A shiver ran through Georgia as he approached.
“I think your first assessment was correct, Lord Emsworth. I have been passed up by many men. You do not wish to be married to one who has been rejected by all others.”
Emsworth shrugged. “A pretty face is a pretty face. Not to mention a pretty bosom.”
He actually licked his lips, gazing at Georgia's chest. Her hand found the door handle behind her, and she turned it.
“If you will excuse me...” she began.
“I will not, but I applaud your idea, Miss Roseton. A little privacy will make us firm friends.”
Emsworth seized her hand and flung open the door. He pulled Georgia through after him, flinging it closed with a careless wave of his arm. Georgia found herself dragged along the corridor beyond, her arm held in a vice-like grip.
“Let go of me!” she snarled, trying to pull free.
For an older man, though, Emsworth was strong, and he only sneered as he passed two doors before opening a third.
“This will do,” he oozed. “I think the lack of a chaperon will not cause us a scandal, given that we are betrothed.”
Georgia put her mouth to Emsworth's fingers and bit down hard. He yelped and released her. They stood in a darkened room, lit inadequately by a couple of candles and a fire in a stone hearth. There were armchairs scattered around and tables containing newspapers and books. The room was quiet—even the music from the ballroom was muffled.
Georgia turned to run for the door, but Emsworth seized her by the hair from behind and yanked her backward.
“You wench!”
She screamed at the sudden pain and found herself flung to the floor. Emsworth stood over her, rubbing his injured hand. A look of murderous rage darkened his face.
“You must yet learn your place, I see! A dog that bit me would be thrashed to learn its lesson. Thrashed so that it did not dare bite again!”
“Perhaps you need to learn that same lesson, sir,” came a grizzled voice from the shadows.
Georgia recognized it immediately. The Duke of Westvale stepped forward into the circle of light cast by the flickering flames of the fire. Emsworth turned, eyes widening in alarm. Then Georgia saw a look of contempt bleeding across his face.
“Begone, blind man. This is no concern of yours,” he snarled, turning back to Georgia.
“I beg to differ. I deduce that you are assaulting an innocent woman. I have a duty to intervene.”
“Take care lest I deal with you first!” Emsworth snapped savagely.
“I should very much like to see you try,” the Duke said quietly.
Emsworth laughed callously, advancing towards him, hands clenched into fists.
“I see I’ll have to wipe that smug tone off your face…”
He raised his fist as though to strike, but the Duke moved first, prodding him in the stomach with his cane. It was not a blow, simply placing the steel tip of the cane against the middle of Emsworth's abdomen. The Earl laughed, looking down at the cane.
“Is that the best you can manage, blind man?” he chuckled scornfully.
“No, merely gauging your position and distance. From the grip, I presume the cane is resting against your considerable gut. Which means your chin is here...”
The cane flicked upwards to strike Emsworth beneath the chin. He staggered backward. The Duke stepped forward, cane pointing like a rapier.
“And assuming you have stepped back from the blow, your temple would be about...here.”
The cane whipped out like a striking snake and clacked against the side of Emsworth's head.
“A staggered step to the side and an instinctive crouch that often follows a blow to the head. So, this should be where I will find your ribs—”
