“No,” he countered. “I won’t stand unless you give me an answer.”
Her expression turned stricken. Sad. “To what question? I did not hear you ask.”
“Will you still be my wife?” he asked, and then held his breath. His gut clenched. His stomach knotted. Dread and fear commingled, and he could not have been more worried or terrified if he had been locked inside a lion’s cage. That was how easily she could tear him apart.
One word.
No.
A no from her lips, and he would be lost.
She opened her mouth, ran her tongue over her lower lip, and began to speak. “I—”
“What a charming scene,” a snide masculine voice interrupted, stopping her from answering.
From issuing her final sentence. From letting him know where he stood. Whether or not he had a fighting chance with her.
Violet’s eyes went wide, and there was no mistaking the owner of that voice. Or the reckoning he was about to face.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the Duke of Arden towering like an angry wraith, his face as dark and menacing as thunderclouds. He looked like a man determined to wage war. Like a man about to sink his blade between the ribs of his worst enemy.
“Strathmore, you cowardly, lowly, despicable swine,” Arden bit out. “I suppose I ought to thank you for making my job easier.”
He rose slowly and turned, his hands in the air, as if in surrender. “Hit me if it will make you feel better.”
He was dimly aware of Violet’s voice behind him, frantic. “No, Lucien. Do not hurt him, I beg you.”
“I wish I could spare him for your sake, Lettie, but I cannot. He hurt you, and now he must pay.” The Duke of Arsehole flashed him a grim, tight-lipped smile as he raised his fist. “This is for manipulating my innocent sister.”
Griffin braced himself for the blow, not bothering to offer defense. Yes, he deserved it. He deserved to be punched and more, and Lord knew he would punch himself for the way he had made Violet hurt if he could. But he could not, and so there it was, the strangest circle. No matter how far he ran, it seemed he was forever meant to be at the mercy of the Duke of Arden.
Arden’s fist slammed into his jaw with so much force he saw white stars as he reeled backward. But he had suffered far worse pain. He had endured greater tortures than a mere punch. And so he gathered himself, shook off the shock, and waited for the next.
The Duke of Arsehole’s expression turned savage. “And this is for making her cry.”
When the next fist connected with his jaw, Griffin saw a fresh, brief burst of stars, and then all he saw was blackness. He succumbed to the abyss, his body weightless, falling backward. He knew the sound of Violet’s upset voice, crying out, and then he knew nothing more.
Chapter Nineteen
Violet dropped toher knees alongside Griffin, cradling his head in her hands. The unconscious weight of him was surreal and troubling, all at once. Not a part of his body seemed aware of his surroundings. His beautiful mouth was slack, his eyes closed. The force of Lucien’s blow had rendered him unconscious. So unconscious, she feared for him. That last punch had been brutal to watch. The manner in which Griffin’s head had snapped back, the way he had fallen, as if a garden wall toppled to earth…
It had been troubling.
And infuriating.
Violet was furious.
No, furious was not sufficient enough to describe the emotions roiling through her as she stared at her husband, lying lifeless on the dirty inn floor and her brother, standing over him, shaking his fist as if it smarted. And no doubt it did smart, for the blows he had delivered to Griffin had been ferocious. He had not spared him. No indeed, he had come at him like a prizefighter attempting to earn his victory.
And Griffin had stood there, not bothering to defend himself, stoic, waiting for the blows. He had not moved, had not fought back. Instead, he had instructed Lucien to hit him.
Hit me if it will make you feel better.
As if he had been deserving of the blows. As if he wanted to be hit.
It made no sense. None of it. Not Griffin following her, not his sudden confession outside her door at this godforsaken inn between Oxford and London, and certainly not his unflinching acceptance of Lucien’s aggression. Griffin should have fought back. He should not have even followed her at all. Instead, he could have remained at Harlton Hall, planning his defenses alongside the Duke of Carlisle, Mr. O’Malley, and Mr. Ludlow.
But he had not done that, had he? His presence here at the inn suggested he had chased after her the moment he had realized she had left. And drat him, but that knowledge made her heart weaken toward him, ever so slightly.
