“Westerley’s going to kill him.”
“He’ll call him out for certain.”
“I didn’t really think she was the type.”
“I didn’t think she washistype.”
His heart plummeted when he got a look at her face, which was red from having been inverted, tears streaming down her cheeks. The only time he’d ever witnessed Bethany crying had been at her father’s funeral.
Someone punch me now.
Plunge a dagger through my heart.
Shoot a bullet into my brain.
As the hordes of onlookers surrounded them, her gray-blue eyes widened, and then she buried her face into the side of his neck as though looking for somewhere to hide. The sensation of tears moistening his skin punished him further.
“Come, come, Lady Bethany.” Lady Ravensdale, perhaps London’s most respected countess, rushed forward, glaring at Chase as she lowered herself to the bench and dropped an arm around Bethany’s shoulders. “Send them away at once,” she hissed at Chase through clenched teeth.
The steel behind the countess’s words jolted him out of his shocked paralysis. Damage control. Mitigate the situation to the best of his ability.
With a jerk of his shoulders, he shifted so that Lady Ravensdale was seated on the bench now and partially shielding Bethany as he slid out from beneath her.
A tremor shook Bethany’s delicate frame the moment before he released her.
She would be protected too late, though. Much too late. He crouched down at her feet. “Bethany, I’m so sorry—I thought. I didn’t think—” His voice broke. How had he been so stupid? What in the hell had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking. He’d been lusting. This was what happened when he allowed his guard to drop.
“What on earth has happened?” Their hostess Lady Willoughby’s voice cut through the bystanders’ speculations. “What has she done?”
“Showed her bottom to everyone!” some busybody answered. “Shameful behavior!”
“She’s ruined,” a high-pitched voice announced. “Only a whore would allow such a thing.”
Chase rose and turned to challenge the impertinent person who dared censure Bethany with such venom. Not one of them met his eyes. Exactly what he would have expected. Whoever had been so courageous a moment before was suddenly not so bold. White-hot anger had him forgetting that he needed to disperse this ravenous throng. Anger at this mob but mostly directed at himself.
“Chaswick!”
He swung around and nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of Stone and Peter Spencer approaching, Mantis right behind them.
The relief, however, was premature. Before he could say a word, Stone’s fist collided with his face, sending a stinging pain reverberating through his eye, his cheek, and into his brain.
His knees buckled, but when he went to collapse, Mantis supported him on one side, Peter on the other, and the two of them dragged him along one of the ubiquitous paths, presumably toward the manor.
“Greys’ driver is bringing his carriage around. Best get you out of here,” Mantis growled. “What in the bloody hell, Chase?”
“You thought she was Lady Starling, didn’t you?” Peter had the right of it. Would anyone else come to this conclusion or would the rabid lot conclude he’d intentionally ravish an honorable lady against her will?
Or would they think she’d been a consenting participant? Good God, that would almost be worse.
“Mistake,” he managed around the blood filling his mouth.
“Big mistake,” Mantis agreed.
“Huge mistake,” Peter added.
Although Chase had barely been moving his feet, apparently they’d been making good time as the three of them rounded the corner to the front of the house just as Greys’ elegant carriage jerked to a halt.
