“I know,” he said softy.
“What if we are forced to marry and we end up not liking each other?”
“You speak of the impossible. I already like you, and my desire to know your mind and body will only grow. I will have no regrets.”
“Neither will I,” she said into the soft of his throat, and he flinched.
She dropped her hands and pulled away from him. “Oh, Mikhail, I have been thoughtless. Please forgive me.”
He heard the unvoiced need in her voice to understand, but he ignored it. “Think nothing of it; I hardly felt your arms.” Liar.
She searched his face, then squared her shoulders and gave a decided nod. “Open it,” she said, obviously bracing herself.
He gave her an encouraging smile and went to the door. Rain blew into the room, and there was shuffling of feet before her father stomped his way into the room followed by Lord Jensen, Lord Prendergast, and Lord Davenport.
They all jerked to a halt when they spied Payton standing in the center of the room, her hands clasped at her middle.
The silence was painful. Mikhail was about to speak when Calydon strolled in, wet and disheveled, his face carefully neutral.
Now was not the time to reveal his status, though it was tempting. Mikhail shook his head imperceptibly and Calydon raised a cool brow before his eyes flicked to the slightly rumpled bed and then to the very mussed Payton.
“Father, I—”
“Be silent,” her father roared and she jumped, acute embarrassment suffusing her lovely features.
Her father raised his hand and advanced, his intention clear to all present. The chill of violence that tore through Mikhail had him stepping forward and gripping the man’s raised fist in a bone-crushing grip, jerking him away from her. The unexpected move had her father stumbling to face Mikhail.
A fist. Her father would take a fist to her. He would abuse such a beautiful spirit.
“Do not ever make the mistake of raising your hand in anger in her presence again,” Mikhail snarled. “For I will destroy you.”
Shock widened Mr. Peppiwell’s eyes, then anger suffused his features. “How dare you!”
Mikhail jerked the man even closer. “I dare because Payton is all that is sweet and wonderful, and you thought to offer her violence over a situation you do not understand. I will release you, but think carefully on your actions going forward,” he warned softly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “If you hurt her, I will ruin you. The name Peppiwell will be nothing but dirt when I am through. And I will reach out my arms of influence and protect her from the destruction you will suffer.”
He let the promise show in his eyes, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Mikhail looked at Payton, and pride snapped through him. Instead of cowering, she stood straight with anger firing in her golden gaze.
Lord Jensen glared at her father and stepped forward. “Is that it? You allowed this…this bastard to defile your daughter with his mere presence and you—”
“That is enough, my lord!” Payton snapped, a hectic flush rising in her cheeks. “You will not cast aspersions on Mr. Konstantinovich simply because we sought shelter together from the storm.”
Her father latched onto the explanation he had not sought earlier with obvious eagerness. “Is that what happened? The storm forced—”
“Do not be blind, Mr. Peppiwell,” Lord Jensen growled, advancing in the cottage while the other lords discreetly looked away from the scene unfolding. Only Calydon moved farther inside and closed the door.
“Her lips are swollen, and her hair is a mess.” Lord Jensen turned to Payton, his face mottled with anger. “Did you allow this common stable hand to fuck you and plant his seed—?”
The leash on Mikhail’s patience and civility shifted, icy anger settling low in his gut. In a swift and tempered move, he slammed a punishing fist into Lord Jensen’s filthy mouth. The man crumpled.
“Oh goodness, Mikhail,” Payton gasped, hurrying closer. Instead of coming to his side, she stooped to where the man had fallen.
“Do not touch him.” The cold rage in Mikhail’s voice had her flinching, and she lifted startled eyes to his. He was not sure what she saw in his face, but she retracted her hand and rose gracefully.
“I would only check to see if he breathed.”
He throttled back his anger, for it would change nothing, and the only thing that mattered now was protecting her. “I assure you he lives,” he said flatly.
“You have harmed a lord, sir, and assault charges will be brought against you,” Lord Prendergast said with a glower.
For the first time Calydon stirred. “You are speaking to—”
“Do not,” Mikhail ordered, understanding his cousin was about to reveal his identity. This was not how he wanted to inform Payton.
