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“Whitmore.” Adam’s voice stayed even. “I don’t believe my wife has been introduced to you.”

The smile adjusted. “No. I suppose not.”

“This is Juliet Townsend, Duchess of Ravenlocke.” He said it without ceremony. Whitmore, he could see, knew that he was being made to stand still for a correction.

Lady Vickers moved smoothly into the opening. “Your Grace, we are so pleased to finally meet you properly. The circumstances surrounding the announcement… you know, the original wedding with Lord Penhurst… it was all rather dramatic, wasn’t it? We were quite concerned.”

Adam stiffened, but Juliet met the woman’s gaze without any hurry at all.

“Lord Penhurst is not a subject I find interesting to discuss with polite company,” she said. “If you wish to discuss him here, then I will not stop you, but then, it seems I shall have to find more polite company.”

Lady Vickers’s fan froze mid-flutter, and her cheeks burned bright red.

Adam’s chest burned with pride, and he barely kept his lips from curving outright. Instead, he placed his arm around Juliet’s waist and pulled her to his side, so she was all but plastered up against his body.

“We are grateful for your good wishes,” he said, though his tone held no hint of gratitude. “Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And he walked Juliet away before Whitmore could locate his response.

As they moved through the thinning crowd toward the far end of the room, Adam looked across the press of guests. Penhurst had not shifted from the wall. He still stood with his glass held loosely at his side, and he was watching them cross the room. What incensed Adam all the more was the fact that he did not have the sense to look away when Adam found his gaze.

Adam held it for one second before looking away. Penhurst could keep pushing his luck; Adam just knew he'd enjoy destroying that man once he crossed the line.

Near the entrance arch, Clarkston stepped out of a cluster of guests, smiling at Juliet in a way that made Adam want to growl at him.

Did it make any sense that all he wanted to do was keep Juliet all to himself in his mansion, and keep all these sniveling wolves away from her? He did not particularly care that Clarkston was her father, either. The man had been perfectly ready to sell her to some rotting lecher; he knew there was no affection in that man’s eyes for Juliet.

And Adam found that he wanted to protect her from men like these.

Clarkston’s gaze moved to Adam, working at congeniality. “Your Grace. I had hoped we might speak⁠—”

“We are saying our farewells,” Adam said.

“Only briefly, I⁠—”

“Lord Clarkston.” Adam met the man’s eyes. Not unkindly, but without any softness available to lend. “Good evening. I advise that you keep the evening good… for your sake.”

Juliet’s hand tightened once at his arm. He kept moving.

They found Daniel near the entrance hall with Lady Worthington, who held her wine glass and did nothing so undignified as appearing to enjoy herself.

“Leaving?” Daniel looked between them with that mild, quick expression he wore when he already knew the answer.

“We are,” Adam said.

“Whitmore?”

“Among others.”

Daniel glanced at Juliet. “You managed all of it admirably.”

“She had help,” Juliet said, without looking at Adam.

Lady Worthington set her wine glass down, took Juliet’s hands in both of hers, and said nothing for a moment, with the unhurried quality of a woman who has never needed to fill quiet. Then she released her granddaughter’s hands and turned her gaze to Adam. It was brief, and it was not empty.

“Take care of her, Your Grace,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.