Page 77 of Holly & Folly

“I had hoped you would save me a set,” he said.

She tried for a smile. “I am not certain I shall dance this evening.”

“It is no matter,” he replied. “I think I would prefer this.”

She swallowed, and her back bumped the wall as he drew near. Too near. “Prefer what?”

Smiling, he gently took the empty glass from her hand. “I have been waiting some time now for a moment with you, and while I enjoy a good game of cat and mouse, our time has run short. Do you not agree?”

“Mr. Fowell,” she said, putting her hands up to prevent him coming any nearer. “I think you have misunderstood.”

He took her waist in hand, preventing her from moving as a smile curled his lips. “Indeed, I have not. You may play the proper miss amongst the guests, Miss Prescott, but I know what you have to offer.”

She pushed his hand from her waist, fear gripping her. “I have nothing to offer you, sir.”

He laughed, and the coldness of it pierced her. “Oh, but you do,” he said, his eyes dark and intent on hers. “I am not asking for anything you have not already given other men.”

Her face flushed as he drew nearer.

She shoved him with both hands, and a shattering sounded as her glass fell from his hand to the floor.

He grabbed her by the wrists, his nostrils flaring. “That was not very polite of you, was it?”

She yanked them from his grasp, anger and fear mixing so that her legs and hands shook. “Do not touch me, sir.”

Footsteps pounded, and Nell sucked in a breath as Lord Dalmeer collided into Mr. Fowell.

Fowell went stumbling backwards. He regained his balance quickly, however, and his expression of blinking surprise turned to amusement, curling his lip at one edge. “Welcome, Dalmeer. Might I suggest you return to the ball? I have things well in hand here.” His gaze moved to Nell.

“Go,” Lord Dalmeer said, his voice dangerously calm.

“Come, my lord,” Mr. Fowell said cajolingly. “You have had your fun with her. Let others have their turn. You have no obligation to a wench luring you into her web with matrimonial ambitions.”

There was a low-pitched smack, then a thud as Fowell hit the floor.

Lord Dalmeer stood over him, one hand clenched in a fist, and murder in his eyes.

Nell was frozen in place, her chest rising high and falling deep.

Mr. Fowell nursed his jaw with a hand as he looked up at the earl.

“Leave,” Lord Dalmeer said. “Or I shall be obliged to assist you.”

Never had the word assist sounded so much like a threat of death.

Mr. Fowell pushed himself to a stand, his upper lip curling. He stared at the earl for a moment, then spun on his heel and strode away.

Nell’s heart battered her ribs as the earl turned toward her.

In a blink, the anger in his eyes turned to concern. He hurried toward her, gathering her hands in his. “Are you hurt?”

Nell shook her head, her throat closed off to any response she might have given. Her hands were trembling, and she tightened them in his hold.

He looked at the shattered glass on the floor, then back at her, a question in his eyes.

“I am well,” she managed to say. “I was on my way to my bedchamber, for I have the headache.” The moment the words came out, she wished them unsaid.

His eyes searched hers. “The headache.”