Page 70 of Thief of the Ton
Moss glanced over his shoulder. “What does it look like, Marlow? The lady and I are enjoying a littlet?te à t?te.”
“Somewhat unwillingly, on her part.”
“She encouraged me,” Moss said. “You know what women are like.”
Marlow barked out a laugh. “Do you take me for a fool? You were eyeing her up over dinner as if she were the dessert.”
“That doesn’t mean to say my attentions weren’t reciprocated.”
“Miss de Grande is far more discerning than you may think,” came the reply. “I believe she prefers the attentions of aman, not a boy.”
Geldings, stallions, men, boys… Was this how men fought over a woman—as if she were the mare to be claimed by the strongest?
“Can I not speak for myself?” She pushed her assailant aside. “Please leave, Mr. Moss,” she said. “As I’ve already said, your attentions are unwelcome.”
Moss jerked his head toward Lord Marlow. “You think you can spread your legs for him because he has a title?”
“Damnation!” Lord Marlow cried. He flung the brandy glass aside, and it struck the wall, shattering on impact. His hands were fisted at his sides, and his body shook with fury. “Get out of my sight, Moss,” he hissed, “before I throw you over that balcony.”
Fear glittered in Moss’s eyes, then he lifted his chin and spoke, a thin layer of bravado barely disguising his cowardice.
“Why don’t you call me out?” he asked. “Is it because you doubt the lady’s virtue?”
“I don’t doubt Miss de Grande for a moment,” Marlow said. “It would give me great pleasure to shoot you at dawn, but I’ve no wish to bring further attention to Miss de Grande after she’s had the misfortune of suffering your notice. Leave, now, and I’ll say no more about it. But do not approach her again if you value your head.”
“Is that a threat?”
Marlow took a step forward, his tall frame dwarfing Moss’s.
“No,” he said. “It’s a promise.”
Fear rippled through Lavinia at the quiet determination in his voice. A man who possessed such ice-cold control over his anger was not a man to be crossed.
“There’s nothing to stop me from telling everyone that she threw herself at me,” Moss said.
“There is, if you wish your little liaison with Lady Francis to remain a secret.”
Moss hesitated, then let out a bark of laughter. “My—What? You have no proof.”
“You had a witness,” Marlow said in the same quiet, even voice. “In the good lady’s bedroom during Lord Francis’s house party.”
“Wh-what witness?”
Marlow wagged his finger. “Tut-tut, Mr. Moss—you expect me to betray an informer? I’m a model of discretion—and I’ll remain so as long as I see fit. Unless your actions persuade me otherwise.”
Moss glanced toward Lavinia, and she fought to restrain her laughter at the horror in his expression—the blackmailing bully being bested at his own game.
“Lord Francis can be a somewhat jealous man,” Lord Marlow continued. He glanced toward Lavinia and winked—he actuallywinked!
The temptation was too much to resist.
“I’ve also heard that he’s an excellent shot,” Lavinia said.
Moss glanced from her to Marlow.
“He bagged thirty birds during a shooting party on Lord Fossett’s estate,” Marlow said.
“And he’s not averse to shooting the occasional weasel,” Lavinia added.
