Ramsey was curious at his quick retreat and was immediately on edge.
“For?”
“To implicate you when they see my eye. They’ll know it was you, it was me . . . it was her.”
Ramsey saw red at the mention of Grace in the middle of their personal drama. “Why her?”
Westhouse continued like he hadn’t heard the question.” And with your reputation versus mine . . . I must say, the ton will certainly look on me with more favor and assume that I was protecting her honor from the likes of you . . .”
“She’ll be ruined.”
Westhouse chuckled. “I’m quite certain that she’s ruined already, but yes, it will create enough scandal that no one will want her. A pity that, but quite helpful.”
Ramsey frowned. “Why does it matter? What use is she to you? Clearly you don’t have an interest in her—”
“No. But you do,” Westhouse answered simply, as if it were obvious.
Ramsey waited, hoping he’d continue. In his experience, people only needed a little silence to be tempted to fill it, and they start talking, or in this case, continue speaking.
And he rather thought that Westhouse wanted him to know, wanted to use it in some fashion to make him suffer more.
“She was a venue to you, at first. Your friends are so bloody protective, it’s quite frustrating, but she was an easy pathway to gain your attention. It was an added delight to discover you were interested in the chit. I must say I wasn’t expecting that boon.”
“So she was a—”
“Means to an end, but delightful in conversation, I have to admit. She must be a hellion in bed though,” he said with some insinuation.
Ramsey delivered another blow to Westhouse’s midsection, but this time he didn’t stop. When Westhouse bent over form the blow, Ramsey lifted his knee to collide with his head, rendering him a bloody nose that spewed red over his white shirt, and splashed onto Ramsey’s. Westhouse spat blood, then roared, charging Ramsey, who was waiting with anticipation for the fight.
“Good Lord.” Lucas charged into the middle of the battle and held back Westhouse, while Heathcliff stood between the two men, acting like a buffer.
“What in the hell?” Lucas asked, or rather demanded.
As if unable to resist one final blow, Westhouse spat blood to the side and then met Ramsey’s gaze with a hateful gaze. He then shifted his gaze to Heathcliff, and grinned. “I suspect you don’t know, but you might want to restrain your friend rather than me. I’m merely trying to save your ward’s honor from that rakehell.”
The blood drained from Ramsey’s face. No. Not like this. This wasn’t how he was going to tell his friend.
Heathcliff swore and moved to deliver a blow to Westhouse, but Ramsey said one word. “Stop.”
Westhouse’s expression was one of triumph.
Ramsey touched Heathcliff on the shoulder, waiting for him to turn. “I was going to ask you tonight . . .”
Lucas swore under his breath. “Is now really the time, Ramsey?” he asked, then growled.
Heathcliff held up a hand. “Did you compromise her?”
Ramsey opened his mouth, his damn honor and honesty being rather obnoxiously insistent on the truth, “not entirely.”
“Damn it,” Heathcliff swore, his expression full of frustration and something much more painful: disappointment.
“I love her.” Ramsey added quickly. “And I wish to marry her, should you give me your permission.”
Lucas whistled.
Westhouse gave a snort of derision.
Heathcliff paused.
