Ignoring the whiny accents, Ambrose hauled the gent up by the collar and slammed him against the side of the carriage. The bastard groaned. "Driver! Help me—"
"Don't think he's in any shape to." Lugo's deep voice came from the front of the equipage where the driver lay unconscious by the wheels. The African had arrived at the same time as Ambrose, and wordlessly they'd split the offensive.
Ashcroft paled. "My father is the Duke of—"
"I don't give a damn who he is or who you are," Ambrose said with quiet menace. "You were attacking a lady. And you will pay for it."
"I wasn't attacking anyone. We were just having a bit of a t-tickle." Ashcroft's eyes bulged as Ambrose's grip tightened on his throat. "For God's sake, you silly trollop, tell the man!"
Marianne stood a few steps beyond the carriage door. In the moonlight, her skin had the translucent gleam of porcelain. An animal sound emerged from Ambrose's throat when he saw the bruise darkening on her left cheek.
"Go to hell, Ashcroft," she said.
Though her eyes flashed, Ambrose heard the tremor in her voice. His muscles grew taut. His fingers squeezed instinctively.
The viscount made a choking sound. "Don't let her looks fool you, man! She may look like a lady, but she's a whore through and through. She was asking for it," he pleaded. "Ask anyone, she spreads her thighs for any man—"
Ambrose's fist plowed into the other's face. With nary a sound, the bugger crumpled, sliding into a heap next to the carriage wheels. Breathing hard, Ambrose turned to face Marianne. Blood pounded in his ears; he didn't trust himself to speak.
"Lugo, see that this mess is cleaned up," she said in shaky tones.
"Yes, my lady." The manservant went to inspect the viscount. He nudged the fallen lord none too gently with his boot, eliciting a moan. Meeting Ambrose's gaze, Lugo gave him a nod that might have passed for approval. "I'll get these two where they belong," the African said. "In the meantime, my lady, Mr. Kent looks like he could use some attention. Shall I alert the housekeeper?"
"I'll see to that. You take care of Ashford," Marianne said.
Lugo bowed; when he raised his dark head, Ambrose could have sworn the man's eyelid drooped in a slight wink.
"Coming, Mr. Kent?" Marianne arched a brow at him.
Muscles bunched, he followed her inside.
23
Marianne satupon the divan in her bedchamber, holding an herbal compress to her throbbing cheek. She comforted herself with the fact that she could cross Ashcroft off her list. Tonight's events put her one step closer to finding Rosie's captor; everything was going according to plan.
Then why did she feel like a bundle of nerves?
The answer, of course, was Ambrose Kent. He stood at the window in his shirtsleeves, his long, lean silhouette turned from her as he looked out the curtains to the street down below. Vigilance sharpened his profile, his keen eyes sweeping back and forth. A queer pang seized her chest; even with the danger over, he remained on alert. Protecting her. Her gaze drew to his large hands, and the pang deepened into an exquisite ache.
The knuckles of his right hand were swollen and red. In places, the skin had broken.
Clearing her throat, she set down her poultice. "We should attend to your hand. Tilda brought some salve and ice."
He swung to look at her, and her breath stuttered at the emotion darkening his eyes. A muscle ticked on his granite-hard jaw. He looked dangerous: a man on the edge, gripping onto his last vestiges of self-control.
She ought to have feared him. Yet she did not. The realization caught her off guard, scrambled her wits as badly as Ashcroft's blow had. Deep in her marrow, she believed Kent would not hurt her.
"Devil take my hand. You owe me an explanation." Kent's low, quiet voice sent thrills up her spine. "Why were you with Ashford tonight?"
"Come sit first." Though her pulse beat a rapid staccato, she smiled and patted the cushion next to hers. "We can't have you bleeding over the Aubusson."
He crossed over to her. He did not sit; instead, he towered over her, more than six feet of bridling male. His hands planted on his narrow hips. Tension vibrated in the space between them.
"Are you having an affair with Ashcroft?" Kent bit out.
Explanations flitted through her mind. Countless lies. They clung like ashes to her tongue.
So easy to let him think it. Let him believe what everyone else does, that you're a lascivious jade. He'll leave you alone then.
