No.
Surely Helena was not going to use Dessington to ruin herself.
Bloody hell.
His strides lengthened. Huntingdon bustled into a frowning dowager in his attempt to reach the couple before they disappeared into the darkness. He mumbled an apology and carried on. She had warned him she would not stop with her nonsensical plans.
He ought to have spoken with Shelbourne. Taken him aside, as a friend, and explained the looming disaster. What had stopped him? His disgust at his own reaction to her?
It little mattered, for now, Helena was about to ruin herself with Dessington. Yet another scoundrel who did not deserve to touch even the dirt on her slipper.
And Huntingdon was honor bound to stop her.
By the time he descended from the terrace and reached the gardens, Helena and Dessington had disappeared down one of the darkened gravel paths. He heard the crunch of footfalls and a rustle of silk, and his gut clenched. If only Shelbourne were here this evening, looking after his sister instead of drinking himself to oblivion. Something had long been eating at his old friend and Huntingdon could not fathom what.
But that was neither here nor there. In his friend’s absence, Huntingdon would act the part of protector.
Except you do not want to protect her. You want to ruin her yourself.
He banished the taunting voice. Because it was right. But he had honor, damn it, and a duty to uphold. He would not dare to dishonor Lady Beatrice in such a careless fashion. Nor could he bear to lose Shelbourne as his friend.
He possessed icy restraint. Which was more than could be said for Dessington, who was already holding Helena in his arms when Huntingdon rounded a set of hedges and came upon his quarry at last. The sight of another man holding her, about to kiss her, filled him with so much fury, he acted without thought.
On a low growl, he seized Dessington and hauled him across the gravel. Perhaps with more force than necessary. The viscount was taken by surprise and tripped on his own feet, landing on his arse.
Helena let out a shocked gasp. “Huntingdon! What do you think you are doing?”
“Keeping you from folly,” he said grimly.
“Devil take you, Huntingdon, I was only having a spot of fun,” complained Dessington as he rose from the gravel and dusted himself off. “I ought to plant you a facer for that.”
“I ought to plantyoua facer,” he countered, his fists balled at his sides. He was tempted. So tempted. “Keep your distance from Lady Helena.”
“What do you care whom I kiss in the gardens, old chap?” Dessington asked, sounding smug.
Curse the rotter. How dare he taste those lips when Huntingdon had not?
The ability to control himself fled entirely. One moment he was standing there on the gravel walk as calmly as any gentleman taking the air. The next, his fist was connecting with Dessington’s jaw.
There was a satisfying snap of the man’s head.
And another outraged sound from Helena. “Huntingdon, are you mad?”
Dessington rubbed his jaw. “If you want her for yourself, you need only have said. I do not fight over petticoats. They aren’t worth it.”
And then the blighter promptly took himself off, hastening back to the ballroom like the scurrying rat he was. His words echoed in a whole new taunt after he had gone.If you want her for yourself…
Huntingdon shook his hand. His knuckles throbbed from the connection with Dessington’s jaw. He had not punched anyone since his school days.
“What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” Helena demanded, simultaneouslysotto voceand furious.
He was asking himself the same question, and there was only one reasonable answer he could settle upon.Shewas what was wrong with him.
“I am the one who ought to be posing that question, madam,” he said sternly. “You are once more acting rashly. A rotter like Dessington? He has bedded half London for sport. If anyone would have come upon you in his embrace—”
“I would have been ruined, yes,” she hissed, interrupting him again. “That was what I was aiming for, until some fool arrived before I could even manage so much as a kiss.”
Relief he had no right to feel washed over him.