“Then I urge everyone to calm the hell down,” Calydon snapped. “This situation calls for strict temperance from the urge to gossip and utter discreetness, not anger.” He pierced Lord Prendergast and Lord Davenport with steely glares. “This meeting will not leave this cottage, gentlemen. Miss Peppiwell is a treasured sister, and I will not sit idle while rumor twists an unexpected and innocent encounter.”
Lord Prendergast and Lord Davenport gave stiff nods. Her father visibly wilted in relief, and Payton looked to Mikhail, concern glowing in her eyes.
“Lord Jensen,” her father began. “He has—”
“I will confer with him when he rouses,” Mikhail said softly. When he was through, the man would understand he should never approach her again.
“No, I will speak with the young lord,” her father insisted stiffly. “He was only overcome with anger because he and Payton are to wed. He is very honorable and level-headed, and any man would be out of sorts at the idea of his future bride alone with a man unknown to us.”
The man would insist Payton marry Lord Jensen, despite her state of obvious compromise with Mikhail. Distaste filled him. Was social elevation so important to her family? Payton did not want to marry a man like Lord Jensen, and her father was willing to employ force. Mikhail would not step away. He wanted Payton for himself. The idea of a lifelong commitment so soon should have rattled him, but instead it felt right. He would eventually marry, why not to a young lady who roused all of his interests? “I will visit you at your earliest convenience, Mr. Peppiwell.”
He stiffened and glared at Mikhail.
“There is no need, sir, my daughter’s fiancé understands that nothing happened here,” Mr. Peppiwell said stiffly, though wariness glowed in his eyes. “They are to marry two weeks from today.”
“I will call on you tomorrow morning by nine,” Mikhail said flatly. How quickly Mr. Peppiwell will change his song once Mikhail revealed who he was. At least he could rest assured Payton actually liked him and not his social status. But will she want me once she discovers I’m a prince?
I will never marry into the haute monde. Her passion-filled snarl spoken just mere minutes past echoed in his head. He gritted his teeth until they ached. It was her acute dislike and distrust of all lords that was prompting Mikhail now to speak with her father first. She’d already told him to withdraw all thoughts of courtship if he belonged to the haute monde. He would inform her father and secure his silence, and then woo Payton until he was certain she would not reject him because of his connection to the realms. Otherwise she would rebel or even flee. He should feel some unease at his thoughts, but he’d always been ruthless is pursuing what he wanted…and he wanted her.
Discomfort flashed across Payton’s face, and she moved as if to speak and then hesitated. Something akin to fear or maybe doubt flashed in her eyes. Coldness settled in Mikhail’s gut. Why had she hesitated?
Was she regretting their shared passion? Worse, what if she now doubted forming an attachment because he could not bear her touch? He’d seen the pain in her eyes when he’d pulled from her touch. His chest throbbed with an unknown ache. Before he could do or say anything foolish, he turned and walked from the cot
tage into the lashing rain and tried to reason logically around the hollow sensation forming in his gut.
Chapter Twelve
“Mr. Peppiwell departed for London at the crack of dawn.”
Mikhail grunted at the amusement in Sebastian’s tone. He weaved and bobbed, slamming a fist in Mikhail’s side. He could have dodged the punch, but instead he moved into the attack, welcoming the bite of pain. Rotating his shoulders, he sidestepped another precise and well-timed jab. They had been sparring for almost an hour, and sweat drenched Mikhail’s skin, his muscles burned, and the reason for sparring at such an ungodly hour was sleeping soundly above him.
After being informed by the housekeeper that Mr. Peppiwell had left for London with a message to return in two days, Mikhail had mercilessly resisted the urge to climb the stairs and sneak into Payton’s chamber. He wanted to know how she fared. The need had been powerful enough so that he had climbed the stairs and had paused on the final steps, battling the desire. A few guests had been walking along the corridor and had given him curious stares filled with rabid speculation. He’d cursed and retreated and instead dragged his cousin from his duchess with a growl to meet him in the fighting room.
He needed the distraction or he would likely do something stupid like whisk her away to the cottage and make love to her for days. Or worse, inform her of his titles before securing support and watch her turn from him. For the long night he had been restless, the taste and scent of Payton alive on his tongue, and the fear he may never be able to bear her touch rioting in his mind. He’d also known she would be facing censure from her parents and had wanted to be a buffer.