He’d never hated balls before. Well, that wasn’t true. He’d always thought he hated balls. Nowhere was the courtship dance of the ton more evident than inside a ballroom. Even those who were in London to simply enjoy the camaraderie and festivities of the Season could turn obnoxious in a ballroom. If they didn’t have anyone of marriageable age in their own family, they took delight in gossiping about those who did.
But tonight he came to the realization that until now he had only found balls annoying.
Because he truly hated this one, and they’d barely stepped foot in the door.
Had his mother not brought the entire family out in a show of support he’d have skipped the evening entirely, but he respected her efforts and what she was trying to do. She didn’t know that what Trent really needed was to be home with his wife, having a long discussion about what had happened this afternoon. Since he’d returned home too late for them to talk, he’d gotten dressed and hurried down to the drawing room. She’d seemed a bit confused at first, coming down the stairs with a bit of hesitance in each step, but as her face came into view he knew it had been the right thing. There was something exciting about waiting for his wife, watching her come down the stairs, getting the chance to admire her in a way he didn’t get to for the rest of the evening.
This moment of grandeur was the least he could give her. He’d known better than to dabble in things best left to his brother, but he’d thought no one would ever know. As long as he didn’t show his thoughts to anyone, didn’t put anything into action, nothing would ever come of it and he would go through life as the carefree pugilist without anyone the wiser.
His illusion of protection had shattered today with one innocent question.
And in return he’d shattered her.
He swept her into their customary waltz, but she felt stiff tonight, stiffer than their current strained emotions would have justified. At least in his opinion. He was quickly learning that he had to remember his view of things wasn’t the only one that mattered anymore.
“Are you well?” he asked softly in her ear.
She blinked up at him. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Why had he started this conversation on the dance floor? He cleared his throat. “You seem . . . different tonight.”
Her eyes widened and then narrowed. “Different?”
He tried to smile through the looming panic. “Different. You don’t look quite like yourself. And it isn’t only the pinned-back hair.”
“You noticed?” A small smile touched her lips and her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I didn’t think anyone besides Mr. Givendale was going to notice.”
The muscles in Trent’s shoulders seized and he pulled her closer. “When did Givendale notice?”
She winced, and he immediately relaxed his hold. “At Mother’s. I stopped over there for tea this afternoon.”
“Did he . . .” Trent swallowed and guided her around the end of the circle of dancers. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes widened as she realized what he was really asking. “I left. I mean, I didn’t do anything. Not that he wouldn’t have or didn’t . . . I’m not really sure, because I don’t really know about such things, but even my mother warned me to be careful.”
They stumbled through the rest of the dance, and Trent couldn’t help but see all the places he’d mishandled their situation. His worry that he would hold her hand but not her heart was proving more than valid. And all because he hadn’t been willing to risk his own heart. As Griffith said, he hadn’t been willing to be truly married.
He escorted her to the side of the dance floor, but her grip on the inside of his elbow lacked its usual strength.
He couldn’t feel his feet. They were numb, as if his custom boots had suddenly shrunk to the size of a child’s foot. The sensation was also threatening to overtake his hands. The only thing he was sure he could feel was his heart, and it wasn’t beating in any kind of steady rhythm. Was he dying? He’d never heard of someone’s heart giving out at the age of twenty-four, but stranger things had happened. Maybe if he died Adelaide would go on to find happiness.
Perhaps even with Mr. Givendale.
Trent scowled into the crowd in general since he didn’t know where the wife-stealer was at that particular moment. She’d link her future to that man over his dead body.
“I should probably greet my mother at some point this evening.”
The blood drained into his too-small boots. She would rather be with her mother than him?
“Of course. Would you like me to help you find her?”
Her eyes looked somewhere in the vicinity of his left elbow. He’d thought they’d moved past her talking to various parts of his person instead of his face. “No, I think I see her.”
He feared she was lying, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he nodded and let her disappear into the crowd of people around them.
A wall of windows looked over Piccadilly Street, and he positioned himself between two of them so he could watch her. It took him a while to find her, but once he did he didn’t let the crowd take her from his gaze again. She did find her mother, or rather her mother found her. He couldn’t resist the small smile that formed as he then watched her seek solace at the side of Amelia or Anthony or, once, in a discussion with the Duke of Spindlewood.
