“Yes, about that.” Palmerson sat once more, rapping his fingernails against the tabletop. “What brings you here for so long you leave a betrothed man abandoned and your father to die in London?”
“Visiting friends, my lord.” Alex stepped out from behind Keats, dragging Lucy with her. “Miss Lucy Jones, Viscount Springwell’s granddaughter.”
“Springwell, eh?” Palmerson dragged his gaze over Lucy from head to toe. “He’s flush with grandchildren, I hear. But wasn’t there a scandal? It would be best if you retire thefriendship until I can tell you if it is a fit one for Viscountess Palmerson. And why are you here, Rainsly? You’re needed in London.”
Keats leaned over the table, digging his fingernails into the stained wood, those claws his only show of emotion. “Came to watch over my sister. Then”—he straightened and walked to Lucy’s side, looked down at her with such deep, unfathomably blue eyes, her breath caught—“I stayed because I found someone I wanted to know better.”
Palmerson snorted. “Thinking of marriage? Don’t lower yourself for a chit like her. Like I said, might be a scandal. Can’t quite remember. Memory’s a bit hazy these days.”
“If he could just forgeteverything,” Griff whispered to Alex, who gave him a look sharper than an elbow to the ribs.
In the corners of Keats’s grin, something feral lurked. “You know, I recently told Lady Alexandra the very same thing. She shouldn’t lower herself with marrying the likes of you.”
Heavens. This was not the plan. The plan had been to make Palmerson think they were all enjoying a harmless holiday in the country. Keats should not be riling him.
And the viscount had been riled. Palmerson stood once more, his gaze settling like a boulder on Keats. “Pardon me?”
Keats inspected his fingernails. “You know, I’ve been considering matrimony myself these days, and it’s given me a new perspective. On life. On love.”
“What are you getting at with your idle prattle?”
“I suppose I’ll say it plainly. Alex is free to marry whomever she wishes to, and I do not think that will be you.”
“Your father was drawing up a contract.”
“I’ll have it destroyed.”
“I have your father’s word.”
“He’s dead. I’m the Marquess of Rainsly.” The greatcoat collar, flipped high, brushed a jaw set hard and hair likemidnight. No fop. No stable hand. Keats incarnate, the very center of him undressed and naked for everyone to see. And dangerous. This not a man to be trifled with. This a man who rushed for doctors and threatened his way onto coaches to ensure the safety of sisters.
This the man she loved.
“What in hell’s going on here?” A man strode across the inn to stand next to Palmerson. His face passed through a variety of emotions as he studied the rest of them, but his gaze stuck on Alex, an amused brow flying skyward. “We found you, then.”
The man’s voice was slippery like oil, and Lucy stepped in front of her friend. Griff did, too, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking Alex.
“You remember my son,” Palmerson said.
Keats nodded. “Mr. Hutchens. I see you’ve accompanied your father.”
“Yes, and he looks rather troubled.”
“I’ve just informed him he’s in search of a new bride.”
Mr. Hutchens froze for a half breath then peered down at his father. A deep chuckle rumbled his chest. “That so? Fascinating. Did he offer a reason?” His gaze floated to Lucy and Griff. No, to where Alex hid behind them.
“It is simply not a good fit,” Keats said.
“Absurd!” Palmerson smacked a fist into the table.
Mr. Hutchens rounded the table to prop a hip against its edge and face Keats—mirror images. But Keats was dark and Hutchens light. Keats wore a bored half grin and Hutchens’s eyes possessed a victorious gleam.
“What about me?” Hutchens drawled. “Am I a good fit for Lady Alexandra?”
“No!” One word, three voices, Alex’s the loudest as she pushed out from behind Lucy and Griff, to grab her brother’s arm. “Please, no. Not him either.”
The polished rogue slipped away, leaving only Keats raw and ragged and torn. “You get to choose, Alex. I swear it.”
