A Hasty Betrothal. Jessica Nelson
friendship between an earl’s son and a factory owner’s son had survived the years.
Surprised and disapproving.
Lady Dunlop sniffed, and he detected condescension from Bitt’s mother. No doubt due to his being a man of business. For some, the ultimate black mark in the ton. Hiding a wry grin, he turned to the other man beside Bitt’s parents. His shock of white hair framed a narrow face and deeply set brown eyes. He looked familiar.
The duchess gestured to him. “This is Mr. Hawthorne. He owns a factory in Littleshire. His father and I were great friends.”
“Lord Wrottesley.” The earl held out his hand.
“A pleasure,” said Miles, hiding his surprise. So this was Wrottesley’s father. Standing with her family... Did they not know of his debts? The man did possess a reputable lineage and a well-respected title. Though the family had come into hard times, possibly due to a streak of gambling that ran through their bloodlines, a well-matched marriage could fill their coffers once again.
Elizabeth’s future was becoming alarmingly clear. Did John know of his parents’ machinations? Surely he wouldn’t approve such a match for his little sister.
“I would not expect to see someone such as yourself at a ball. Are you looking for a wife?” Lady Dunlop fluttered her fan while waiting for Miles to answer.
“Not at all. Lord Charleston and I are business acquaintances,” said Miles.
Her nose wrinkled at the word business as though it might contaminate her reputation.
Hiding his smile, he gave her a curt nod. “A pleasure.”
Turning to the dowager duchess, he offered her a warmer smile. She responded by putting her quizzing glass to her eye. “Now that you’ve bought the Littleshire Mill, I expect to see you more often. It is between our estates, is it not?”
“I’d hardly call my plot of land an estate,” he said.
“It’s your home.” She waved her glass through the air. “What it is called is neither here nor there. Now, did you find that bookish granddaughter of mine?”
“She went out to the gardens,” he murmured. “I was just on my way to fetch her.”
“Very good. A ball is no place for a lady to wander off alone. And well she knows it.” The duchess sniffed, her powdered cheeks wiggling.
“She will return shortly.” Miles excused himself and continued his search for Wrottesley, but the man had disappeared. He threaded his way twice around the room before concluding that his quarry had meandered into the gardens.
Where Elizabeth had claimed she’d go.
He stepped outside, the humid air clinging to him like a tightly tied silk cravat. The recent spring shower served to muck his boots and hinder his walk through the grass to a stony path at the edge of the lawn. He believed there to be a pond nearby. If Bitt had gone there alone, she’d been unwise, for a young lady should always be chaperoned. She was testing her limits, he supposed, and he could not blame her for it.
He had never known her to shirk duty or behave unwisely in the past.
Wrottesley’s disappearance worried him, though. He strode along the path, his boots clipping the stones impatiently. The chirping of crickets and the full moon created urgency rather than calm. Bitt shouldn’t be out here alone. She ought to know better.
He came to the end of the stone pathway, but there was nowhere to sit here and no sign of Bitt, only a quiet pond adorned with lily pads and the reflection of the moon. He turned, scanning the landscape until he caught sight of a gazebo on the other side of the pond. Movement rippled the shadows around it, and then a high-pitched gasp interrupted the steady song of the crickets.
He bolted forward, pushing through the plants lining the walkway and finding another stone path that lead to the gazebo. His pulse thrummed in hot beats through him, his body strained to reach the sound of that anguished cry. It couldn’t be Bitt, he told himself as he ran down the path, but instinct told him it was her, and that she needed him.
He finally cleared the path and emerged in front of the gazebo. One quick glance told him everything he needed to know. A man’s hands dug into Bitt’s arms. She was kicking his shins.
He pounded up the stairs and yanked him away from Bitt. The man fell away easily, stumbling backward and plopping onto the bench. Miles advanced, his vision hazy and his knuckles aching to connect with the coward’s face.
“Miles, no.”
Elizabeth’s tugging on his shirtsleeve broke his concentration. Her face looked unbearably white in the shadows of the gazebo, her eyes huge and shiny.
“All is well. Leave Lord Wrottesley be.”
Miles dragged in a ragged breath, willing his body to calm so that he might deal with this situation. Not daring to move too far from Wrottesley in case the man attempted to leave, he cast a careful eye over Bitt’s visage. She appeared unharmed, but everything was askew from her hair to her dress. One sleeve appeared to be torn, though he couldn’t be sure.
Scowling, he crossed his arms in front of him. “All does not appear well. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, and her hand dropped from his sleeve. “Lord Wrottesley was under a mistaken assumption.”
The strength of her words roused Wrottesley from his lethargy on the bench. He lunged upward, face contorting. “Now see here, I only came to check on her, but she attacked my person.”
Miles squinted. Upon closer look, he did spot an outrageously long scratch along the man’s cheek. A sound from Bitt prompted him to look at her. She did not bother hiding her disdain.
“You well deserved what I gave you.” After delivering that arch reply, she glanced at Miles. “Mr. Hawthorne, I would much appreciate your escort to the house, as Lord Wrottesley seems incapable of gentlemanly behavior.”
Wrottesley shot them a withering look. “You will regret your actions tonight, Elizabeth.”
“I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name.” Her chin notched up in a way that filled Miles with pride, despite the urge still barreling through him to smash Wrottesley’s face to pieces.
He sneered at Miles. “And you...we will see what is to become of you.” The man pushed past Miles and disappeared down the pathway.
Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Miles took Bitt’s hand and pressed it between his. Her cold skin filled him with concern. “Are you sure you do not need to sit, my lady? Perhaps find your composure?”
“I’m quite composed. Just take me to my mother, please. I feel the press of a megrim and wish to leave at once.”
“As you will, madam.” He tucked her arm beneath his, only too aware of her small stature. If he had not come outside, there was no telling what Wrottesley might have done to her.
The dread pooling in his gut did not dissipate, even when they neared the house. Before entering, he pulled Bitt to the side and faced her. The familiar lines of her features struck him tonight in a different way. He had the strangest desire to run his thumb along the line of her lips, to press his cheek to hers and feel the sweet warmth of her skin. She stared up at him, eyes wide and trusting. For all her bluster, for the many times he knew he’d upset her, they shared a childhood closeness. He needed to be sure of her safety.
Needed to make certain she was not terrified.
“Whatever is the matter with you, Miles?” She pulled her arm away. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Lord Wrottesley’s actions... I must know—did the man compromise you?”
Even in the darkness, he could see the flush upon her cheeks. “He forced a kiss, but that was all.”
Miles restrained a growl. “It will not