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He let go with a punch that sent the duke soaring backward and crashing into the table, sending the glasses and whisky bottle flying. Glass shattered, the table splintered, and conversations abruptly ceased.
Kilbourne crumpled to the floor, blood oozing from his split lip. Raising up on one elbow, he gingerly touched his mouth, his infuriated gaze spewing hatred.
“How dare you?” he seethed, eyeing his reddened fingertips.
One punch, it is then.
Preston and Chambers had both scrambled out of the way like a pair of frightened roosters. But now Chambers ventured forth and offered Kilbourne a handkerchief and a hand up.
Leveling Mathias a murderous glare, Kilbourne gained his feet. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the gleaming wood floor. “You’ll pay for this, Westfall.”
Hardly.
Men of Kilbourne’s ilk were all bluster and no ballocks.
“That’s only a taste of what I’ll do to you. You’d be wise to remember that.” Mathias had promptly spun on his heel and left because the urge to beat Kilbourne to a pulp for besmirching Nicolette was so great, he didn’t trust himself.
Besides, he’d have a hard time explaining his disheveled state to his mother’s guests, and he’d save Nicolette the humiliation of ever knowing what had taken place. Although, in truth, with all of the witnesses present, what had occurred would likely leak out.
He could only hope that she’d not hear of it.
As the carriage trundled along, Mathias flexed his fingers again, testing each digit in turn.
He’d bruised his knuckles, but none were broken.
In all probability, he’d be expelled from White’s for a time. But by damn, he’d punch Kilbourne again. Only next time, he’d get both face plants in.
Did Nicolette know how fortunate she was to be rid of that whoremongering cockscum?
A few minutes later, the carriage lumbered to a stop outside his house. He alighted and greeted his butler as he ascended the steps. “Good afternoon, Selby.”
“Your Grace.” Selby shut the door behind Mathias then accepted his hat.
“Can I presume everyone has arrived already?” Mathias asked, eyeing the corridor leading to the drawing room.
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Selby’s too perceptive gaze sank to Mathias’s glove, noting the bloodstain across the knuckles. “Might I presume to suggest a change of gloves are in order?”
“Indeed. Please inform my mother I’ve arrived home. Extend my apologies for my tardiness and beg her indulgence for a few more minutes.”
The butler’s benign gaze drifted to the bloodied glove again. “I deduce as you’ve no bruises or cuts that the—ah—encounter was short-lived?”
“Indeed.” Mathias grinned and winked. “One punch.”
Selby quirked a brow, the merest shred of approval slanting his mouth. “Well done, Your Grace.”
“Let my mother know, will you?” Mathias didn’t wait for the butler’s affirmation.
Running up the stairs, he peeled his gloves off, feeling oddly invigorated. It had felt damn good to defend Nicolette. Her family had done an admirable job of protecting her. But no one had stood up to that bastard Kilbourne or confronted him for his ill-treatment of her.
In all likelihood, she’d forbidden her brother to confront him for fear he’d call Kilbourne out. Scarborough was no coward, but he adored his sister. He’d likely not wanted to distress her further.
A few minutes later, wearing clean gloves, Mathias entered the drawing room. He paused at the entrance to locate Nicolette. He spied her almost at once and permitted himself the indulgence of watching her for a few moments.
His heart swelled, emotion—nay love—straining against his ribs.
These feelings that he’d forbidden free reign for so long, now sprang forth unbidden and burgeoned into full bloom. Because, at last, he truly believed he might—just might—win this remarkable, exceptional woman’s regard, and perhaps, someday, her heart.
She sat chatting with a very pregnant Theadosia, Duchess of Sutcliffe, Justina Farthington, his sister, and Jemmah, Duchess of Dandridge. They laughed over something Theadosia said as she patted her rounded tummy, and his heart quickened at the joy blossoming across Nicolette’s face.
