Page 88 of The Duke of Desire
Once more, West had to fight to keep himself in the chair. The footman brought the whiskey, and Bothwick immediately asked him to bring another.
The viscount emptied his glass and leaned forward, regarding West intently. “Be careful she doesn’t try to trap you into marriage.”
“That would be my fondest wish,” West said, tapping his fingers on the table as agitated energy coursed through him.
Bothwick’s eyes widened. “What’s that? Are you mad? She’s a common trollop. I speak from experience. She’s the chit I told you about—she tried to snare me in the parson’s trap, the whore.”
West had heard more than enough. He stood quickly, knocking his chair to the floor, and reached over to grab Bothwick by the lapel of his coat. Curling his fingers into the fabric, West dragged him from the chair as he stepped around the table. “You’re the whore.” He let go of Bothwick as he sailed his fist into the man’s jaw.
Bothwick staggered backward, his hand coming up to his face. “What the devil?”
West walked toward him, aching to hit him again. “Don’t insult my future wife.”
Realizing West meant to continue his abuse, Bothwick turned and fled into the cardroom.The bloody cur.West dashed after him and caught him by the back of his coat. He dug his feet into the floor and pulled Bothwick back, turning him around so he could punch him a second time.
Bothwick’s eyes were wide as West landed a hit against his nose. Bone crunched as blood spurted. Bothwick fell, sprawling on his back. He cradled his hand against his bleeding face.
Rage burned through West. “I demand satisfaction.”
Shaking his head, Bothwick brought his other hand to his face as blood continued to pour over his mouth and chin. Someone handed him a cloth, and West emerged from his haze to realize the cardroom had gone eerily silent. He looked up from Bothwick and saw that everything had stopped, that everyone in the room was staring at him. Movement caught his eye. Dartford was cutting a path toward him.
When he arrived at West’s side, his eyes were dark, his brow strained. “Did you just challenge him to a duel?”
Apparently. West hadn’t really thought about it before speaking. He’d fantasized about it, of course, but he hadn’t imagined he would actually issue a challenge. But now that he had, he didn’t regret it. “I demanded satisfaction, yes.”
The man who’d handed Bothwick the cloth helped him to stand. The viscount’s blood had soaked through the cloth. A footman rushed forward with another. Bothwick dropped the blood-soaked one and pressed the other to his face. When he spoke, his words were a bit garbled. “You…wan…marry…a low…slut?” He looked toward the doorway that led to the octagon room, which in turn led to the corridor and vestibule.
West followed Bothwick’s gaze and froze. Standing just inside was Ivy, her face white and her eyes wide.
“Can believe you wan duel over someone likeher.” Bothwick coughed into the cloth.
As everyone’s attention turned toward Ivy, there could be no question whom he was referring to. Hell and the devil.
Lady Dunn stood from a table near the center of the room. “What’s going on?”
“I believe Clare is going to marry her,” a woman answered, pointing toward Ivy.
The Countess of Dartford had made her way to Ivy’s side and was now clutching her hand. Another movement caught West’s eye. His mother—this occasion only wanted her presence—moved into the cardroom from the ballroom. Her gaze was dark and assessing, going from West to Bothwick to Ivy and back to West with supreme disapproval.
“I’d say your prognostication about cocking this up was regrettably accurate,” Dartford whispered near his ear.
West would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so goddamned tragic. What the hell had he just done? He’d told the world that he was willing to defend Ivy’s honor, and by God, he would.
He turned toward Ivy. “Yes. I would marry her, if she will consent to have me.”
A shrill voice filled the room. “That’s preposterous.”
Everyone turned to look at the woman who’d spoken—the Duchess of Clare. West glared at her with rancor, as if he could take her down with a mere look.
The duchess shook her head. “You can’t marry someone like her, nor can you duel over her.”
West would never hit a woman, but he dearly wanted to throw something in her direction. He settled for another venomous stare.
Ivy spun and left with the Countess of Dartford on her heels. Lady Dunn stood and followed them, albeit at a slower pace. Still, West had never seen her move that quickly.
He started forward, but Dartford grabbed his arm. “You have to let them go. This is already a disaster.”
Yes, it was. West turned and stared coldly at Bothwick. “Name your second.”
