“I was showing her these etchings.” Templeton gestured toward a row of framed prints on the far wall. “It’s not at all what you think, my good man.”
Ethan slitted his eyes. “Isn’t it?”
“Ethan!” Francesca cried as he reached for Templeton’s throat.
Ethan grasped Nitterling’s son and hauled the man against him. “I think,” he said in a low voice, “that it is exactly what I think.”
“Oh, God! Please don’t shoot me!” the young viscount blubbered. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Ethan rammed the man against the wall, and Templeton’s head collided with a frame, shattering it. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish I’d shot you.”
Ethan struck out, his fist making solid, satisfactory contact with Templeton’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back, and Ethan heard Francesca squeal. The sound seemed to come from some distant, indeterminate place. He pulled his fist back again, wanting to see the younger man’s facial features reduced to a grisly mishmash of blood and bone.
But before he could throw the next punch, Francesca grasped him with both hands. Her hold was not strong enough to prevent him from hitting the man if he’d wanted, but it was surprisingly firm.
“Ethan, no,” she pleaded. “Allow me to explain.”
He stared at her, surprised to see that her hair was dark instead of blond and her eyes cocoa-brown, not periwinkle blue. He shook his head to clear it but held onto his fury. “There’s nothing to explain.”
“Yes, there is. Please...”
Ethan glanced at Templeton again then back at Francesca. “You’re not worth it.” Ethan released him, and the man slumped against the wall, barely remaining on his feet. “How dare you betray me like this?” He gestured to the unsteady viscount.
He grasped her by the shoulders, and though he didn’t hurt her, had no intention of hurting her, he saw her flinch and whip her head to the side in order to avoid the full force of the blow she obviously expected.
“I’m not Victoria, Ethan,” she said, opening her eyes when the slap didn’t come. She was sobbing and shaking, terrified. Terrified of him, Ethan realized. With one outburst, he’d undone the weeks of trust they’d built.
He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, soothe her, tell her he was sorry. But then Templeton began to sidle away, and all of Ethan’s anger returned. Instead of taking her into his arms, Ethan thrust her away and turned on his heel.
“I’m sending for the carriage,” he said, striding from the room. “If you would come with me, fetch your wrap.”
He threw the door open, not caring that it slammed against the wall or that a shower of plaster fell to the floor, and walked away without a backward glance.
It was obvious to Ethan as he strode to the door that he’d allowed himself to get too close to Francesca, to trust her too much. This was why he could not fall in love with her. This was why he must fight it.
Whether or not she’d violated his trust tonight was beside the point. Shewouldeventually violate it, and perhaps it was better to simply accept the inevitable. If he could distance himself from her, stop himself from thinking of her every minute, from wanting her body next to his, from wanting her to want him as much as he desired her—if he could stop himself from loving her so much, then perhaps they could make this marriage work.
Perhaps then, when the betrayal came, he wouldn’t care.
