Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,28

area, “seems to marry into the nobility these days. Whores, even.”

Bucking and pushing at him, Julia screamed again.

“Hold still!” he ordered as if he were commanding a servant to do his bidding.

Writhing, she screamed again. To her amazement, the door burst open, although she couldn’t see past the brute. It didn’t matter. Regardless of who had found her, her reputation would be ruined but her virtue saved!

“Get out!” the viscount called over his shoulder, and since he was master of the house, she assumed the person would do as he ordered.

“Help!” she yelled, in any case, hoping even a servant might take pity and come to her aid.

She heard a roar of outrage before, quite abruptly, the viscount was jerked away, seeming to fly off her as if he weighed nothing at all. Frantically, she lowered her skirts and looked up to see the furious face of the Earl of Marshfield.

She’d heard the term “eyes flashing in anger” yet had never seen such a thing until that moment.

“Get up,” he growled, as if she were resting there on a lazy Sunday.

Julia scrambled to her feet. The most important thing at that instant was to get out of the room where she’d been alone with a man and back where others could see her.

“Marshfield!” exclaimed the viscount, when Julia had already reached the door. Staggering to his feet, the man was doing up the buttons of his breeches. “That was a monstrous pitch and quite out of place, too!”

Glancing at her savior, the earl’s jaw was tight as an archer’s bow and both his hands were clenched.

“If you wanted the bitch,” Lord Chandron continued, “you ought to have had the decency to wait your turn. Host’s privilege and all—”

Before he could finish, Marshfield had grabbed him by the cravat and landed a hard blow to his toady face. The viscount’s head flopped back, but his limp body remained suspended by his cravat.

“You are a disgrace,” the earl ground out before allowing the man to slip to the floor. Then he nodded curtly to her to precede him from the room.

Needing no further entreaty, Julia wrenched open the door. However, having learned her lesson earlier, she peeked out, searching the hall in both directions. It was empty. Slipping out, she ran for the stairs.

“Wait,” Marshfield ordered, and although she desperately wanted to get as far away from Lord Chandron as possible, she halted at his command, realizing she was shaking.

“You can’t walk into the ballroom like that,” he said from behind her. “Your dress isn’t too terrible, but your hair looks like you’ve been doing exactly what you were, rolling around on your back.”

Nerves taut, Julia turned around and slapped his cheek. Then she gasped.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered even though he said nothing, nor even looked as if he’d felt it. “It’s just...,” she trailed off. “I want to go home.”

“I cannot accompany you down the stairs. If someone were to see us, your reputation would be ruined as surely as if you were discovered on that bed. I’ll go first and if anyone’s loitering about, I’ll send them away. You’re adept at sneaking around,” he added, and she felt like crying at having lost his good opinion of her.

“Slip into the ladies’ retiring room and get the maid there to assist with your hair. They do that sort of thing, don’t they?”

“Yes.” Her voice had lost all its strength, so she nodded, too.

“Would you like me to alert your chaperone and bring her to you? She must be frantic with worry.” His tone was unfriendly, and she’d never seen his mouth tight with anger.

All because of her. This was no game, and she’d nearly been the victim of something truly awful. And Mrs. Zebodar would never have forgiven herself, neither would Sarah.

“No.” She straightened and took a deep breath. “If you see her looking for me, please tell her I’ll be in the ballroom shortly.”

He didn’t acknowledge her words. “Wait a few seconds for me to make sure it’s clear.” He glanced back at the viscountess’s bedroom door. “Unless that door opens, in which case, run downstairs as if the devil himself is chasing you.”

With that, he descended quickly. She shivered, and the skin at the back of her neck was prickling. Julia started after him, probably too soon, but she was terrified of staying where she was in case the viscount did emerge.

Luckily, there was only Marshfield’s broad rigid back at one end of the hall, and between them, the