Hyacinth hesitated outside the door, leaning against the wall for support. She couldn’t be sure they were laughing ather, but the high-pitched titters and squeals had an ugly, mocking edge to them. In any case, she couldn’t inspect her injuries with every gossip in London hanging over her shoulder—not without giving them the opportunity to describe her bruises and gashes to thetonin thrilling detail as soon as they returned to the ballroom.
Her lips pulled into a grimace as she straightened from the wall and wobbled to the end of the hallway on her battered feet. She opened the first door she found, and slipped inside.
Cool darkness enveloped her. Hyacinth pulled in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh as she began to pick her way over to the nearest sofa. She’d promised Lachlan she’d avoid deserted libraries for the rest of the season, but she’d made that promise before her toes were trampled to mush under Lord Chester’s pumps. Surely bodily injury was an exception—
Hyacinth froze at the soft click of the door opening behind her, then closing again, and the muted thud of footsteps at her back. She tried to whirl around to face her pursuer, her heart crashing against her ribs, but her feet chose that moment to fail her. She stumbled, but before she could fall to her knees, a strong, hard arm wrapped around her waist.
Oh, dear God. It was one of those dreadful library rakes Lachlan had warned her about, and she couldn’t properly defend herself from any improper advances, because her toes were crushed.
“Unhand me at once, you blackguard!” She struggled against his hold, beating her palms against his shoulders. In some dim part of her brain she realized only two gentlemen in the ballroom this evening had shoulders as broad as these, but panic had her in its grip now, and she continued to fight instinctively, like a trapped animal.
“It’s all right. It’s only me.”
Lachlan’s calm, quiet voice pierced her haze of panic. He held her against his hard, enormous chest until she stilled, and he felt so good, so safe Hyacinth didn’t even stop to consider what she was doing, but twined her arms around his neck, sagged against him, and pressed her face into his waistcoat.
A low, comforting rumble rose from his chest. He swept her up as if she weighed no more than a feather, cradling her in his arms with such gentleness she let herself nuzzle deeper against him with a sigh. Oh, how had she ever believed this man was dangerous, or that he relished brawling and violence? His fists may be the size of a horse’s hooves, and he knew how to use them, but no man who touched a lady with such tender care would ever needlessly hurt someone.
If Lachlan used his fists, it was because he felt he had no other choice.
He carried her over to a long leather sofa, laid her carefully against one end, and then smoothed her skirts over her legs before seating himself on the other. His face was half-lost in shadows, but he was watching her—she could feel the weight of those dark hazel eyes on her face as if his fingers were stroking her cheek.
He didn’t say a single word, but sat quietly, waiting.
Hyacinth twisted her fingers together in her lap. “It wasn’t as awful as it looked.”
The words had hardly left her mouth before he contradicted her, his voice flat. “Yes, it was.”
“No, I-I wasn’t badly hurt, really.”
“Yes, you were.” Again, no hesitation, and even in the cool dimness of the library, his eyes seemed to burn right through her. “I saw you limp into the library from the other end of the hallway. You could hardly walk.”
“Of course I can walk! It’s not as terrible as you’re making it out to be. It wasn’t anything, really. Just a dance, and not that many people noticed it—”
“Everyone noticed it, or if they didn’t, they’ll hear about it soon enough. Don’t pretend it was nothing, and don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying!” she protested, her voice a touch higher than normal, as it always was when she lied. “I admit it wasn’t the most pleasant country dance I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t the disaster you make it out to be—”
“Let me see your feet, then.”
He reached for the heel of her slipper, but she jerked her foot away before he could take it off. “No.”
Oh, God—itwasas bad as Lachlan thought it was. Worse, if the throbbing in her toes was any indication. There would be bruises and cuts, and likely blood and swelling, and if she let him take off her slippers he’d see it, and…
And she didn’t want him to, because somehow, in a way she couldn’t explain, she was ashamed of herself. Ashamed of being an object of ridicule, and ashamed of getting hurt.
“Hyacinth.” His voice was grim with warning.
“No! Just help me get to the carriage, then fetch Lady Chase, won’t you? I want to go home.” Oh, how she despised the wobble in her voice just then!
He heard it, and his hands clenched into fists. “I should never have asked you to do this. This is your last ball, Hyacinth. Your season ends tonight.”
Hyacinth stared at him, dumbfounded into silence. This was the reprieve she’d been longing for since Lady Joanna had mocked her at Lady Bagshot’s ball. This was her chance to escape theton’s censure without disappointing anyone—her chance to fade back into comfortable obscurity, where no one laughed at her, and she could be certain each hour would mirror the one before it.
It should have made her happy. As little as a week ago, it would have.
But now, well…everything had changed, hadn’t it?
Lachlan had urged her to stand up for herself. He’d told her she could do it—she could show thetonthey couldn’t intimidate her into running away. She’d looked into his eyes, and she’d searched those fierce hazel depths, and she hadn’t seen a single shred of doubt there. He’d believed in her, and because of that, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she’d believed in herself.
