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mean to say is . . . I was not expecting . . .” Only she had rather been hoping. “That is. . .”
    Lady Engsly took pity on her. “Perhaps we should discuss this inside.”
    “There is nothing to discuss.” Sir Robert stepped forward and slapped Connor across the face with his glove.
    The challenge elicited gasps from several of the guests, a roll of the eyes from both Lady Engsly and Lady Winnefred, and—unless Adelaide was much mistaken—an amused snort from Lady Winnefred’s husband, Lord Gideon.
    Connor met the challenge with a long, chilling silence followed by the single most menacing smile Adelaide had ever seen.
    “Name your weapon,” he said at length. His tone was frigid, and he stared at Sir Robert as if he were imagining running the man through on the spot.
    A shiver skittered along Adelaide’s skin. This was not the Connor who had teased and laughed with her in the garden. This was not the kind gentleman who had patiently listened to her plans and dreams. This man was . . . Well, she had no idea who or what this man was, except terrifying.
    Sir Robert paled, spluttered a moment, and finally managed a shaky, “That . . . is not how it is done.”
    “ You pick the weapon,” some idiot explained.
    “Fists,” Connor growled. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than tearing you apart with my bare hands.”
    “Good gracious,” someone breathed.
    “Such brutality,” someone else said with unmistakable relish. Adelaide guessed it was the same helpful idiot who had set Connor straight on the rules.
    Sir Robert’s swallow was audible. “That . . . is also not how it is done.”
    Lady Engsly appeared to be one of the few people present who was not morbidly enthralled by the scene.
    “Oh, what stupidity,” she said on a huff. “Duel, indeed.”
    Adelaide was inclined to agree. “Enough. There will be no duel.” She wedged herself between the men and faced Connor. “Mr. Brice, this is not help—”
    She broke off mid-word when Connor grasped her by the shoulders, lifted her off her feet, and simply set her aside . . . all without taking his eyes off of Sir Robert. It was as if she didn’t exist.
    And all she could think was: Now? Now , he chose to pretend not to see her, when it wouldn’t do either of them a speck of good? He couldn’t have brushed her aside last night, this morning, five bloody minutes ago?
    She heard Lord Engsly sigh a moment before he walked forward into her line of sight. He was an imposing figure, both as the highest-ranking member of the house party and as a man in his physical prime.
    “Miss Ward is correct. There will be no duel,” he announced.
    Sir Robert immediately stepped back from Connor and began to replace his glove. “If you insist.”
    Every head in the group swiveled to Sir Robert in perfect unison, an unusual bit of choreography Adelaide was able to note by virtue of her eyes going very, very wide.
    Insist? There had been no insisting. A hint of chiding, perhaps. A clear note of impatience. But nary a whisper of insistence.
    “Well, that was very quick,” someone commented.
    “Instantaneous, really,” Lady Winnefred said.
    Mrs. Cress leaned toward her and whispered, “This does not bode well for you, my dear.”
    Indeed, it did not. A duel was out of the question, of course. It was illegal, immoral, and as Lady Engsly had pointed out, stupid. But there wasn’t a soul present who would be willing to believe Sir Robert had capitulated for any of those reasons. Not now.
    Sir Robert had backed down because he’d reconsidered the value of her honor. There would be no offer of marriage. No five thousand pounds a year. No secure future for her family.
    Or perhaps he was simply a coward.
    Please, please let him be a coward, she thought, and she immediately wondered if any woman before her had ever prayed for the existence of such a dreadful attribute in a bridegroom.
    Had it come to this, then? Had she lost all sense of hope? Was marriage to a