“Call him out, Westbury!” A grumbling groundswell of malcontent.
West laughed mirthlessly. “Take her and be gone, man.”
Mr. Murphy raised his fists. “Damn you, Duke. I’ll take her but I’ll fight you first.”
West assumed a boxer’s stance. If the man wanted a fight, he’d get one.
“Please, Ian,” pleaded Miss Chandler. “May we speak later in private? You’re causing a dreadful scandal.”
Which Lady Dexter was watching with obvious delight.
Mrs. Chandler searched the crowd frantically for her husband, who was presumably still enjoying his port and cigars.
“You’re going to have my sons, Vanessa,” Mr. Murphy said loudly. “And we’re going to build the biggest house in Boston. I inherited everything. I have enough money now to marry you. That’s what I was waiting for.”
The footmen closed in, five of them. “All right, all right. I’m leaving.” He turned his anguished face to Vanessa. “Come with me.” He held out his hand.
West saw the emotions warring on Miss Chandler’s lovely face. One mocking word from Lady Dexter and she’d toss her former love out the door. But Mr. Murphy just kept talking softly to her, telling her about the house they’d have, the children they’d raise, and she melted into his arms. “Yes, Ian, oh yes. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”
The American let out a loud whoop, grabbed Miss Chandler’s hand, and rushed her out of the room.
Matrons gaped. Gentlemen shouted.
Mrs. Chandler swooned into the arms of a footman who half carried her toward the door, following her wayward daughter.
True love had won the day. Miss Beaton would be so pleased. West found her in the crowd. She was standing stock-still, her face rigid with shock.
All he’d wanted was to make things right. Make his sisters so wealthy that they would have their choice of eager suitors.
And he’d managed to cause an even bigger scandal.
He should have just stayed at The Devil’sStaircase. He didn’t belong in ballrooms. Trouble found him because he was wicked. Even with good intentions he’d found a way to ruin everything. He could almost hear his father’s voice in his head, gloating over this latest transgression.
“Go after them, Westbury! This isn’t to be borne!” Lord Pickering, their host, was at his elbow. “I’ll be your second.”
West held up his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no duel this evening. I don’t fancy risking my neck over an American. That lumberman is welcome to her. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an urgent assignation with a bottle of gin.”
He stalked from the room, turning his back on good intentions, and sympathetic green eyes. Wanting only to be gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Everyone stood in stunned silence. Had something like that really happened in Lady Pickering’s ballroom? With three hundred candles glowing in shimmering crystal chandeliers, an entire army of liveried footmen in attendance, and a lavish arrangement of pink confectionary sweets arranged in the shape of a heart?
Yes. It had happened. And it had happened to Westbury.
Strange bells began pealing in Viola’s mind.
He’s no longer engaged!her heart sang along with the bells.
Silence, foolish heart.This was no cause for celebration. Think of Blanche and her sisters.
She must collect them and leave at once. People were beginning to stir from their shocked trances, and the whispers were growing to a roar.
How could Westbury be engaged to such a common American creature? Shameful!
Wicked Westbury will always cause a scandal.
He should have demanded satisfaction, if not for himself, for King and Country!