Chapter Six

Kenna backed up until the back of her legs struck the arm of the chair in front of the hearth. The two men hit the carpet in a tangle. They rolled. She stared in horror. She’d seen men fight, but hadn’t expected to see gentlemen at a grand ball scuffle like school boys. Lord Wilshire shoved Lord Newhall off him and they jumped to their feet. Lord Newhall rammed a fist into the marquess’s belly. That hadn’t been the punch of a school boy.

Kenna’s stomach clenched when Lord Newhall rammed a shoulder into the marquess’s belly and drove him back into the divan. One of the divan’s legs broke and they fell against the divan’s back. Lord Wilshire drove his fist into Lord Newhall’s jaw. Lord Newhall’s head snapped back, and fear lanced through her when he groaned. He shoved off the marquess and jumped up. Lord Wilshire leapt to his feet and stumbled back. His shoulder hit the wall. He snapped his head up, his attention fixing on the swords mounted just above his head.

Kenna’s heart leapt into her throat. He wouldn’t.

He yanked one, then the other from the wall and tossed one sword, blade ceilingward, toward Lord Newhall. Lord Newhall caught the hilt and whipped the blade through the air. Lord Wilshire took three steps toward Lord Newhall—just within reach of his sword. Both men tucked their left arms behind them, touched blades, then steel rang.

Kenna couldn’t believe what was happening. Why was Lord Newhall so angry?

Lord Wilshire parried. Lord Newhall backed up several steps. Fear coursed through her.

“I am the better swordsman,” Lord Wilshire said. “Relent.”

Lord Newhall growled, but continued to retreat under the marquess’s attack. Lord Newhall lunged. His blade ripped through the fabric of Lord Wilshire’s left pantleg.

“These are my favorite breeches,” the marquess growled.

Kenna wanted to cry. If the marquess backed him against a wall, then—

She spun around the chair and got a face full of cravat. The gentleman she’d slammed into grasped her shoulders and set her at arms’ length.

“What happened?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “I-I do not know. I was speaking with Lord Wilshire and—”

The man’s eyes widened. She looked over her shoulder and cried out at sight of the tear in Lord Newhall’s left sleeve. Lord Newhall’s sword swished through the air and ripped the lower edge of his opponent’s cravat.

“Stop them,” Kenna cried.

Two more men rushed into the room. She nearly cried at sight of Sir Stirling.

When they reached her, Kenna seized Stirling’s arm. “Stop them!”

“What the bloody hell happened?” he demanded.

Steel rang behind her. “Lord Newhall has lost his mind. He came into the room and demanded that Lord Wilshire leave me alone.”

Stirling pinned her with a hard stare. “Did Lord Wilshire do something untoward?”

Her cheeks warmed.

“Miss Ramsay.” The steel in his voice matched the clash of blades.

“He tried to steal a kiss. Nothing more.”

“Much more, I wager,” Stirling muttered.

“Shouldn’t we stop them, Stirling?” the first man said.

“Perhaps we should,” he said.  “Newhall’s last parry was a little too close to William’s nose.

Her heart thundered. “They are going onto the balcony.”

Kenna glimpsed half a dozen other guests enter the room. Tears stung. She was at the center of what was sure to be a terrible scandal. Lady Chastity would be embarrassed and disappointed.

A terrible—selfish—thought struck. To her shame, hope surged. With this scandal, Sir Stirling and Lady Chastity wouldn’t want to be associated with her. This wasn’t her fault. Lord Newhall had completely misread the situation. Well, that wasn’t true. Lord Wilshire had been somewhat forward with her, but she had had the situation in hand.

Lord Newhall and Lord Wilshire disappeared through the balcony doors, swords clashing. Stirling started forward. Kenna followed, as did the onlookers. They hurried down the few steps to the lawn. Torches lit the lawn where a dozen guests had stopped what they’d been doing and now watched the swordsmen.

Stirling reached the lawn. “By God, William, put down the bloody sword. You, too, Newhall.”

Whether or not the men heard him or chose to ignore him, Kenna didn’t know, but Viscount Newhall advanced on Lord Wilshire with a vengeance that frightened her.

“Has anyone a pistol?” Sir Stirling asked.

“I do,” said a woman.

Kenna looked at the petite brunette, who pulled a muff pistol from the olive green, velvet reticule she carried.

He took the pistol. “It is loaded, I assume?” he asked.

She smiled. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” Stirling faced the men. “Benjamin, you and Mister Hall tackle them once I fire.”

The two men sent startled glances his way, but took three steps toward the men. Stirling pointed the pistol into the air. Kenna clapped her hands over her ears as the gun roared. The two men swung to face them, swords pointed at the new danger, breath coming in heaving gasps.

“Lay down your swords,” Sir Stirling ordered.

They hesitated.

“The next bullet will enter your shoulder, William,” Sir Stirling said.

“You have used your one shot,” the marquess replied in a strained voice.

“I will get another pistol.” His eyes shifted to the viscount. “How about you, Newhall?”

Lord Newhall’s gaze locked onto Kenna. He stared long enough for her to realize that everyone else also stared at her. He yanked his gaze onto Lord Wilshire, then threw the sword to the ground and stalked past them and up the balcony stairs. Kenna watched until he disappeared into the parlor, then looked at Sir Stirling, who had that same odd smile on his face.