Trent stayed in his spot. Watching her. Wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Somewhere totally devoid of people. Well, not all people. He needed to talk to Adelaide. The emotion boiling in his gut was unfamiliar, and he didn’t know what to call it, but it was fast taking over every part of his mind and body.
Thirty more minutes of torture and they would have stayed long enough to satisfy his mother’s sensibilities and avoid a lecture from an annoyed Ryland that he’d drug himself out in society for nothing. Thirty minutes should be plenty of time for him to find some control over himself and think of the right words to say that would convince Adelaide she wanted to leave. Thirty more minutes and he could be on his way home, where he could rip off his cravat and jacket and be comfortable.
The crowd shifted, and he lost Adelaide for a few moments. He told himself not to worry. She was managing herself with aplomb even though he knew she didn’t like being the focus of so much attention—and she was probably feeling a bit torn up inside as well. At least he hoped she was, though at the same time he didn’t want her to be suffering the agony he was at the moment.
People shifted once more, and Adelaide’s profile came back into view. Her smile was stiff now, as if she didn’t want to talk to whomever she was talking to but couldn’t find a polite way out of the conversation. Trent couldn’t see who she was conversing with, even when he stood to his full height. What he wouldn’t have given for Griffith’s height at that moment.
A look around the ballroom revealed the rest of his family was engaged in other conversations or pursuits, leaving no one to rescue his wife but him. Which was as it should be, really. It was cowardly of him to park himself on the side of the ballroom and leave her to fend for herself, but pleasant inane conversation was beyond him tonight. Even his closest friends had deserted him after a brief conversation.
Trent cut his way through the crowd, twisting and turning as if he were in the ring instead of the ballroom.
He broke around a tight knot of gossiping mothers to see Adelaide’s own mother at her side. Lady Crampton was smiling and Adelaide was frowning. A dark, intense frown he’d never seen on her face before. Whatever was happening she didn’t like it, and the fire in Trent’s gut finally found a focus. Whatever was causing his wife distress was about to be vanquished by sheer determination if nothing else.
Especially when he identified the third person in the conversation.
Mr. Givendale was ignoring Adelaide’s frown, using the charm that had gotten him into more than one party without an invitation.
“You really should check with Lord Trent for when an acceptable time would be to meet with him.” Adelaide’s voice finally reached Trent as he veered around one last grouping of people. “You’ve wasted two afternoons this week alone coming by when he wasn’t there.”
Trent stumbled to a halt. Givendale had been coming by the house? On the pretense of having business with Trent? The only time Trent ever saw the man was in one of his sporting clubs. Trent would never trust him enough to have anything to do with him elsewhere. Didn’t really trust him at the clubs since the time he’d tried to hide weights on his opponent’s fencing foil.
Lady Crampton tittered as if there were something funny about the encounter. “You’ll have to excuse Adelaide, Mr. Givendale. She’s only been in London a short while. Have you met my son-in-law, Lord Edgewick? He’s quite the fencer and would be a welcome addition to your club.”
“I can hardly recommend a man I’ve never fenced with before, Lady Crampton. Perhaps Lord and Lady Edgewick could meet me at your house one afternoon. Lady Adelaide, you should come as well and visit with your sister while the match is taking place.”
While Adelaide might not have been sure of Givendale’s intentions, Trent certainly was. Everything about him reflected a man on a mission. Heat surged through him, bringing feeling back to his fingers and toes as he shouldered his way to his wife’s side. “That won’t be necessary.”
While his very skin seemed to burn with heightened emotion, his heart calmed into a steady beat as Adelaide’s shoulders relaxed and her gloved fingers wound tightly around his hand.
Mr. Givendale smiled. “Oh, you intend to be home this week, do you?”
Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I do. I’ve found my home quite pleasant to be at for several weeks now.”
The other man nodded. “Perhaps, Lady Crampton, we can schedule this meet-up in a few weeks?”
This was going to end right now. Trent might have an almost insurmountable obstacle between him and his wife, but he was going to take care of it. Somehow. And this man wasn’t going to get in his way. “Perhaps you can,” Trent said, “but rest assured that Adelaide will never be a part of it.”
