Everything had been wrong from the very beginning. But the more she struggled to right things between them, the deeper into trouble she fell. She had no idea what to do next. It seemed impossible to convince him Southmore meant nothing to her. She could beg him to believe her, but her pleas would fall on deaf ears. Somehow, she would have to show him. She leaned back against the squab. Another awful silence fell and remained as the carriage rocked through the streets. In the dim lights of the lanterns, Robert sat with his arms folded, his expression unreadable. His very demeanor shut her out. She wanted to slip into his arms and have him wrap them around her. But that wish was fast becoming an impossible dream. She made no attempt to speak to him for the rest of the journey.
In the corridor outside her chamber, he barely touched her gloved hand with his lips as he bid her goodnight.
“Robert?”
He turned back to her, his brows arched, looking every inch a marquess. “Yes?”
She put her hand to the emeralds at her throat. “Shouldn’t you return these to the safe?”
“That might be wise.”
“Come in and help me take them off.”
He followed her into her boudoir as she removed her gloves. The room was empty for she’d told her maid not to wait up.
His touch on her neck felt cool and impersonal. He slipped the necklace into his pocket and turned to go. Kate touched his arm. “Won’t you kiss me goodnight?”
He bent his head and touched his lips briefly to hers. She put a hand on his chest, sensing the tension there. He was always annoyed with her and she struggled with the unfairness of it. “Stay a while?”
“I thought you didn’t wish me to make love to you.”
“Not in the salon. Here, in my bedchamber.”
His blue eyes blazed hot with anger. “Perhaps Lord Southmore can oblige. He knows where to find your bedchamber.”
Outraged, Kate slapped his face. The noise seemed to reverberate around the room. In the long silence which followed, they stared at each other, both breathing heavily. “I did not deserve that. I find your behavior disappointing, St. Malin.”
Robert raked a hand through his hair. He gave a crooked grin. “That makes your true feelings clear then, my dear, doesn’t it?”
He turned on his heel and left her, closing the door behind him. The room seemed too quiet with just the ticking of the mantel clock. Kate put her hands on her flaming cheeks. His rebuff hurt as surely as if he’d thrust a knife in her heart.
*
It was justbefore dawn. The moon cast a ghostly haze over the trees on Hampstead Heath. An owl flew low across the clearing in search of prey.
Robert still felt the sting of that slap as he waited. Something far more serious than physical pain lay behind it. The cool night air did little to dampen his rage. He did not believe Kate openly encouraged Southmore, for he knew what the man was. But he’d be damned if he played second fiddle to Southmore in his wife’s affections. For one moment in the bedchamber as she stared at him, her bosom heaving, he’d considered trying to explain, but it was impossible. Not until he’d dealt with Southmore, and maybe not even then.
He wasn’t perfect. He admitted it, dash it all, but Kate demanded too much!
The sound of a carriage made him turn. Moments later, two men emerged from the shadows. Sir Lionel Nisbet walked toward them, Southmore abreast of him.
Robert and his friend, Lord Percy Spencer, strolled across to greet them.
“It’s damn cold, and it looks like rain. Are you sure you want to go through with this, St. Malin?” Spencer asked in an undertone. “Would it not be better to have a bout at the club?”
“What and have all of London agog as to the reason?” Robert divested himself of his coat and slipped his shirt over his head. He handed them to Spencer. Southmore had this coming. Robert bound his fists with tape. He would have preferred a pistol at forty paces, but he was a better shot than Southmore. And the temptation to run him through with his sword was too strong. If he killed him, he’d be ostracized for years. No, he intended to give the man the licking of his life. Not just for him, but for all the cuckolded husbands in London.
He moved toward Southmore who stood waiting, stripped to the waist and licking his lips nervously, his hands clenched into fists.
Robert bowed. “Southmore.”
“St. Malin.”
The men circled each other.
Robert sized up his opponent. He knew Southmore didn’t pursue the sport as keenly as he did, but the man was light on his feet. Better on a dance floor and in a lady’s bedchamber, perhaps. The thought of him in Kate’s bedchamber made Robert’s lips thin and his eyes narrow. Heat and bloodlust almost made him lose his cool intention. He took a deep breath to steady himself.
Southmore took a wild jab at him which missed when Robert ducked. The action unbalanced Southmore, and he rocked backward. Robert saw his chance. He struck the first blow on Southmore’s jaw with a right uppercut and followed it with a left.
Southmore’s head slammed back. He cursed and staggered, his body already slick with sweat.
Another right hit its mark. At the sharp sting to his knuckles, Robert began to enjoy himself. The silent woods filled with heavy breathing, the pounding of flesh on flesh, and the cries of the men’s friends urging them on.
