That was rather too many children, in Clio’s opinion, but she was happy for the girl, who glowed on the arm of her husband.
It was nice. It was enjoyable.
She still needed some air.
She slipped out onto the verandah, murmuring an excuse to Phoebe, and sucked in a cool lungful of night air. It was hot inthe ballroom—it was always sweltering in these ballrooms; that was one thing she hadn’t missed—and she couldfeelHector’s eyes upon her with every step she took.
She didn’t dislike it, necessarily. She might have even gone so far as to say it pleased her. But it was … discomfiting. Like she was too aware of her own skin.
“I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised to seeyouhere, unchaperoned.”
Clio turned at the sound of the snide voice.
“Oh for the love of—of course it’syou.”
Lord Gwanton’s face became a mask of surprise at her refusal to try to mollify him, her refusal to play nice. She was simply all out ofnice, though.
There was a certain satisfaction in noting that his nose hadn’t healed properly. It was crooked in a way that she didn’t recall it being before the lord had suffered an unfortunate meeting with Hector’s walking stick. On another man, it might actually have looked rakish. On Gwanton, it looked likejust desserts.
“I see that marriage to thatbeasthas not improved your morals any, Lady Clio,” he sniffed.
“It’sYour Gracenow,” she said primly, because if there was ever a time to rely on aristocratic hauteur, it was when dealing with this sludge pile of a man.
He scoffed, shaking his head with apparent pity. Clio barely resisted rolling her eyes.
“I do not care to honor a marriage that was wrought in scandal and disgrace,” he said haughtily. “You may think that you have redeemed yourself enough to show your face here without censure, but I will not be silenced! I will speak the truth!”
Goodness, he wasexhausting. Clio’s own marriage might not be perfect—she still wasn’t entirely certain that it wasn’t in shambles—but, God, had she ever made a good decision when she hadn’t accepted this lout’s offer of marriage. She would have been forced to stuff her ears with cotton wool every day just to maintain a shred of sanity.
“Lord Gwanton,” she said wearily. “Just … go away.”
He sputtered like a pot set too long to boil.
“Howdareyou speak to me in such a way. How very dare you! You, madam, are entirely disreputable, and I am offended by your mere presence here. You should be ejected from this event at once. I shall speak to the hostess!”
“Good luck,” Clio said. She didn’t like the odds of a minor lord getting a duchess thrown out of a party, but it might be amusing to see him try.
He hadn’t run out of hot air, however, because he just kept blustering. He clearly loved the sound of his own voice.
“And worse, you are not even shamed by public censure? I thank my lucky stars for the day I was rid of you, because you are nothing more than a little?—”
“Excuse me.”
A polite voice, albeit one carved in Northern tones, came from behind Gwanton. Gwanton turned, and?—
Crack!
Hector’s fist caught him right across the face.
Gwanton stumbled back, hands flying to his nose. Almost immediately, Clio could see that blood was pouring down his face in a fountain.
“How dare you!” he cried from behind his cupped hands, voice sounding significantly more nasally than it had mere moments ago. “I shall have you arrested.”
“Good thing about being a duke,” Hector said casually while Clio gaped, “they don’t arrest you for things like this.”
“You broke my nose,” Gwanton whined. He raised a fist, and it looked less like a threat and more like a tantrum. “You’ll pay for this.”
Hector raised his walking stick, looking perfectly willing to meet Gwanton’s threat of violence. This jolted Clio out of her shock, plunging her instead into an icy bath of fury.
