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The words sent ice through Honoria’s veins.

“Let me escort you off the premises, Bradshaw,” Mr. Drake said, reaching for his elbow, but the earl shook him off.

“Do not touch me, lad. And remember, as you stand there shielding my wife, that keeping me away from her might earn you an invitation at dawn,” he whispered furiously.

Mr. Drake let out a guffaw of laughter, the sound startlingly genuine in the tense atmosphere. “Be careful who you challenge, Bradshaw, as the challenged picks the weapon. And you know you wouldn’t stand a chance against me with a rapier.”

A flush crept up Bradshaw’s neck, mottling his complexion.

“I’d listen to him, Bradshaw,” said the Mad Duke. “You’d best leave. Proposing an illegal duel in front of everyone—not very wise of you.” His smile was razor-sharp. “Let the courts decide what’s to be done with your wives.” He put undue emphasis on the last word, and Bradshaw’s face paled. His second marriage had just been annulled in the eyes of the ton.

The whispers grew louder, people’s heads drawing together to share their opinions on the matter.

When Bradshaw left the ball, the ballroom was still for a long moment.

Honoria stood at the center of it all, her mind not yet caught up to the reality that she had won. At least this little confrontation. She had faced Bradshaw with her head held high, had stood her ground, and she still remained standing.

The faces around her blurred, the weight of their stares pressed down on her, suddenly overwhelming.

The Mad Duke gestured for the orchestra to resume playing, then took Honoria’s elbow and led her away.

He brought her into a cozy little drawing room, and as the door closed behind them—shutting out the murmurs and music—Honoria’s carefully maintained composure finally cracked. Her knees gave out, and she almost crumpled to the floor.

Luckily, the duke caught her in time and gently guided her to a cushioned chair.

“You did well,” the duke said quietly. “Exceedingly well.”

Honoria trembled in her seat, sweat washing over her in waves. Her lungs seemed to constrict; each breath shallower than the last. The silk of her gown clung to her damp skin, the room spinning slightly.

“Would you like some tea?” The Duchess of Tyrone appeared before her with a steaming cup, her kind face etched with concern. She placed it on a tea table beside her and sat opposite her on a settee. The duke walked behind his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently.

Honoria’s heart made a tiny leap at the sight of their easy affection.

“Thank you.” She picked up the cup gratefully, but it shook violently in her hands, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She was unable to even take a sip before putting it back down. “Perhaps a bit later.”

“Of course.” The duchess’s voice was soothing, without a trace of judgment.

Honoria fanned herself vigorously, unable to breathe. The walls of the drawing room seemed to press inward, the air thick and suffocating. “It is too hot in here,” she said hoarsely, tugging at the fabric of her gown.

“Would you like some air?” The duchess stood, her silk skirts rustling softly. “We have a lovely balcony that looks out into the gardens.”

The gardens. Honoria’s mind immediately transported her to the gardens at Caldwell Estate, filled with flowers of every color, their scent drifting around her. “Yes, I’d love that. Thank you.”

Tyrone opened the French doors and waved for her to proceed, the night air rushing in, cool and inviting. The duchess led Honoria by the elbow, as if afraid she might collapse.

The moment she stepped outside, Honoria gripped the cold banister with both hands, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” the duchess said. “And I don’t just mean the balcony. You can stay with us until you feel better. You are safe in this house. Nobody will bother you here—”

Just then, the door to the drawing room swung open with violent force. Jacob burst into the room, his face sweat-streaked, his hair disheveled, no cravat or waistcoat in sight. His wild eyes searched the room frantically before landing on her.

Honoria whirled to face him, her heart leaping to her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to— I was there first— But Drake told me I was too late—” His words came out in frantic, disjointed gasps, his chest heaving as if he’d run all the way from home rather than ridden.

“We shall give you two some privacy,” the duchess said with a knowing smile and walked off the balcony. She then ushered her husband out of the drawing room, though he stood there a moment longer, watching Jacob with a foolish grin.

“When Drake said I was too late, I thought something terrible had happened to you,” Jacob said, breathing more evenly now that the doors had closed behind the duke. His eyes raked over her, searching for injury, his face still tight with fear as he moved toward her. “I thought he’d hurt you again.”