Page 50 of The Duke’s Hidden Runaway Bride

His gaze fell briefly to the bangles, noting the unusual design. “Your mother’s?”

“Yes.” She flicked a quick glance at her father, who had approached but remained at a distance, allowing Adrian to speak with her first.

“They are beautiful.”

Something in her face eased, though the fear did not leave it entirely. “Thank you.”

He would have offered his arm, but the crowd shifted behind him and Markham appeared.

The viscount came smiling, as if their last encounter at the club had never occurred. His evening clothes were immaculate and his manner easy; only the hardness in his eyes betrayed his intentions.

“Miss James.” He bowed. “May I assume that calmer counsel has prevailed?”

Ophelia’s shoulders stiffened.

“It has, indeed,” she said. “I remain resolved not to marry you.”

Markham’s smile held, but the silence around them sharpened. Several nearby conversations faltered.

“You should take care,” he said softly. “Your wilfulness has already cost your father a great deal.”

Adrian stepped between them only far enough to draw Markham’s attention, not to obscure Ophelia from the room.

“Mr. Soane has prepared the releases,” he said. “You will withdraw every claim arising from the engagement, the articles, and the abandoned wedding. You will agree to make no further public accusation against Miss James or her father.”

Markham sneered. “And in return?”

“I hold one of your notes already, and the refusal of two more. I am prepared to take the rest and hold them upon terms you can meet.”

Markham studied him for a moment. Then the wariness left his face, replaced by something nearer amusement.

“You have been busy, Calder. But you do not yet hold enough to ruin me, and we both know it.”

“Not yet.”

“Then your threat is premature.”

“My offer is not.”

Markham gave a quiet laugh. “An offer made on behalf of whom? The lady? Her father? Or yourself?”

Adrian did not answer.

The viscount’s pale eyes moved between him and Ophelia, and understanding entered them.

“Oh,” Markham said. “So that is the way of it.”

“Take care,” Adrian warned.

“Why? It is the most believable part of the whole affair. Calder, who never denied himself anything, snowed into a lonely house with another man’s promised wife. What story do you suppose London will tell?”

Outrage dawned on Ophelia’s face.

Markham saw it and smiled.

“Your intervention will not save her name. It will make the filth stick more firmly to it, and to yours besides. The gallant duke and the runaway heiress. A month together in Wales while her poor betrothed waited in London. The caricaturists will scarcely need to invent.”

The old Adrian might have struck him. The impulse came cleanly and was gone, a fist unclenching before it had properly closed. A blow would turn the room towards the two men and leave Ophelia once more as the object over which they fought.