Good god, would he have to haul the man from the room himself?
Caught up in trying to evict Lord Brightley from the premises, Montaigne had not noticed that the music had stopped. The first quadrille was over. And the Mappertons were now approaching Olivia.
“Will you dance next, Olivia?” said Nathanial Mapperton, before registering the tension in their little trio.
“What is the matter, Olivia?” Eloisa said, taking in her stricken expression.
Miss Mapperton said nothing. Nevertheless, she regarded Lord Brightley with a haughty look that announced her suspicions about who was responsible for Olivia’s discomfort.
“Lord Brightley was merely leaving,” Montaigne said, tightly.
“I expected far better from you,” the viscount admonished, “I’ve always disregarded the gossip. What a man does out of view of society is, to my mind, his matter. But I can see your taste for low company has begun to become irrational. Do not think that I do not know that this lady here,” he said, gesturing towards Olivia, “was once a maid in this very house. Well, you can assure yourself that you will hear of this conduct again. Your mother will be informed, most certainly. You will surely regret your infamous behavior for that lady’s sake. By even addressing this Miss Weston—” he gestured towards Olivia, “I was more generous than I ought to have been.”
“Do notspeakof her,” Montaigne growled, grabbing the man by the collar. “I am within my rights tothrashyou, sir, within an inch of your life.”
He wanted to throttle the man. Before he had been outraged by his comments about the Mappertons. But now Brightley had insulted Olivia. Olivia, whose kind brown eyes had contracted at the slight against her. Olivia, who, as long as he was living, he would never see insulted in this house. It took all of his control not to plunge the man to the floor. Only the hope that the evening could be salvaged, that he could still speak to Olivia alone, kept him from doing it. Because he knew, if he did throw the viscount to the ground, the evening would be over, for all intents and purposes.
Even now, he could feel heads around them turning. The crush of bodies could only hide what was happening for so long.
“Leave,” he said, releasing the viscount gently, so as not to attract any more undue attention. “And do not forget your wife and daughters. No Brightley is allowed here tonight.”
He knew that being dismissed in such a fashion would be an even more searing humiliation for the man if he had to tell his wife and daughters of it. Montaigne was not about to let him skulk off to White’s and pass the matter off as nothing. If Brightley wanted conflict, Montaigne was happy to deliver it.
“Have it as you wish, sir.”
Lord Brightley straightened his collar and stormed away. Montaigne felt satisfaction that the man had gotten what he deserved. Until he saw Olivia’s face.
Oddly, she did not look as if she had just been heroically defended. Rather, she looked a bit sick.
“Olivia, are you alright?” Eloisa asked once more, reaching out and touching her forearm.
“What a toad,” Natasha said, her typically laconic manner of speaking doing nothing to hide her repugnance for the departing lord.
“As I always say,” Nathanial said, his tone dry, “The French have nothing on the English by the way of gallantry.”
“I am fine,” Olivia said, “I just need a little fresh air. Excuse me.”
She pushed past Montaigne and headed for the balcony at the far right of the ballroom. As she did, he heard the tones of the waltz strike up. So much for dancing.
But if she were going out of doors, he would follow her. He might have cocked up the first part of his plan. Nevertheless, he had gotten her to the balcony, as Catherine had suggested, even if his method had been unconventional.
Excusing himself from the Mappertons, Montaigne followed Olivia across the ballroom.
His moment had arrived and it might not come again.
He had to seize it.
Chapter Ten
My lord—
I have indulged you too far. I cannot meet you. We must stop this nonsense at once.
Olivia
*
Olivia—
