“You know very well what she was thinking, Your Grace,” the man sneered, his smile almost sadistic.
No. George shook his head. Lady Cecelia would never.
She was many things, but this was not one of them.
With all that was on the line, George couldn't bring himself to believe she would be so rebellious.
“I shall only say this once, sir, so listen well,” George said, his tone so menacing that he almost scared himself, “if you do not leave this party immediately, I shall see to it personally that your standing in society is entirely ruined.”
He met the man's gaze without flinching and saw how the marquess’ confidence started to shake. They both knew that he outranked him, that he could very well follow through with his threat.
“Are you so high and mighty, Your Grace?” the man asked even as he took a step backwards. “I cannot believe you have never taken your liberties.”
George's anger flared uncontrollably then, and he strode forward, grabbing the marquess by his collar once more. The way he gasped suggested his airways had been partially cut off. George squeezed harder.
“Do not make me say it again,” he snarled into the man's face, “if I do, I shall be sure to follow through with the threat.”
The marquess grabbed George's wrist then and snatched his collar from his grip.
“You act as if this is all my fault,” he sneered as he took several steps backwards towards the exit. Pointing an accusing finger at Lady Cecelia, he added, “She was perfectly aware of what she was doing. She practically asked for it!”
It took all George had in him not to throttle the man. Instead, he tightened his hands into fists, standing rigid with his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and glared at the man until he finally saw sense and made his quick exit.
The moment he was gone, George turned on Lady Cecelia.
“How could you be so reckless? What were you thinking? Are you utterly foolish?”
He was too wound up to see the look on her face, to recognize the tears that glinted in the corners of her eyes.
“If anyone else had found you here, if he had … if he had …” He couldn't bring himself to say the words. “You would be utterly ruined! Your family would be entirely ruined. Your sisters’ prospects would be—”
“He … he told me you were going to join us at the maze entrance,” Lady Cecelia said, her voice thick with tears. “When we got there, he suggested that maybe you were awaiting us inside the maze.”
Her words dampened George's anger. Sympathy began to take its hold as he finally recognized the panic in her face, the trauma the marquess had caused her.
“Why didn't you wait?” he demanded.
Lady Cecelia glanced down at her hands, where she was playing nervously with the lace of her gloves.
“I requested to,” she said, and George noticed the way her throat moved as if she were struggling to swallow. “He said if we didn't find you in the maze, we would return to the party.”
“And you believed him?” George snapped.
Lady Cecelia's head whipped up then, and as she met his gaze, a single tear rolled down her cheek.
She quickly wiped it away, her expression hardening.
“I thought you would be here,” she said, glaring at him now. “I thought you were watching me.”
Guilt claimed him then.
This was his fault.
She was right.
He should have been watching her.
Instead, he had been giving all his attention to the wrong woman.
