Richard shook his head in disbelief. Penwike was not right in the head at all. It didn’t seem right to hit the man again. It looked like he was delusional. Then again, this man had tried to stab him in the stomach. He meant to kill him.
Still, the duke let go of the marquess, who looked weakened from the fight. Richard kicked the silver letter opener away from hisenemy, though, just to be certain it would not be used to stab him once more.
As soon as he did that, Penwike looked just about ready to strike again. Richard tensed his muscles, ready to punch the other man if needed be.
The door then swung open.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Victoria heard the violent sounds in the study from where she was standing. She had stayed in the nursery for some time, but then could not take the suspense anymore and called for Mrs. Hughes to watch over Melody.
Then, she stood by the top of the stairs, hoping to see Penwike leaving the study so that she could talk to Richard in private. She wanted to know what was going on and was willing to wait.
Her instincts told her to go down the stairs and move closer to the hallway where the study was. They were right. When she started hearing yelling and heavy objects falling to the floor, she knew that the so-called man-to-man conversation was unfolding quite differently than promised.
She pushed the door open, not bothering to knock. Her eyes immediately took in the scene. Richard and Penwike faced each other, swinging their fists in a scuffle that seemed to have resulted in chaos. Books were sprawled on the floor. What madethe blood drain from her face, though, was the blood staining Richard’s shirt.
“No!” she gasped, but held back the scream that gurgled in her throat.
She whirled around and saw a walking cane leaning by the door and grabbed it and immediately swung it as hard as she could, hitting Penwike on the shoulder with its heavy head.
“Get away from him!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare touch him!”
“You wretch!” Penwike yelled, his face contorted into something scarily reminiscent of animal rage.
Victoria would have been scared if not for the fact that she was just as angry. She hit him again to show just how unafraid she was.
Penwike lunged toward her, his fist raised to strike. But his hand never reached. Richard was there to stop him. Roaring loudly, he punched Penwike to the ground. The marquess fell to the floor, but the duke was upon him immediately, knees pinning his opponent by the shoulders. One hand gripped the other man’s throat.
“Listen to me,” Richard growled, his voice taking a low but dangerous timbre. “You will never attempt to hit my wife again.You will never speak or look at her. Never come near my wife nor my daughter again!”
The words echoed in the room, shaking Victoria to the core. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stopped herself from sobbing.
Not here. Not now.
Still, she was deeply affected by the way Richard referred to her asmy wife. It was both possessive and protective. Most importantly, he referred to Melody as his daughter for the first time. At least, it was the first time she’d heard him say it.
At that moment, Richard’s men burst into the room. They grabbed Penwike, pulling him from the floor. One tried to assist the duke, who waved him off impatiently.
“Get him out of my sight. Don’t worry about me right now,” he grumbled, clutching his side. He was probably starting to feel the sting now that the fight was over. “We will have to take him to the authorities for the charge of attempted murder and other crimes associated with him.”
The guards hauled a cursing, wild Penwike out of the study. Victoria felt the last of her adrenaline fade. She slumped her shoulders in exhaustion.
She had meant to hurt the marquess more, and she was startled at that thought. Richard might have claimed to protect her and Melody all this while, but the urge to protect them was in her,too, ready to hurt anyone. It was a sobering thought, but she did not regret hitting Penwike. She would do it again if he attempted to enter Hawksford House once more.
After Penwike had been deposited into the hands of the authorities, Richard finally got time to tend to his wound. He visited Dr. Merryweather’s surgery, where he was greeted with the ticking of the physician’s grandfather clocks and the smell of camphor. Everything else was otherwise pleasant, as with the physician’s disposition.
The doctor helped Richard discard his shirt and had him seated next to the examination table. He squinted through his spectacles as he cleaned the wound.
“Your Grace, this looks like a messy business,” Dr. Merryweather commented, as he deftly dabbed at the wound. Richard winced, but it was not as bad as he thought it would be. “You are also rather fortunate that this did not go any deeper than it did. If the wound had been a half an inch deeper, we would not be talking about recovery times but whether you had prepared your will.”
Richard chuckled through his pain. It was why he liked going to Dr. Merryweather. The elderly physician had a sense of humor that could go dark at times.
“Ah. Well, may I ask why a peer would find himself at the end of a sharp object?” the doctor asked.
“It was a silver opener,” he specified, while looking at the distance. He could feel the sting now, as his wounded flesh absorbed the ointment dabbed on it. “An unwanted visitor came in. I—I was merely protecting my wife and my daughter.”
The duke was surprised at how natural it was to say “daughter” these days. It did not feel like a lie nor a tactical choice. It felt true, even though the ton had a different view of its truth, one that was dirty and false.
