Regency Betrayal: The Rake to Ruin Her / The Rake to Redeem Her. Julia Justiss
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suit!’
Miss Denby’s voice, Max realised, halting in mid-step. Had Henshaw tracked her there?
His first impulse was to set off in her direction, but she’d probably not thank him for interfering. Still, though he felt confident she could handle her disappointed suitor without his assistance, some deep-seated protective instinct made him linger.
After a masculine murmur whose words he could not make out, Miss Denby said, ‘No, I shall not change my mind. You must admit, sir, that I have tried in every possible way to discourage you, so my refusal can hardly come as a surprise. You will oblige me by leaving now.’
‘Waiting here for someone else, were you?’ Henshaw replied, his angry tones now comprehensible. ‘Max Ransleigh, perhaps? He’d never marry you. Despite his father’s banishment, he has money enough, and if he ever does wed, it will be a woman from a prominent society family. In any event, his taste runs to sophisticated beauties, which you, I’m forced to say, are not. Nor are you getting any younger. If you’ve any hopes at all of marrying, you’d better accept my offer.’
Why, the mercenary little weasel, Max thought, incensed. Only the certainty that Miss Denby would not appreciate having him witness this embarrassing scene kept him from setting off down the pathway to plant a fist squarely on the jaw of that overdressed excuse for a gentleman.
‘You’re quite correct,’ she was saying. ‘I possess none of the virtues and talents a gentleman looks for in a wife. As you so kindly noted, I’m hardly a beauty and am hopeless at making the sort of polite chat that makes up society conversation. Worst of all, I fear I have no fashion sense. You can do so much better, Mr Henshaw! Why not wait until the Season and find yourself a more suitable bride?’
Despite his ire, Max had to grin. Had any female ever so thoroughly disparaged herself to a prospective suitor?
‘I’m afraid, my dear, the press of creditors don’t allow me the luxury of waiting. Though admittedly you possess neither the style nor the talents I would wish for in a wife, you do have … a certain charm of person. And wealth, of which I’m in desperate need.’
No style? No talent? His mirth rapidly dissipating, Max reconsidered the prospect of cornering Henshaw, shaking him like a dog with a ferret and then tossing him out of the glasshouse like the refuse he was.
But alerting them to his presence would not only distress Miss Denby, it might give the thwarted suitor an opportunity to claim he’d caught Max and Miss Denby alone together. His self-protective instincts on full alert now that Miss Denby wasn’t within touching distance, Max didn’t want to risk that.
His decision not to intervene, however, wavered when he heard a sharp, cracking sound that could only be a slap.
‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ Miss Denby cried. ‘You followed me without my leave or encouragement. If you will not quit this place, then I will do so. Since I do not anticipate seeing you again before the party ends, I will say goodbye, Mr Henshaw.’
‘Not so hasty, my dear. It might not be an arrangement either of us want, but you will marry me.’
‘Let go of my arm! It’s useless for you to detain me, for I promise you, nothing on earth would ever induce me to marry you!’
‘I’d hoped you would consent willingly, but if you will not, you force me to employ … other measures. Before you leave this spot, you’ll be fit to be no one’s wife but mine.’
At that threat, Max abandoned discretion and set off at a run. If he hadn’t already been prepared to tear Henshaw limb from limb, the scuffling, panting sounds of a struggle that reached him as he rounded the last corner, followed by the unmistakable rip of fabric, had him ready to do murder.
Seconds later, he lunged over a potted fern to find Henshaw trying to pin a wildly struggling Miss Denby down on the bench, his free hand clawing up her skirts. As a clay pot fell over and shattered, Henshaw looked up, his hands stilling.
The smirk on his face and the lust in his eyes turned to surprise, then alarm as he recognised Max. But before Max could seize him, Miss Denby, taking advantage of Henshaw’s distraction, kneed him in the groin, then caught him full on the nose with a roundhouse left jab of which Gentleman Jackson would have been proud.
Howling, Henshaw released Miss Denby and staggered backwards, one hand on his breeches front, the other holding his nose. Blood oozing through his fingers, he snarled, ‘Bitch! You’ll regret that!’
Max grabbed him by the arm and slammed him against the wall, regrettably with less force than he would have liked, but he didn’t want to break a glass panel in Aunt Grace’s conservatory.
Securing him against it with a stranglehold on his cravat, Max growled, ‘Miss Denby will not regret her rejection. But you, varlet, will regret this episode for the rest of your life unless you do exactly what I say. You will apologise to Miss Denby, then pack your bag and leave immediately, before I tell the world and Lady Melross how you tried to attack an innocent and unwilling young lady.’ Giving Henshaw’s cravat a final twist, he released the man.
Henshaw shook his arms free and retreated several steps, trying to repair his ruined cravat before giving it up as hopeless. ‘You dare to threaten me?’ he blustered. ‘Who will believe you? A flagrant womaniser, sent away from Vienna in disgrace, disowned by your own father!’
‘Who will believe me?’ Max echoed, his voice silky-soft. ‘Your hostess, my aunt, perhaps? Or Lady Melross, seeing your elegant attire as it now appears?’
Fury and desperation might have briefly clouded Henshaw’s judgement, but the reference to his dishevelled clothing snapped him back to reality. Obviously realising he could not hope to prevail over the nephew of his hostess, especially in his present incriminating state of disorder, he clamped his lips shut and looked down the pathway, eyeing the exit.
More concerned with assisting the lady, Max resigned himself to letting him go. ‘Are you unharmed, Miss Denby?’ he asked, stepping past Henshaw to her side.
‘Y-yes,’ she replied, her voice breaking a little.
The path to the doorway free, Henshaw backed cautiously away, his wary gaze fixed on Max. After retreating a safe distance, he tossed back, ‘I won’t forget this, Ransleigh. I’ll have retribution some day … and on the bitch, too.’
‘You don’t follow instructions very well,’ Max said softly, an icy contempt filling him. ‘Now I’m going to have to thrash you like the cur you are.’
But before he could take a step, abandoning any pretence of dignity, Henshaw bolted for the door. Much as he would have liked to give chase and thrash the man, Max concluded his more urgent duty was to see to Miss Denby, who stood trembling by the bench, holding together the ripped edges of her bodice.
Her cloak had fallen off during the struggle and her pelisse, now lacking its buttons, gaped open over her white-knuckled hands. Her beautiful dark eyes, wide with shock and outrage, looked stricken.
Max cursed under his breath, wishing he’d tossed the bounder through the glass wall after all. ‘I entered a few minutes ago and heard voices, but didn’t realise what was transpiring until … it was almost too late. I’m so sorry I didn’t intervene earlier and spare you that indignity. Say the word and I’ll track down Henshaw and give him the drubbing he deserves.’
‘Beating him further will serve no useful purpose,’ she said, attempting a smile, which wobbled badly. ‘Though I might wish to hit him again myself. He has ruined one of my best ugly gowns.’
Thankfully, some colour was returning to her pale cheeks and her voice sounded stronger, so Max might not have to pursue the man and rearrange his skeleton after all. ‘You did quite a capital job on your first round, though I don’t believe you succeeded in breaking his nose, more’s the pity. Who taught you to box? That roundhouse jab was worthy of a professional.’
‘Harry. He took lessons with Jackson in London while he was at Winchester. Satisfying