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their eccentricity, by all accounts and observations seemed of a very good sort.
“What the hell do you think you were doing with my sister? Do you know who she is?” Calton fumed.
“I know who she is.” How well I know , he thought bitterly.
The duke stepped forward, Lord Westcliff at his heels. “If so, then you know I’d kill anyone who touched her, much less debauched and ruined her.”
Inwardly, Jack cringed. He’d made himself look like a scoundrel of the first order this night.
He was a scoundrel, after all. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have lived the life he had. He wouldn’t be doing what he was doing to these people right now. His gut curdled in self-loathing. Such a slick villain he was.
And for what? For his own skin. For goddamned Tom Wortingham—curse the bastard.
Jack held up his hand to stop Lord Westcliff from adding to what the duke had said. His voice was mild. “I’d hardly say she’s been ruined. She is a widow.”
The two men stared at him in a silence charged with animosity.
Jack took a moment to assess his main adversary. The key to men prone to fits of righteous violence involved a combination of appeasement and logic. Certainly not provocation, something which Jack by nature was far more inclined to.
Jack sighed. No more beating about the bush. Might as well get to the point. He dropped his hands at his sides and faced the two men head-on.
“I understand your anger.” He made an effort to speak in a humble tone—and succeeded somewhat, a true testament to how important this moment was. “I have no wish to see this ordeal cause Lady Rebecca any pain.”
It was God’s honest truth. He’d have been disconcerted by that if he wasn’t so determined to achieve his goal.
“Did you see who witnessed this spectacle tonight?” Lord Westcliff asked. “Do you understand what this will do to her reputation?”
“I don’t want Lady Rebecca embarrassed,” Jack continued. “To see her as the subject of ridicule or to have her honor besmirched in any way would grieve me.” He straightened, firming his stance and his voice. “I’m willing to go to whatever lengths necessary to prevent it.”
“You should have thought about all of that before you brought her here,” the duke growled.
“Sometimes in such matters the heart speaks louder than good judgment.”
“The heart?” Calton sneered. “Do you take me for an idiot? What I saw here was the speaking of flesh. Hearts had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Jack said softly.
Westcliff leveled a hard gaze at him, as if trying to dive beneath the surface of his words. But long ago, Jack had encased himself within a steel barrier no one could cross. Nobody could dig into him. No one could see his true motivation. He wouldn’t allow it.
He met Westcliff’s dark gaze evenly. “I intend to make this right.”
“Oh, Kate,” Becky cried, falling into her best friend’s arms.
Her sister-in-law’s protruding belly prevented Becky from sinking too deeply into her embrace. The duchess was eight months pregnant with her second child. The first, two-year-old Jessica, was asleep in the nursery along with Kate and Garrett’s adopted children. Jessica had been born in London and Garrett trusted the doctor who had delivered her, so he intended to keep the family here until this child was born. Sophie and Tristan had remained as well to lend their support—though if truth be told, they preferred London over the country.
Kate’s dark braid hung down to her waist and she wore a soft flannel robe over her shoulders, but she’d been wide awake awaiting Garrett’s return home when Becky had arrived.
“Shh.” Kate’s arms tightened around Becky’s shoulder blades.
“I wish you’d been there. You could have talked some sense into him—”
“Shh. Everything will be all right.”
“How can you know that?”
The child leveled a firm kick against its mother’s stomach, and Becky loosened her hold. Kate smiled. “You