Once a Duchess(62)

 

She stared blankly at the balustrade, wondering what on earth she was going to tell Alex.

 

The sound of shouting snapped her out of her reverie. A woman screamed. She took a few steps and rounded the corner of the house. The sight that greeted her was like another icy dunk.

 

Viscount Woolsley was flat on his back on the balcony. Marshall knelt over him, delivering blow after punishing blow and shouting obscenities. Lord Woolsley attempted to fend off Marshall’s fists, but the larger man had the advantage and it was clear Woolsley might not be conscious much longer. A group of ladies stood a short distance behind, ogling the scene in wide-eyed interest. A crowd was quickly gathering at the French doors.

 

“Marshall, stop!” Isabelle cried, lifting her skirts and sprinting to the site of the brawl. Grabbing his arm proved to be as effective as swatting at a rolling boulder. She rounded to his left side, where that hand was holding the hapless viscount against the stone. Woolsley’s cigar smoldered a couple feet away; its earthy-sweet smoke reached diaphanous fingers into the air. Isabelle knelt beside the raging man, and laid a trembling hand on his shoulder.

 

“Marshall,” she pleaded, “please stop.”

 

Amazingly, he paused with his fist drawn back by his ear. He turned to look at her, his eyes wild with fury. “I heard him.” Marshall’s jaw jutted out defensively. “I heard what he said.” He drew a ragged breath. “He can’t say that about you. I won’t allow it!”

 

With a sneer of disgust, he looked down at Lord Woolsley. “You hear that, you miserable bit of excrement?” His voice went frighteningly quiet. “You will not speak that way ever again, even if I have to rip the tongue out of your skull to make sure of it.” For a final time, his fist connected with Woolsley’s nose with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.

 

Woolsley groaned as blood oozed from his nostrils. Then his pale eyes rolled back in his head an instant before his eyelids fell closed.

 

Isabelle blanched at the sight of the man’s pummeled face, already swelling and bruising in places. Marshall sat down heavily on his defeated opponent and turned to her, his face contorted with wrath. Instinctively, she fell on her bottom and scooted backward, putting distance between herself and that solid mass of unrestrained vengeance. When her back touched the brick wall, she drew her knees against her chest.

 

Marshall rose and stalked toward her; the heels of his impeccably polished boots tapped softly against the flagstones. Without a word, he reached out. Isabelle eyed his hand warily before tentatively placing her own upon it. He pulled her to her feet and searched her face. His temper was cooling, she was relieved to see. The lines creasing his brow softened, although the set of his jaw remained firm.

 

“Come with me.” The steely edge to his voice brooked no argument. Isabelle nodded once, still mute with shock.

 

His eyes flicked to the door and leveled a hard gaze on the assembled onlookers. “Out,” Marshall growled. The group drew back and cast nervous glances at one another. “Out!” he yelled. Several dozen aristocrats scattered like a flock of pigeons to summon their servants and carriages.

 

A liveried footman stood just inside the music room with a tray of champagne, doing a passable imitation of statuary. Marshall called him and nudged the unconscious viscount with his foot. “See Lord Woolsley to his carriage.” The servant hopped to action, setting the tray of drinks on a stand before scurrying off.

 

With his hand still clamped around hers, Marshall led her back into the house. Isabelle’s frayed nerves wreaked havoc on her stomach while she wondered what he intended.

 

They plowed through the crowd of evicted guests loitering in the entrance hall. Tonnish men and women tripped over themselves to move out of his way. Isabelle found herself on the receiving end of openly speculative stares. She grimaced and kept her eyes downcast. As they passed, murmurs sprang up in their wake. Undoubtedly, this spectacularly ruined evening would be all the talk for the foreseeable future.

 

Alexander fell into step on Isabelle’s other side. “Monthwaite,” he said in a low voice, “what the devil — ”

 

Marshall cut him off. “Not now.” They came upon Caro, Grant, and Naomi; Marshall gathered them up with a jerk of his chin. The youngest Lockwood sibling turned her startled eyes on Isabelle and raised her brows. Isabelle shook her head — she had no better idea than Naomi what was happening. Caro paused to whisper at Lady Lucy before joining them. Lucy shot a murderous glare at Isabelle.

 

The group moved away from the crowd of guests and their baffled clamor. Marshall halted at the library and opened the door. “Inside, please.”