for what she thought might be his arm. “Are you all right? Can I summon a footman to fetch you something? A drink, perhaps?”
“Don’t even think to touch him in my presence,” said a dark, menacing voice in her ear. The sound made her shiver, as did the mysterious scent of his Scotch-laced breath washing over her. “If you doona want him torn tae pieces, leave him be.”
She didn’t want this—the marquis standing behind her, crowding her—and she stiffened, discovered the safe barriers she always erected when she found herself in his company. “You are nothing but an animal,” she snapped, careful to make certain no one but Alynwick could hear her outburst. “Unhand me this instant.” But the brute wouldn’t listen, and instead pressed closer to her, his big palm cupping her elbow in a fierce grip.
When he next spoke, he seemed to have put some measure of control on his anger, for his brogue had all but disappeared, leaving behind a silky English accent that worked its way along her body.
“Animal, am I? Should I throw you down now and cover you, as befitting the animal I am?” he whispered.
She would not encourage his wicked behaviour with an answer. But Alynwick was never one to back away from a challenge, or wickedness.
“In the animal world,” he growled, “the alpha is the leader. He must exert his power and let everyone know he is in charge—and he’s,” Alynwick said of Sheldon, “trespassing on my hunting grounds.”
“This isn’t the jungle, and your laws have no jurisdiction in the ton.”
“You think not?” he purred. “The ton especially is a jungle, a feeding ground for prey like yourself. I’m merely exerting myself as chief predator.”
Oh, she wished she could say what she really wanted to, and wish him to hell for the scene he had created and was bent on pursuing. But she was a lady, and must act the part while every eye of the ton looked on.
“Shall I call for your carriage, perhaps, Sheldon?” her brother enquired of the earl. Then his voice changed, as if he were looking in the opposite direction. “Lizzy, Lady Lucy approaches. She’ll escort you to our carriage. The evening festivities, I am afraid, have come to a rather abrupt cessation.”
Before she could sense any movement or sound, Elizabeth’s arm was taken firmly in hand, and she was whisked away with a rustle of silk, amidst shocked gasps from the Sumners’ scandalized guests.
“Let me go at once,” she demanded in a low voice, but the marquis didn’t hear her, or at the very least pretended he hadn’t, as he all but dragged her out of the salon and into a place that was much cooler and quieter.
“Whatever barbaric law you subscribe to, Alynwick, I am not one of your subjects. Unhand me.”
Silence. But his hold strengthened on her elbow, and his pace increased, so that she was forced to hurry her steps to keep up with him.
“You devil,” she explained, trying to disguise the alarm in her voice. “You’ll make me fall with this pace!”
“Shall I carry ye, then?”
“Don’t you dare, you heathen!” she spat breathlessly. “Where are you taking me, pray?”
“Someplace quiet, where I can thrash you in private.”
Her mouth dropped open in protest, but no words emerged. Only Alynwick and his fiendish ways could render her speechless and gauche. She hoped he hadn’t seen her expression, or the way she could barely keep up with him.
“This will have to do,” he muttered.
Her world was one of black obsidian, and she could not tell if he had brought her somewhere equally as dark, or merely shadowed. It was quiet, she knew. The distant clang of silver and china told her that they were closer to the servants preparing the midnight luncheon, and farther away from the salon. Whether they were in a room or a hall, she could not tell. She hated not knowing, of being blind to everything, when she had never been anything but these past twelve years. That she was not in control while in Alynwick’s company sent a jolt of panic down her body. Of anyone, she most feared being vulnerable when he was near.
The wall was cool against her neck and bare shoulders as he swung her around and pressed her against the plaster. She sensed him before her, his heat, the scent of his body. He loomed over her, his heavily muscled, tall frame standing so near her short, voluptuous one that she was forced to share the very air with him. She should lift her chin up, an act of defiance. Try to meet his gaze head-on. But she had no knowledge of her eyes, and what they might do, where they might be directed, and she would not give him a glimpse of her weakness, no matter how fleeting it might be.
So she stood quietly, willing her breathing to slow and become controlled. Her head was lowered, her face averted, turned away from him. His breath kissed her skin as she maintained her stance, knowing she was not meeting his gaze, but showing him indifference. He touched her, the faintest graze of his fingertips along her cheek, and she struggled against him, pushing away from his touch. It only made him press closer to her—obscenely closer, for she could feel the way his abdomen moved against her gown with each of his breaths.
“Say something,” she declared, despising the fact that she couldn’t see his face and expression. Was he looking at her? Smirking? Having a good laugh at her expense?
“What would you have me say?”
In a fit of frustration she stamped her foot. “How could you!” she demanded, thinking of how she must have looked to the Sumners’ guests as he dragged her out of the salon. “Oh,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
“Protected you,” he replied. “Sheltered you from the company of one who could never know you—not like how I know you.”
Refusing to pay any heed to the last of his statement, or the intimacy that seemed to be created between them, Lizzy forged on, thinking it best to steer him away from any reminders of the past. “Whatever were you thinking to do such a thing? Have you grown so uncouth?”
“Truth?” he murmured, and she refused to melt at the sound of his silken voice.
“Are you capable of speaking it?” she taunted.
“Aye. Are you capable of hearing it?”
Snorting with indignation, she motioned for him to continue. She did not, however, expect him to whisper into her ear, “I thought I might carry you off, back into my den, where I would play with you, paw at you, before devouring you whole.”
She shivered as she felt his hand brush along her gown. “And there is quite a bit to devour, isn’t there?” he went on. “You’ve turned into a right armful, haven’t ye? Plump as a Rubens’ model, ye are,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. His comment only made her more vulnerable—and incensed. Churl! To speak of her figure in such a way was positively unforgivable. She had gained a few stone over the years, it was true, but it was grossly ungentlemanly for the man to mention it.
Using some of her anger, she said in a haughty voice, “I demand to know what you are about, sir. The truth.”
“And I demand the same. What the devil,” he growled back, “are you about?”
“Not that it is any of your concern,” she sniffed in her best matriarchal tone, “but I am at a musicale, enjoying myself. I didn’t realize it was a crime.”
“Oh, aye, ‘tis a crime, all right, looking the way you do, making every eye in the room turn your way. Making them stare at the picture you present.”
She gasped, unable to help it. Such a cruel, cold bastard. She was a mature woman who could think what she wanted, say what she desired, and what she thought of Alynwick was nothing but the truth. She, more than anyone, knew just how cold and cruel, and every inch a bastard, the Marquis of Alynwick truly was.
His comment was beyond shocking, and she had to struggle to put herself to rights.