***

Bryson jolted awake. His mind muddled before he recognized the murky shadows of his bedchamber. What time was it? He started to roll onto his back, but halted when pain lanced through his neck. Bloody hell, he must have slept on his stomach all night.

“Forgive me, Lady Newhall, but his lordship is still abed.”

Was that his valet? Bryson’s mind snapped to attention. His mother was here in his home?

“This will not be the first time I have woken my son from sleep,” she replied. “John, stand aside.”

“You do not understand, my lady. It isn’t the waking him that is the difficulty, but that he is sleeping in the…”

“Nude?” she finished for him.

“Aye, my lady.”

She laughed. “I powdered and diapered that bottom, John. This will not be anything I have not seen before.”

The doorknob turned. Bryson groaned. The door opened. Skirts rustled and, a moment later, curtains swished and sunlight streamed into the room.

“I advise you to rise and cover yourself—else I will be forced to whip your bare bottom,” she said.

Bryson gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back. She stood beside the bed, eyes locked on his face.

“What time is it?” His head pounded.

“Seven-thirty,” she replied.

“Good God, seven-thirty on a Sunday morning?” His head thundered with the effort of speech. “Christ, Mother, what are you doing here?” And how much had he drunk last night to leave him feeling as if he’d been basted in whisky?

“I will be the one asking the questions,” she said. “What possessed you to engage in a sword fight with the Marquess of Wilshire at a party?”

“What?”

Memory of last night penetrated the murk in his brain. Miss Ramsay dancing with Viscount Hensley, Stirling’s alcove filled with suitors. Anger whipped through him anew. None of the stories his ancestors had told of falling in love had prepared him for the violence he’d experienced upon finding her in Wilshire’s arms.

His mother’s stare burned into him.

“I was drunk.”

She scoffed. “Of that, I have no doubt. I see by the haggard look in your eyes that you will pay for that indiscretion today.”

He wished mightily that a headache was the worst of his problems.

“That does not answer my question,” she said.

He frowned. “What question?”

“Why were you sword fighting? Pray,” she added before he could reply, “do not say that you were drunk. You simply cannot get drunk enough to engage in a sword fight. Besides, I heard your skills were superb, as usual.”

He would argue with her, but his head hurt too much. He threw the blanket back and swung his feet off the side of the bed.

“So, you do not sleep in the nude,” she remarked.

“Not last night,” he said.

“Who is she, Bryce?”

He kept his gaze on the carpet. “Who is who?”

“The woman you were fighting over.”

The way the nymph looked when he’d seen her in the park yesterday flashed. Hazel eyes, red hair dancing in the breeze.

He stood. “No one.”

His mother plopped down onto the mattress. “That bad, is it?”

He grabbed the robe he’d discarded at the foot of the bed, stuck his arms into the sleeves and pulled the robe over his shoulders. He knotted the tie as he crossed to the pitcher of water and clean cloths waiting on a nearby table. He glanced at himself in the small mirror hanging over the table. He looked like hell. He poured water into the basin.

“I wondered how difficult it would be for you,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” He splashed water onto his face.

“Falling in love,” she said.

He paused and lifted his eyes to meet her gaze in the mirror. “What do you mean, difficult?”

“You are not like your father and grandfather. They’re passionate, impetuous, even sentimental. You are even-tempered, logical—loyal.”

He splashed more water onto his face, then grabbed a cloth. “You make me sound like a damn hound.”

She laughed. “Nae. I only mean that for men like your father, falling in love is, well, not a long-distance fall. A man like you, however, can break a limb on the way down.”

He tossed the towel onto the table. “One might think that you believe me incapable of love.”

“Do not be ridiculous. For all your even temperament and logic, you are a Newhall. You love just as deeply as any of your ancestors. You simply weren’t interested in falling in love.”

“And my father was?”

She smiled fondly. “As I said, your father is sentimental. He was meant to love one woman. You prefer to remain unfettered.” She stood. “I must warn you that your father and grandfather are already planning your wedding.”

“They are worse than prospective brides,” he said. “I have not spoken more than a dozen words to this woman. For all I know, she might not have me.”

“Do not be ridiculous. You made a fool of yourself last night, but she will forgive you. That is what women do.”

He wasn’t so certain.

“You realize, of course, that you reacted far more dramatically than the Newhall men who preceded you,” she said. “Your father and grandfather are not going to let you forget that.”

“My best hope is to kidnap her and elope,” he muttered.

“Do that, and I will hunt you down myself and thrash you.”

He raised his brows in surprise. His mother seldom made threats.

“No self-respecting woman wants to be kidnapped,” she said.

“Then I shall beg her to run away with me to France.”

She shrugged. “It will make no difference. By the time you return home, your father and grandfather will have told everyone the tale of how you fell in love.”

“What if I do not marry her?”

“Then I suggest you make certain no swords are nearby when you see her with another man.”

Anger flared at the memory of Miss Ramsay’s palms flat on Wilshire’s chest—and his fingers grasping her neck.

God help him. His mother was right.