She was so innocent and had no understanding of what a man would do when his back was against a wall. And he had no wish to disillusion her. Especially since he had no need to.
“You may be right,” he said pleasantly. “But I have promised Elliott to protect you, and so I shall.”
“But—”
“I will keep one promise to your family, Diana. Do not think to stop me.”
He let her see he would not be moved on this. He held his ground, he looked her in the eyes, and he kept her hand trapped between his larger palms. Once she saw that he would not bend, she would give in gracefully. Such was the natural order of things.
That’s what he believed until she abruptly whipped her hand from his, then looked past his shoulder. “Simpson, please see to Mr. Lucifer’s departure. Egeus will go as well.”
“What! Diana, don’t be ridiculous—” he began but stopped at her cold, hard stare.
Meanwhile, the butler stepped into the room, his expression anxious. He was older, thinner, and clearly no match for Lucas, but that wasn’t the point. He could no more fight this man than he would his own grandfather.
“This is Simpson,” Diana said before Lucas could do more than assess his opponent. “He has a wife, three children, and a grandchild soon to arrive. I depend on him in countless ways, and it would grieve me to no end to lose him even for so much as an hour to an injury. And that is nothing compared to how his wife and pregnant daughter would fare should he be laid low.”
Simpson dipped his chin slightly. “My lady is too kind.”
She was being nothing of the sort. She was using Lucas’s tender feelings against him. Telling him in clear terms that should he harm Simpson in any way, he would be harming her. And that was something he would not do.
“I would never dream of hurting Mr. Simpson,” he said. “I am here to help him coordinate some very large footmen who will see that nothing untoward happens to my lady. And that is something that your brother, your husband, myself, and Mr. Simpson all feel is of value. Is that not true, Simpson?”
The butler blushed a little as he turned rheumy eyes to Diana. “I do find that—at my age—having a few extra strong footmen about makes my tasks easier. And you did just yesterday suggest that I should take a bit more rest when I can.”
Excellent. That put the butler firmly in his camp. Now Diana would give in gracefully.
“Mr. Simpson,” she snapped. “We can handle things quite well—”
“But as you said,” Simpson interrupted, “I should rest more. And I fear your brother would take insult if we refused his generous aid.”
Diana stared at her butler for a long moment. When she spoke, it was quietly and with a queen’s command. “I am the mistress here, am I not?”
“Indubitably,” Simpson answered.
“I control who is allowed in my house and who is not.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Simpson answered, nonetheless. “Of course, my lady.”
“Then I say—”
Lucas spoke up before she could make a declaration she would regret. “How many bruises did Mr. Geoffrey Hough leave on your skin?”
Diana’s head snapped up, and she spoke low and angry. “You go too far.”
He hadn’t gone far enough. “What has he threatened to do to you? Does he stop at a simple beating? Or does he insinuate far worse?”
He saw a flash of fear in her eyes, but she quickly covered it. That told him all he needed to know about the vile things her stepson had said to her. He let the moment hang not so he could draw breath but to control the surge of rage boiling through his body.
“Empty threats,” she said. “He would not dare carry them out.”
None of that was true. Geoffrey would indeed carry out his threats, and her very pale skin told him she suspected she was being naïve. Which meant he had to force her to admit her vulnerability, not only for her own sake but for everyone else’s.
“If something were to happen to you,” he asked, “what would become of the servants here? Of your husband? Will your stepson treat them well? Or will he corner the maids in the library? He has certainly done depraved things at the Lyon’s Den. How will you keep Simpson safe from an empty bottle thrown at his head? Geoffrey put a three-inch gash in Egeus’s forehead seven months ago at the Den. That is why Egeus was the first to volunteer for his duties here.” He straightened to his full height. “Refuse my aid if you must, but who will protect your servants? Pride is not reserved just for feckless heirs. I understand that even a mistress of her own home can suffer from the same affliction.”
She stiffened at the insult. “It is not pride that makes me want you gone.”
He arched his brows in challenge. “No? Then why?”
