This Duchess of Mine(42)

Of course Jemma had fended for herself in Paris for years. She didn’t need him. The recognition of it turned his mouth into a hard line. She didn’t even leave the floor after her partner’s attempt at a kiss, just kept dancing with that blackguard as if nothing had happened.

“What a distinct—and surprising—pleasure,” said a voice at his ear.

He didn’t bother turning, just kept his eyes on Jemma. “Villiers.”

“What are you watching with such—Ah, the wife.”

“She doesn’t realize the man is drunk.”

Villiers laughed. “Jemma strikes me as a woman who will always be able to ascertain the extent of a man’s inebriation.”

On the dance floor, the gallant leaned over as if he were trying to gobble Jemma’s ear and she neatly evaded him.

“Why the devil doesn’t she simply leave him there alone?”

“Because she’s having too much fun putting on a drama for you. The cruelest thing you could do would be to turn away.”

That wasn’t a possibility. Turn away while another man tried to paw his wife? Never mind the fact that he had known quite well that she was having affaires while living in Paris. That he deliberately hadn’t followed her to Paris for three years—no, four—until rumor reached him that she’d had a week-long fling with a young fool named DuPuy.

It was her right, after what he’d done to her. He owed her.

But it was different now.

Now he was going to have to kill that fool she was dancing with. Even as they watched, the red-haired sailor leaned toward her again, trying to catch a kiss. He was going for her mouth—He was—

A strong hand caught him. Villiers. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to retrieve my wife,” he said tightly.

“You can’t be involved in a fight,” Villiers said.

“Why the hell not?”

He hesitated. “You’re a statesman.”

“That hasn’t stopped most of the men I know from brawling.”

“You know why.”

Jemma seemed to be fending off her swain with her elbow, so Elijah frowned at Villiers. “What are you talking about?”

“Your heart,” Villiers hissed. “You should be at home resting.”

“The devil with that.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man swoop in again. He was bigger and stronger than Jemma. She was trying to push him away but—

Elijah was next to them in a second. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and caught one glimpse of his surprised face, red lips pursed in a kiss, before he hit him so hard that the man rose slightly in the air, landed hard, and skidded on his bottom to the edge of the dance floor.

There was a chorus of little screams as dancers scrambled to get out of the way. The ruffian climbed to his feet. “What’d you do that for?” he yelled, furious. “I wasn’t doing anything that the trollop didn’t want me to do! Who the hell are you? Her protector?”

“The husband,” Elijah said softly. “Just the husband.” He could see the man shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether to lunge at him.

“I’m glad I don’t have a wife like that!” he bellowed.

The crowd was interested now, forming a circle around the swell in the velvet domino and the red-haired sailor. There was a murmur of approval at that comment.

“It’s hard to keep a wife where she belongs!” someone shouted.

The red-haired man grinned. “Especially if she’s not satisfied at home. This one was looking for company.”

Elijah’s fists clenched and he stepped forward, just one step. “No woman should be handled in such an uncouth manner.”

A shrill voice agreed. “She got the right to dance with whoever she pleases without paying with her reputation!” It was a burly woman in the front of the growing crowd.

“An’ he’s got a right to fight for his wife, light-skirt though she be!” someone else shouted.

Behind him, Elijah could hear Jemma’s helpless laughter. He made the mistake of smiling at the sound.

“You’re laughing at me! I did nothing to your wife but what she welcomed. She’s worse than a light-skirt. She’s a—a…” Maybe it was the look in Elijah’s eyes that dried up his words. Without bothering to finish his sentence, the sailor lowered his shoulder and charged like a bull, catching Elijah square in the chest.

Elijah was expecting a blow to the face because that was how the men fought in the boxing salon he regularly visited. He barely managed to keep to his feet, and the man was rounding about, ready for another charge.

In one lightning quick moment, Elijah calculated the rate of speed of his attacker and his relatively lower height, drew back his fist, and waited for the man’s chin to connect with it.