The door flew open, revealing the marquess himself, looking surprisingly composed as he gestured for them to climb in.
“Not well done at all, Chaswick.” Greys’ tone dripped with disappointment.
“I’m an ass,” Chase muttered, dabbing at his mouth.
“No one has ever doubted that.” Mantis shoved him from behind. “But tonight you’ve become an ass and a beast.”
“A depraved beast,” Peter, offered helpfully while dragging Chase onto the leather bench.
“Apologize. I need to apologize. Where did they take her?” God in heaven. Chase hadn’t even had a chance to explain to her. “I never would have touched her if I’d known. Oh, hell, this is a mess.” A ham-fisted, codpiece-shattering bloody mess.
“More of a catastrophe,” Peter said.
Chase slid off the bench seat onto his haunches. He couldn’t just abandon her here after that! “I need to apologize to her. I can’t just drive off now—” But before he could push his way out of the carriage, the door slammed in his face.
“Don’t be a fool. They won’t allow you within a hundred feet of her tonight.” Greys’ handkerchief appeared in front of Chase. He wiped at his eye and then his mouth, spitting blood into it at the same time. Damn Stone, what the hell was his fist made of anyway? Granite?
“I can’t leave without talking to her.” Chase made to move toward the door again but this time was thrown against the seat by his own momentum when the coach leapt into motion.
“Lady Westerley’s coach just pulled up behind us. Lady Bethany will be whisked away as well.” Greys’ explanation didn’t really help.
“I need to tell her I didn’t mean…” Chase spit more blood into the handkerchief, experiencing the mildest of relief when he didn’t see any teeth.
Would serve him right, though. He deserved to lose an entire mouthful.
“Was it as bad as… it seems?” he dared to ask. God in heaven. Had society truly witnessed his hand on Lady Bethany Fitzwilliam’s bare bottom?
Her sweetly rounded, soft, and tender bottom?
Spanking her? Hell’s bells, he’d nearly done so much more—
The thought sent white stars spinning in his vision. Her brother would call him out. He was going to have to duel his best friend. If he had an ounce of honor, he’d delope and hope that Westerley only maimed him. What Chase had done to Westerley’s innocent sister was unforgivable.
“You’re lucky Westerley’s up north,” Mantis said as though reading his mind.
The earl’s absence from London would only delay the inevitable. Even though he was one of Chase’s best friends, he would be expected to challenge anyone who besmirched his sister’s honor. It would be reprehensible if he didn’t.
“There has to be a duel.” Had Chase managed to wreck a twenty-year friendship in one night?
“Not if you handle this properly.” Greys was leaning back, legs crossed, adjusting the lace at his wrists as though Chase hadn’t ruined both his and Bethany’s lives. Hell, her entire family could be ruined over this.
The carriage jerked to a halt. They weren’t at Byrde House, Chase’s residence, but in front of Knight Manor, Greystone’s Mayfair townhouse.
As Greys hadn’t, as of yet, explained his reasoning, Chase presumed he’d hear more inside. Hopefully over scotch. Lots and lots of scotch.
Although one could perhaps attribute his present circumstance to having already over-imbibed.
Chase winced when his stepping onto the pavement sent yet more pain shooting through his head.
He deserved this pain. And more.
“Lady Starling wasn’t even there, was she?” he asked no one in particular.
“I believe she’s in Brighton.” Peter was being oh, so very helpful.
“Welcome back, My Lords.” The front door of the townhouse opened, and Chase had to find his bearings all over again before he remembered that Blackheart, the Fucking Duke of Blackheart, was acting as Greystone’s butler. The arrogant nob leveled his accusing ducal gaze on Chase. “Chaswick.”
Butler or duke, Blackheart maintained the ability to convey a dozen sentiments with a single word.
