This was who Ashbourne truly was beneath the courteous facade.
“You don’t own me,” she said quietly. Firmly. “No man owns me. Not Edward. Not Tobias. And certainly not you.”
His eyes flashed with something dark and violent. “You little?—”
He never finished.
One moment, Ashbourne loomed before her, rage twisting his features into something monstrous. Next, Tobias was there.
He’d crossed the ballroom in three strides—she hadn’t even seen him move—and seized Ashbourne by the throat, slamming him against the nearest pillar with such force the impact reverberated through the floor.
The orchestra stuttered to silence. Gasps and shrieks erupted from the crowd.
“Touch her,” Tobias growled, his voice low and deadly, “and I’ll make certain you never lift a hand to any woman again.”
Ashbourne stared at him, stunned. The fury drained from his face, replaced by something that looked remarkably like fear.
“You heard her,” Tobias continued, each word deliberate. Dangerous. “She doesn’t belong to you. Never did. Never will.”
He released Ashbourne with a contemptuous shove. The baron stumbled backward, catching himself against the pillar with trembling hands.
“You speak of humiliation?” Tobias’s voice cut through the silent ballroom like a blade. “You humiliated yourself the moment you thought threats and intimidation would win her compliance. The moment you revealed exactly what manner of man you truly are.”
He stepped back, putting himself between Amelia and Ashbourne with deliberate precision. “If I ever hear—even the faintest whisper—that you’ve spoken ill of Lady Amelia, that you’ve spread malicious gossip or attempted to damage her reputation in any way, I will call you out. And I will not miss.”
The threat hung in the air, sharp and absolute.
Ashbourne’s mouth worked soundlessly. Fury and humiliation warred across his features. But beneath both emotions, Amelia saw fear. Real, genuine fear of the man standing before him.
Finally, Ashbourne found his voice. “You’ll both be ruined for this. Society will?—”
“Society,” Tobias said coldly, “can go hang.”
He turned then, dismissing Ashbourne as though he were no more consequential than dust. His eyes found Amelia’s across the scant distance separating them, and all that cold fury melted into something infinitely gentler.
“Come,” he said quietly, offering his arm. “Let’s go home.”
She placed her hand on his sleeve and felt the tension still thrumming through him, despite his controlled exterior. Together they turned toward the exit.
The crowd parted before them like water. Whispers rose to a roar in their wake. Amelia caught glimpses of familiar faces as they passed—Clara’s satisfied smile, Lady Pemberton’s shock, Mrs. Hartwell’s avid fascination.
And Ashbourne, still pressed against the pillar, watching them leave with naked hatred burning in his eyes.
She should be terrified. Should be horrified by what had just transpired. Should care about the scandal, the gossip, the judgment that would follow.
But with Tobias’s solid warmth beside her and freedom beckoning beyond those ballroom doors, terror was the furthest thing from her mind.
The night air struck her flushed skin like a blessing. Tobias’s carriage waited at the kerb, horses stamping restlessly. He handed her up without speaking, his touch gentle despite the violence still coiled in every line of his body.
The moment the door closed—shutting out London and scandal and the entire watching world—he pulled her into his arms.
“Are you hurt?” His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones as though checking for injury. “Did he touch you? If he laid so much as a finger?—”
“I’m fine.” She covered his hands with her own, anchoring him. “You stopped him before—before I even realised how dangerous he truly was.”
“I should have been there sooner.” Self-recrimination roughened his voice. “Should never have let you face him alone. When I saw him advance on you, when I heard what he was saying?—”
“But you were there.” She pressed her forehead to his. “You’re always there when I need you.”
