Huntingdon inhaled swiftly. His fists tightened at his sides. The urge to hit back was strong, but he deserved his friend’s wrath. He had earned every cutting word. Even if that last particular insult had the effect of a whip, lashing his miserable hide to bits.
“I am not like him,” he denied hoarsely, Shelbourne’s accusation bringing back a rush of bile.
Of old pain. Old shame. Of hatred and blame and loss and sadness. So much sadness. His chest tightened. His lungs burned. Not now. He could not have one of his fits here, in this moment, facing the man he considered a brother.
The friend he had betrayed in such villainous fashion.
There was a rushing in his ears, a dizziness seizing him. Suddenly, there was a fist connecting with his jaw. There was a blinding flash of pain.
And then, there was nothing.
Chapter Eight
Fortunately, we have many allies in men who are not afraid of the prospect of women’s suffrage. To that, we say a resounding hear, hear.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
Helena cried outas she saw her brother’s fist flying toward Huntingdon’s jaw. The manner in which the earl had tensed, and the dazed expression on his countenance, had alerted her that Huntingdon was having one of his spells. Her warning had not pierced the fog surrounding his mind. Instead of feinting left or right or blocking her brother’s blow, Huntingdon received the full brunt.
His head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor. The sickening thud of Shelbourne’s knuckles connecting would forever haunt her. This was her fault.
All of it.
Why had she not foreseen her brother’s reaction? She had intended to banish any chance of a betrothal with Lord Hamish. But she had never meant for Huntingdon to suffer violence.
“Shelbourne!” She raced forward, unthinkingly, breath hitching, intent upon reaching the earl. “What have you done?”
Her brother turned to her, his expression dazed, his knuckles bloodied. “What are you doing in here, damn you? I told you to wait in the carriage.”
Yes, he had. But she had remained where she was for ten minutes before fear had constricted her heart. When she had gone to Shelbourne with her confession, she had never imagined his reaction would be so intense. Nor so violent. He had trembled with rage for the entirety of their carriage ride to Wickley House. She never should have allowed him to call upon Huntingdon alone.
She raced past her brother and fell to her knees at Huntingdon’s side. He was already moaning and moving, regaining his senses, lashes fluttering. A dark, hideous bruise blossomed on his jaw. She gently caressed his hair, attempting to calm him.
“Huntingdon,” she said. “I am so sorry.”
“You owe this scoundrel no apologies,” hissed Shelbourne, seizing her elbow in an attempt to force her to her feet once more. “Rise, damn you. Let him rot.”
But she was not going anywhere. Her brother would have to drag her across the floor if he wished to put any distance between herself and the man she had unwittingly brought violence upon. She owed him that much, at least. What he had done had been wrong, but what she had done was worse.
She had never meant for Huntingdon to get hurt.
“I will do nothing of the sort,” she denied, casting a glare in her brother’s direction. “How dare you do him violence?”
“How dareI?” Shelbourne’s indignant voice cracked through the study. “How darehedo what he has done is more the question you ought to be asking, sister. He is lucky I did not demand satisfaction.”
“Dueling has long been outlawed,” she reminded him grimly. And thank heavens for that.
“Helena?” Huntingdon’s confused croak had her turning all her attention back to him.
She brushed a fallen forelock of hair from his forehead. “Huntingdon? Are you in pain? Shall I ring for a physician to be sent? Pray forgive me. I never imagined he would attack you with such brutal ruthlessness.”
Huntingdon’s pupils were wide and dark in his brilliant, blue gaze. His lashes fluttered again, his brow furrowing. Why had she never noted before how lush his eyelashes were? She caressed his cheekbone next, marveling at the elegant architecture of this man, so beautiful and powerful at once. Masculine and yet almost pretty.
But then, he was suddenly alert. Swatting at her touch as if she were as tiresome as a fly buzzing about him. Sitting up. Rubbing his jaw. Glaring at her.
“What have you done?” he demanded, his voice sharp.
His anger was not a surprise. The abruptness of it, however, took her aback. In her haste to tend to him and her guilt over his injuries, she had almost forgotten Huntingdon would be irate with her for telling Shelbourne about their indiscretions.
