Page 52 of Dangerous Illusions (Dangerous #1)

Seacourt shoved her behind him and confronted Deverill. “I am ready any time you are, by God,” he said, jutting out his chin and putting up his fists. In the blink of an eye, with a crack of bone on bone, he dropped to the floor at Daintry’s feet.

Deverill grasped her by an arm and moved her away from the unconscious man, saying anxiously, “Are you all right?”

Pulling her arm free, she said, “Of course, I am. Good God, Deverill, what have you done? He was attempting to apologize to me, and although he was not making a very good job of it, and was annoying me instead, I am perfectly capable of dealing with that sort of thing myself. There was no reason to knock him down.” Hearing Geoffrey groan, she added quickly, “Go away at once. If you are still here when he comes to his senses, there will be a brawl, and it will not be either of you who suffers for that, I can promise you. Did you consider that before you struck him? No, not in the least!”

“Wait just a minute. What the devil do you want me to think he was apologizing for? I saw how he had hold of you, and I saw your face and his. He was threatening you, and you were afraid of him. And you were glad to see me, so if you think—”

“Oh, go away before I lose patience with you,” she snapped.

“Perhaps I was glad to see you at first, but you seem to believe that every female needs an overprotective male to fight her battles for her. Well, I do not. Now, for heaven’s sake, go away and let me deal with him before someone comes through that door you so stupidly left ajar.

Nothing can happen a dozen feet from hundreds of dancers that I cannot handle! ”

“Handle this,” he said angrily, pulling her into his arms and kissing her as if he had been starving for the very taste of her.

When she tried to free herself, he stopped at once.

Then, looking stern, he said, “There are many things in life that you can’t handle alone, sweetheart, not because you’re a woman but because you refuse to recognize your limitations.

I’ll go, but you have certainly not seen the last of me. ” And he was gone.

Daintry stood for a moment, staring after him, until a groan reminded her of Geoffrey’s presence.

Moving quickly, she took the flowers from a bowl on a side table and dashed the water over his head.

“Get up, Geoffrey.” As he struggled to a sitting position, she added grimly, “Your lip is split and your hair is wet. That door yonder leads to the gallery, and you can get to the street from there. I will make your excuses to the others.”

He glared at her but did not speak, and she left him, making her way as quickly as possible toward the others, searching the crowd for Deverill and trying to sort out her feelings.

He had grabbed her against her will, and she had resisted, but odd though it seemed now in view of her terrifying experience with Seacourt, she had not been afraid, and if the truth were told, she was glad he had kissed her.

She knew she had overreacted to his confrontation with Seacourt, that although her anger had been genuine, it had manifested itself against the wrong man.

Gideon left Almack’s with a strong sense of ill-usage, but he was even angrier with himself than with Daintry.

She had been right to berate him for striking Seacourt, and though he could not really regret it, he was not by any means certain why he had done it.

He had seen her go into the anteroom with the man, and knowing she did not like him, had wondered if Seacourt had forced her.

Then, coming upon the scene, he had been certain Seacourt had, and had reacted instantly and without the slightest thought.

Such behavior was unlike him. He was better trained than that.

As he strode west along King Street to the walkway leading to St. James’s Street, he remembered her fury and smiled.

Other young women of his acquaintance would at least have pretended to be grateful for being rescued, but not that one.

She had been furious. Her eyes had sparkled, and her breasts had filled out her muslin gown magnificently.

Shaking his head at himself, he saw that the torches lighting the alleyway ahead had gone out, making it unnaturally dark.

As the thought crossed his mind, three figures loomed out of the black shadow, cudgels raised.

Deverill fought hard, but he was outnumbered, and though he knocked down two of the villains, the third got in a single, decisive blow with his club. The last thing Deverill heard before losing consciousness was a chorus of angry shouts from the King Street end of the walkway.

He came to slowly, feeling hands lightly slapping his face and chafing his hands.

A flask was held to his lips and tilted.

Choking on a mouthful of raw, fiery brandy, he tried to push the flask away and opened his eyes.

The torches had been relighted, and he found himself staring into an anxious, freckled face that he had never again expected to see.

“Thought you were a goner for sure,” Viscount Penthorpe said cheerfully. “Dashed glad you ain’t.”