Gasps erupted, and the watching crowd drew back as if the disgrace were contagious. Fury burned behind Rafferty’s watering eyes, but underneath it, Bishop saw something far sweeter. Fear.
Bloody good.
Alyssia’s hand caught Bishop’s sleeve, her voice a soft but urgent whisper. “Giles.”
But he wasn’t listening. “Get up,” Bishop said, his voice a growl now, violence straining beneath it.
Rafferty tried to speak, but only a rasp escaped.
“He’s not worth it,” Alyssia said. “He will suffer more in the future.”
Damn it.
By now, everyone should know it was Alyssia behind the mask. He circled her wrist and was about to make his way out when Rafferty sneered.
“You blackguard, do you even know—”
“Enough,” Alyssia snapped. “You are nothing but a scoundrel. You’re not worthy even to touch my husband’s air. I didn’t realize this before, but I do now. You didn’t ruin me. You never could. You think me damaged goods? Look again.”
Bishop’s chest swelled with something fierce and proud.
Rafferty blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “You always were dramatic.”
“Better dramatic than despicable,” she shot back. “You used deceit to trap me, and you failed. That’s all history will remember.”
“History remembers what men decide it should,” he sneered.
“Then perhaps it’s time a woman rewrote it.”
Christ, he loved her.
That washiswife.
“Hah!” a woman exclaimed.
Lady Annabelle.
Before Bishop could bloody blink, a glass of devil’s tea splashed into Rafferty’s face. Alyssia’s friend turned to them and barked another single word. “Run!”
Chapter Fourteen
The moment Gileshad struck Rafferty, Alyssia’s whole body had gone hot. It was absurd—utterly, scandalously absurd—but Giles had never been more handsome than he was in that moment. The way he moved without hesitation, the protective fury in his eyes, the bite of his jaw. That stubble... It was vindication, justice, and a confession all at once.
He’d struck not only for her honor, but forher.
So when Annabelle had cried “Run!” Alyssia hadn’t thought twice. She’d grabbed Giles’s hand with one of hers, her skirts with the other, and cut a direct path toward the door. Titters followed them like a trail of fireworks, whispers sparking behind in their wake. For once, she welcomed them. Even looked forward to what the gossips would say next. For the first time in years, she didn’t care what anyone thought.
Now, the ballroom was a memory swallowed by the clatter of hooves, and all she could think about was kissing him. Her eyes couldn’t leave him either. He still wore his mask, as did she, but he’d worked his cravat loose and tossed it aside, revealing the expanse of his throat.
Alyssia swallowed.
With her mask still on, she could pretend she was another version of herself. Someone freer, someone untouched by the expectation she’d set for herself. The mask gave her permission, absurd as that sounded. Behind it, she wasn’t the duke’s disgraced daughter or the woman whispered about in drawing rooms; she was the wife of Giles.
She did not need to pretend she wasn’t affected by all his touches and teasing, or by how his voice always dropped when he called herwife. With her mask still on, she could stop pretending she didn’t want him more than she’d ever been able to admit.
She could lift herself up from the seat of the carriage.
Giles cocked his head at her.
