“You will tell no one that you saw her here. Do you understand, you arsehole?” Whitby was demanding.
“Forgive me. I was only wanting to?—”
Whitby delivered another sound punch to the man’s jaw, effectively ending his protest prematurely. “I don’t give a damn what you wanted. The rules of this club are clear. Secrecy is paramount, and no one tries to force a woman who doesn’t bloody well want him.”
“I’m sorry,” the man squeaked. “Please, stop. I meant no harm. I won’t tell a soul, I swear it upon my life.”
“Damned right, you will swear it upon your life,” Whitby snarled, giving the man a shake, quite as if he were no more substantial than a child’s doll despite his size. “Because if you do anything to hurt her, I will fucking end you.”
“I’d never hurt her. Please. It was all a misunderstanding, Your Grace.”
“Consider this your first and final warning,” Whitby said, releasing the man.
“Thank you. I won’t need another.”
“Get out of my sight,” the duke roared.
The man didn’t hesitate in fleeing, the sound of his harried footfalls echoing through the sudden stillness of the night as he raced away.
Whitby turned to where Miranda stood and held out his hand. “Come.”
CHAPTER 9
“You’re bleeding.”
In the glowing lamplight of his bedchamber, Rhys flexed the fingers of his right hand. They were stiff and they ached, but they hadn’t cracked open. The blood marring his knuckles didn’t belong to him.
“It’s not mine,” he told her, trying to calm the raging swell of fury within him.
Her lips parted. She was even paler than usual, her jet-black hair coming free of its chignon to curl around her face.
“Oh,” was all she said, still lingering at the threshold of his chamber, though the door was closed at her back.
And that was when he noticed it. Her skirt was in tatters. Tears had rent the dove silk, revealing the petticoat beneath.
Fury ignited in his blood anew. If Viscount Roberts had torn her skirts, he was going to die this night after all.
“Did he touch you?” he demanded.
“I…yes, but nothing more than his hand on my arm.” She glanced down, following his gaze to her ruined gown. “I caught the silk in rosebushes. I was trying to get away from him, and my skirts tore.”
“He’s damned lucky.” He inhaled slowly, trying to force some of the anger roiling within him to abate and failing.
Right now, there was nothing he wanted to do more than break off Lord Roberts’s arms and beat him with them for daring to waylay Miranda in the gardens. For presuming to blackmail her. For making her so fearful that she had been running like a spooked mare when she had slammed into his chest rounding that bloody corner on the path. For perhaps doing far worse to her, if given half the chance.
Thank Christ Rhys had found her when he had.
“Thank you for coming to my defense,” she murmured, her hands clenched so hard at her waist that her dainty fingers were even whiter than the rest of her pale skin.
A tremor shuddered through her, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and reassure her she was safe now and that no further harm would come to her. But he was also keenly aware she had just been propositioned and threatened by Roberts in the garden. Also, he still had that bastard’s blood on his hand.
“You needn’t thank me,” he muttered, hating that she had been accosted. Feeling responsible. “It never should have happened.”
He stalked across the chamber to a pitcher and bowl. The water within was cold, but he didn’t care as he splashed his hand, scrubbing the blood from his knuckles.
“I should not have gone to the gardens in the midst of the night,” she said quietly from somewhere behind him.
“No,” he bit out, fury burning up within him anew. “This is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. You should have been able to take the night air without some horse’s arse threatening to make problems for you and trying to get you into his bed.”
