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Ian finished securing his coat, addressing the lady’s maid who’d finally made an appearance. “Miss Caruthers is seriously ill.” The servant skittered around the edge of the ladies to gape at Miss Caruthers splayed on the divan. He gritted his teeth to smother the stream of oaths throttling up his throat. “Please find her cousin, Miss Stapleton, and request she come at once.”

“Yes, milord.” Bobbing a hasty curtsy, the pudgy girl tore from the room as if the hounds of hell nipped her heels. More likely, she was already planning the juicy details she would use to embellish her rendition of what she’d seen.

A warning pealed in his head, and he cursed Fate for playing this cruel trick.

Sputtering in indignation, the rotund Duchess of Beacock drew herself up. “Viscount Warrick, whatever are you doing in here?” Upon peering past his shoulders, her bulgy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And why is Miss Caruthers unconscious and half-clothed?”

“Half-clothed indeed, sir,” Lady Pendelbury—a skinny pinched-faced widow—parroted. “Surely, you’ve a plausible explanation.” Her voice rang with self-righteousness, clearly insinuating the improbability of any such thing.

A few women sidled near the divan, ogling Miss Caruthers and whispering in what was obviously feline satisfaction at her appearance. One of the cackling harpies referred to her as a heathen, gypsy trollop.

Rage, hot and furious roiled in his gut, and he swallowed another vulgar curse.

Sharp-clawed, envious hellcats, all. And these were the créme-de-la-créme of the ton from which he was expected to select his viscountess. Not bloody, sodding likely. Cocking up his toes was preferable to becoming leg-shackled to one of these mean-spirited banshees.

Drawing a steading breath, he rocked back onto his heels and clasped his hands behind his back. What maggot had crawled into his head and possessed him to stay and help Miss Caruthers?

She couldn’t breathe, dolt.

Sweeping the aristocratic snobs a contemptuous glance, Ian observed a conglomeration of emotions on their faces. More than a few averted yearning gazes from him, their attraction obvious as they blushed self-consciously. Others’ expressions reflected embarrassment, sympathy, accusation, condemnation—and yes—even malicious glee. Before the night ended, those biddies’ vicious tongues would be flapping all over town.

If Ian had planned this debacle, it couldn’t have served his original purpose any better. Now however, he attempted to preserve Miss Caruthers’ reputation by assuring these rabid flibbertigibbets he hadn’t ravished her. “Miss Caruthers felt faint whilst we danced and asked for fresh air. She swooned on the terrace, so I brought her here to recover.” The story sounded preposterous to his ears even if every word was the absolute truth.

A flurry of activity echoed outside the room.

What now? More histrionics?

The ladies turned eager faces to the door, and he eyed them, barely keeping his mouth from curling into a disgusted sneer. As if they needed more juicy tidbits to bandy about.

Miss Stapleton charged into the room, bolting at once to her cousin’s side. A striking couple followed her. The aunt and uncle, he presumed.

Their host and hostess, Lord and Lady Armstrong, rushed in behind the pair. Ian couldn’t but admire Lady Armstrong’s astuteness. With a quick, assessing glance, she comprehended the delicacy of the situation and took matters in hand.

“Ladies, let us remove ourselves to one of the other sitting rooms.” Despite their protests, she firmly shepherded the titillated oglers out the door.

Ian disregarded their furtive looks and snide whispers, more concerned that Miss Caruthers had yet to stir despite the ongoing commotion. He turned a carefully bland expression upon her uncle. Was he a hot-tempered sort? The type to jump to conclusions? The devil take it, would he demand satisfaction? By all that was holy, it mustn’t come to that.

Firming his lips into a harsh, disapproving line, fire flared in Stapleton’s light blue eyes, but he remained silent.

Good. A sensible man.

Ian breathed a trifle—only a trifle—easier.

Mrs. Stapleton joined their daughter, the women intent on reviving Miss Caruthers. After several moments, during which the men watched in tense silence, her eyelids fluttered open.

“Dearest, are you all right?” Miss Stapleton cast an apprehensive glance in Ian’s direction. “What happened?”

Furrowing her brow, Miss Caruthers lifted a shaky hand to her forehead. “I had one of my unfortunate episodes. I must’ve fainted.”

For the longest duration any woman on earth ever had.

Closing her eyes, she swallowed.

Ian exhaled bit-by-bit, daring to feel the tiniest smidgen of relief. She had episodes. Surely her family would understand this was one of them, and he’d done the gentlemanly thing by assisting her.

The aunt tsked comfortingly. “I’d so hoped you’d outgrow your headaches. The physician said you might. You’ve suffered from them so many years now—ever since your parents’ deaths...”

Mrs. Stapleton stopped, her smile forced and strained. “Never mind that. Let’s see to your attire, shall we?”