Owen took a running leap, pulled back his fist, and punched Berkeley dead in the face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Owen fell to the ground solidly on top of the viscount. The two men struggled, rolling in the grass and gravel, and damned if Berkeley didn’t give as good a punch as he’d got. Owen was certain his jaw was never going to be the same again. He managed to land another blow to the viscount’s temple, and Owen sustained one on the chin that he was convinced chipped a tooth. They went on that way for several minutes before Claringdon came sprinting up and broke them apart. Or at least Owen thought the large blurry shadow that pulled him away was Claringdon. Apparently, Lucy, who’d accompanied Berkeley into the gardens, had summoned the duke. Swifdon was steps behind them, however, and Owen was only glad Claringdon had made it there first. He would have hated to throw a punch at his brother-in-law. But even as Claringdon hauled him up, Owen lunged at Berkeley again, and Claringdon and Swifdon both had to hold him back this time.
The good viscount seemed to be done fighting, and while he was breathing heavily and glaring at Owen through narrowed eyes, Berkeley was already brushing grass and dirt from his evening clothes. Alex rushed over to Berkeley and dabbed at his bloody lip with a fresh handkerchief she’d produced from her reticule.
“Are you all right, Lord Berkeley?” she asked in a sympathetic voice that made Owen lunge for the viscount again.
“For God’s sake, Monroe, get ahold of yourself,” Claringdon ordered in a voice that Owen was certain many a soldier had heard on the battlefield.
But it was Cass’s worried voice that finally broke through his mindless rage. “Owen, what’s come over you? I’ve never known you to be so violent,” his sister said in a shaky, unhappy murmur.
Owen tested his jaw and shrugged. “First time for everything?”
Cass shook her head at him disapprovingly. “You must go home now. Before anyone else from the party comes out and sees this.”
Owen glanced around. His sister was right. Thankfully, the only people currently in the garden were his sister and their friends. If anyone else happened along, questions would be raised, and no doubt a scandal would be well on its way to boiling. A scandal that might ruin Alex’s reputation, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Sober up, Monroe,” Claringdon warned under his breath.
Owen wrenched himself away from the duke’s hold. “I’ll go,” he growled, tugging at his cravat and straightening his waistcoat.
Cass produced a handkerchief from her reticule and she dabbed at a spot where blood dripped from Owen’s eyebrow. He spat some blood on the ground.
“I suggest you go out the garden gate,” Swifdon said. “I’ll go through the house and have your coach brought round.”
“I came with Cavendish,” Owen replied, his eyes still fixed on Alex. Alex barely glanced at him as she saw to Berkeley’s wound. But when she did briefly meet his gaze, the look in her eyes was accusatory and unforgiving. She and Berkeley and the others soon returned to the house. Claringdon stayed to escort Owen off the property, no doubt.
Owen dabbed at his bloodied brow with Cass’s handkerchief. Damn it. He wasn’t the type to get into a common brawl. And he especially wasn’t the type to fight a man at a formal event. But the way Berkeley had appeared, so smug and confident, Owen couldn’t stand the thought of Alex being with him, going off with him, leaving Owen alone. He couldn’t stand the thought of her dancing with him.
He tested his jaw. Blast. That must have been how Alex felt last night when he’d gone off with Helena Clare. And she’d said she loved him. Alex loved him. Loved him enough to help him and to lie to him about her sister’s likes and dislikes. He spat another mouthful of blood.
“Watch where you’re aiming,” Claringdon said, sidestepping away from him. The duke was half dragging Owen along the garden path toward the gate that led to the front of the property.
“I can’t help it. It feels like the inside of my cheek is ripped open.”
“No more than you deserved, taking a swing at Berkeley like that. The chap did nothing to deserve it. And did no one ever tell you that jealousy is not an attractive quality? But not to worry, I’ll have my coach take you home.”
Owen merely growled and simmered. Claringdon was right … unfortunately. Jealously wasn’t attractive, and Berkeley didn’t deserve it. In fact, Berkeley wasn’t even the man whom Alex had been in love with this entire time. It was … him. It was him. It had always been him. And he’d gone and acted like a complete fool. Punching Berkeley had been just another in a long string of stupid things Owen had done of late. It was time to end the streak.