Devon loosened his hold once more. “Working at the docks like I’ve been doing—yes, nothing more than an honest day’s work—hardens a man’s muscles, hones them into dangerous weapons.
The sneer in Reginald’s eyes suggested he did not believe him.
Devon rolled his shoulders. “If you apologize. Now. Sincerely. I’ll not prove the truth of the matter to you, Reginald Fairfield.”
His eyes widened. Then narrowed. He swung a leg out, no doubt hoping to catch Devon square between the legs. But his boot hit Devon’s calf instead, and bloody hell it hurt!
Devon jumped up and down on one leg, holding the other, and Reginald bolted. Again.
Limping, Devon yanked him back away from the doors once more. Or tried to, but Reginald slipped from his grasp and ran in the other direction. Devon barreled after him, almost had him, but the rat pirouetted like a dancer and ran toward Devon instead. His eyes were wild, and his hair stood straight up. He bent low as he ran and screamed a cry likely last heard echoing across some primitive battlefield.
Devon took several steps backward and then stumbled. Reginald slammed into him, and Devon’s back hit cold, hard wood. Then the wood gave way, the world shifted, and Devon hit the floor, a screaming Reginald sitting atop his chest, slapping him from every side.
Violins screeched into silence and masculine gasps and feminine screams added to the music of Reginald’s wrath.
“Enough!” Devon roared. He threw Reginald off him and rolled to his side, ignoring the fact that his lungs could not seem to get enough air, and his pounding head felt muddled. He untangled Reginald from two men’s legs and hauled him to his feet.
Then he slammed an impatient fist into dear old Reggie’s face.
More gasps.
Devon ignored them. He dragged Reginald’s face close to his own and hissed, “Apologize.”
Blood poured out of Reginald’s nose, across his lips, and down his chin.
Devon reared back to hit him again.
“My apologies!” Reginald yelled, throwing his arms over his face. “Damn that hurt! I think you broke something!”
Devon threw him back to the ground. He knelt near him and whispered low, meaning every word, “If I ever hear you disparage any woman like that again, I’ll do worse.”
Reginald scooted away from him, dragging his arse with his elbows and pushing across the floor with his heels.
Devon stood, turned, and there she was.
Lady Devon Pennworthy. Lillian, his wife. Horrified. Her coffee eyes wavered bright and wet in the flickering light, and her pink lips hung slightly apart in shock.
She wasn’t alone. What he’d been attempting to avoid had happened. His head hurt worse than any morning after a bout of drinking, but even through the persistent ache, he understood one thing—he’d ruined them.
Fans were already fluttering. Eyes cast in his direction already held the fevered shine of a new scandal. Whispers rose like an early morning fog, slowly but inexorably obscuring all.
He reached for Lillian.
She jerked away. Then she surged forward. “What have you done?” she hissed.
He’d ruined everything for her, and all he could think to say was, “I won.”
“Oh, yes, how wonderful. That man is laid flat, and you stand victorious over him. Just. Delightful.”
He shook his head. “No. I won the money. For Frederick’s.”
For a single inhalation, her eyes danced with joy, but as the air left her lungs, the shimmer of tears returned. She ducked her head. “Yes. Very good. Perfect.” She looked up and all around, meeting the eyes of those who still watched them. And there were many. “Why have you done this?” Her words were cold.
“I… he said things about you, Lil. I couldn’t allow it. I… I couldn’t control it and didn’t think. And the win at cards…” The euphoria of victory had been rushing through his veins. He’d thought to win again.
She pulled herself up tall, and with one long blink, banished tears from her eyes. “This life—our life—is about more than you, Lord Devon. It’s about me as well. I thought we were working together. For us.” She closed her eyes and swallowed, the ephemeral fantasy that usually simmered around her wavered, dropped, revealing a woman torn in two.
She turned from him and walked away.
