
It felt odd that her reputation had just been irrevocably ruined, yet here she stood, dispassionately unruffled. "Lord Worsley," she said, with a slight dip of her head.
Then she looked at James, and that was all that had been needed. Without another word, he led her through the smoky and raucous interior of the gambling den to his carriage outside.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Once inside the carriage, Verity leaned back against the squabs, but a tight tension held her rigid. Her future was now vague and uncertain. All the plans of marriage and a future away from her family had been dealt a severe blow. But Lord Durham had been dueled using fists, and she believed the man would never dare to approach or look at her again. The certainty crawled into her heart, burrowed deep, and filled Verity with the most fantastic sense of peace.
I will absolutely kill you.
James's conviction had rung with ruthless truth, and she believed he meant every chilling word. As they stared at each other in the low lantern glow, her entire being seemed to be filled with a sense of waiting. She spied heart rendering tenderness in the gaze upon her body. Her heart jolted, and her pulse pounded.
“Are you hurt,” he asked gruffly.
“There is a small ache in my arm, but it is not worrying. Thank you, James,” she whispered.
“You should not be thanking me,” he snarled, raking fingers through his hair. James's jaw tensed visibly. "Your reputationhas received a severe blow. I will do all in my power to fix it, Verity.”
“I shall not allow it. It was my choice to reveal myself to him in such a place. There is no need to take on any more of my burden.”