“Strong words.” Givendale lifted Adelaide’s other hand and kissed the knuckles before she had the presence of mind to yank her hand back to her side. “Until we meet again, Lady Adelaide. Perhaps over tea?”
Lady Crampton tried to laugh, but it came out a nervous squeak. Trent had never had such a desire to punch a woman in his life. “Stay away from my wife, Givendale.”
“Oh, she’s your wife now, is she? A couple of months ago she was the woman who ran you out of your own home. I’ll just wait until you take up residence at Hawthorne House again. How long will that be? One week? Two?”
He couldn’t hit Lady Crampton, but Givendale was another matter entirely.
The screams that echoed off the ballroom walls brought the first conscious realization that he had followed through on his desires. He shook the haze from his eyes to see Givendale rising from the chalked dance floor, touching his nose to see if Trent’s punch had drawn blood. Adelaide’s hand was still clenched in Trent’s left, and he pried his fingers free so he could step fully in front of her.
Givendale stepped forward, clenching and releasing his fists. “That was unwise.”
Trent grinned, feeling in control and like himself again, even if that strong emotion still rolled through him. “But satisfying.”
A few giggles scattered through the crowd that was growing around them.
“You think you’re better than me, Lord Trent? I may not have the honorific yet, but at least I’ll come into a title one day. You’re simply going to fade away.”
“God willing.” Trent rolled his own shoulders, trying to ease the tension and make it look like a careless shrug. “The Lord knows I’d make a horrible duke.”
“You don’t make a much better pugilist.”
Trent’s grin was true and wide. There wasn’t much Trent knew in this life, but he knew he could box and fence with the best of them. If it came down to it, he could have Givendale carried out of here in need of a surgeon and not even break a sweat. Trent boxed for the enjoyment of it though, and this wasn’t a war that could be won with fists anyway. He’d started it too publicly. The winner of this battle wouldn’t be the one who hit the other hardest, but the one who won the crowd over to his side. He’d seen too many public confrontations to think it would go any other way.
Fortunately Trent was almost as good with words as he was with his fists.
“How about we find you someone else to fight, if you don’t feel I’m up to your standards. Perhaps one of the other men you’ve pretended to visit under the guise of business? I have a feeling I’m not the only man whose house you’ve watched to know when he’s in residence.”
It was a shot in the dark but one Trent felt was likely to land somewhere. Givendale’s method was too polished, his expectations too clear, for it not to be something he’d done many times before.
Gasps rolled through the crowd at Trent’s accusation.
The other man sneered. “You’ve no proof.”
Trent crossed his arms and settled into the most arrogant stance he could muster. He thought he might have even managed to lift his right eyebrow a little. “I’ve no need of any. You just gave it by not denying the accusation outright.”
The appearance of arrogance clearly riled Givendale, so Trent took it one step further, turning to address the crowd and taking his eyes off his opponent. He kept himself between Givendale and Adelaide but tried to look unconcerned. “If you care about your wives, men, take care in doing business with this man. Not only is he without principles, but he is also without discretion.”
“You dare?” Givendale spit out. “I could see you at dawn for that.”
Trent narrowed his gaze at Givendale. “Did you or did you not tell at least three people at Gentleman Jack’s that you knew more about my private business than you should?”
Murmurs ran through the crowd as men worked their way to the edges with anger in their clenched jaws. He didn’t see his brother or his friends among them, but he was counting on them to have moved in to flank Adelaide, offering her protection should this crowd get unruly.
“Frankly, Givendale, I don’t care what you do. There will always be those who turn a blind eye to the life you like to lead. I, however, am not one of them. So I say it again. Stay away from my wife.”
“While you’re staying away from my daughter, you can avoid my wife as well.” Lord Crampton stepped up and crossed his arms at the edge of the circle. If the venom in his glare was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be one of the ones carrying Givendale out if things turned ugly. He’d likely help in the beating.
Trent felt his neck heat up, knowing Adelaide’s father was witnessing this. At the same time he was glad that at least one of her parents seemed to care about her.
Givendale spit at Trent’s feet. “You’ve humiliated me.”
Trent crossed his arms over his chest and gave his head a sad shake. “No, you’ve humiliated yourself.”
Then Givendale attacked.