Lucas shook his hand, surprised by its own violence.
“Lucas!” Louisa shouted, her outrage a shield for her own confusion.
But Niall raised a hand. “No, Lady Louisa. He is right. I have wronged you.”
He straightened, his cheek red, and looked Lucas in the eye. “If it matters,” he said, voice slightly slurred from the impact, “I never meant to harm her. She is the first person in years to treat me as if I am worthy of compassion.”
Lucas stepped back, breathing hard, and said, “You will make this right.”
Niall inclined his head, gingerly testing his jaw. “I shall try, Lord Winthrop. But you have met her—she makes it difficult to obey.”
Lucas glared, then stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard that the windows rattled.
The silence that followed was unlike any Louisa had ever experienced. She stared at Niall, who was dabbing at a trickle of blood with his handkerchief.
He caught her gaze, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
“You could have defended yourself,” she said at last, her voice a strange mix of anger and, though she would never admit it, admiration.
He shrugged, lips twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace. “I have never won a fight with a Pembroke, and I saw no reason to break the pattern now.”
She watched him, her heart doing unsettling things.
He offered the handkerchief, stained bright red. “A memento of our engagement?”
She took it, fingers brushing his. A tremor passed between them. Whether from him or from her, she could not say.
“Thank you,” she said, the words falling short of what she meant.
He looked at her, face bruised and swelling, but eyes still bright. “Anytime, Primrose.”
She wanted to say more. She wanted to apologize, to rage, to laugh. Instead she did the worst possible thing. Her hand lifted, unbidden, and she reached for his face.
She stopped just short of the bruise. Instead, she pressed the handkerchief into his palm.
“Next time,” she said, “try to avoid scandal before breakfast.”
He smiled, wincing. “No promises.” Then bowed, bloodied and bruised, and strode from the room.
Louisa watched him go, her heart racing. She looked down at her hands—one streaked with his blood, the other clenched into a fist.
She had no idea what to do next, but she was certain whatever she did would only make things worse.
CHAPTER 6
That afternoon, Lady Louisa walked down the main corridor with a pace designed to intimidate footmen. Her right hand clenched her left as she rehearsed each line of her forthcoming reproach. By the time she reached Lord Foxmere’s in the study, she had composed and discarded three speeches on public decency, the honor of women, and the foolishness of male pride.
None seemed adequate.
She paused before the door, knowing that hesitation would signify nerves. She had no time for nerves. She had resolve and a point to make.
She knocked sharply three times, then entered. The room was cluttered with books, and too warm. Every curtain was drawn, against the daylight, a lamp burned low beside the writing desk, and the hearth smoldered with dull, orange coals.
Lord Foxmere slouched in a leather wing chair, as if glued there by habit and brandy fumes. His freshly cleaned but already scuffed boots were propped on an ottoman, and a half-empty glass dangled from the tips of his long fingers. The bruise on his jaw, raw and vivid against his stubble, suggested he had not moved since his altercation with her brother.
He did not rise or uncross his ankles. Instead, he greeted her with a lazy grin.
“Primrose. To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to nurse me back to health or merely to gloat over my ruin?”
