‘Sorry. Carried away.’ It sounded as though he had teeth loose as well as a broken nose.
‘You will certainly be carried away, if you so much as whisper a word to this lady’s detriment,’ Alistair said, twisting his hand into Langham’s neckcloth. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Iwerne,’ Langham choked out.
‘Indeed. If you are not out of London by this time tomorrow I will find a reason to challenge you and then, I swear, I will kill you. Is that quite clear?’ There was a nod. ‘In fact, I find you so unpleasant that I think that if I ever see you again I will have to challenge you anyway. Clear?’ Another nod. ‘Then go now, and if there is the slightest rumour about this evening I will find you.’
‘Sorry. Carried away.’ It sounded as though he had teeth loose as well as a broken nose.
‘You will certainly be carried away, if you so much as whisper a word to this lady’s detriment,’ Alistair said, twisting his hand into Langham’s neckcloth. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Iwerne,’ Langham choked out.
‘Indeed. If you are not out of London by this time tomorrow I will find a reason to challenge you and then, I swear, I will kill you. Is that quite clear?’ There was a nod. ‘In fact, I find you so unpleasant that I think that if I ever see you again I will have to challenge you anyway. Clear?’ Another nod. ‘Then go now, and if there is the slightest rumour about this evening I will find you.’
Langham stumbled off into the darkness, leaving them alone in the gazebo. ‘Thank you,’ Dita said, putting out both hands to him. ‘I really thought only to take the air and enjoy a mild flirtation—and it got quite out of hand.’
Alistair clasped her hands in his. ‘You are cold, you are not used to these temperatures.’ She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. ‘Dita, if you want to flirt, flirt with me.’
‘I should join the queue, you mean?’ she asked. He should have felt triumph; she had seen him flirting with other women and she was jealous, but something of her unhappiness reached him. This was not petty, she really was distressed.
‘Dita?’ he put his arm around her shoulders, not amorously, but gently, His palm rested on the soft skin of her shoulder; as he pressed he felt the slender bones, the beat of her pulse. ‘What is it?’
‘I cannot play these games any more, Alistair. I will not marry you, do you not understand? If you care for me at all, even the slightest bit, you will stop asking me.’ She sounded bitterly in earnest, a woman at the end of her tether.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I know you talk of love, but you enjoy making love with me, you cannot deceive me about that. We share so much history, we are old friends. We could have a good marriage. What is it, Dita?’ He tipped her face up and the light from the reception room flooded across it, unsparing on the tears glittering unshed in her eyes. He had seen her cry with grief over Averil, but never like this. ‘Dita, is there someone you love?’
‘Yes. Now let me go.’
‘Does he love you?’ Who the devil could it be? Who had she met that he had not noticed?
‘No. Now, are you satisfied?’
‘Not if you are unhappy. Never, then.’ He felt sick and shaken. ‘Dita, what can I do?’ He would bring her the man on his knees if it would wipe that bleakness from her eyes.
‘Leave me. Stop asking me to marry you.’
For a long moment he could find no words. He was not used to defeat and he had not expected it here, or to find it so crushing. But a gentleman did not rant or complain; he had asked her what she wanted and she had told him with a sincerity that was utterly convincing.
‘Your scarf, Dita.’ He picked up the gauze strip and put it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing the soft skin. That was probably the last time he could legitimately allow them to linger like that, he realised, and gave himself one more indulgence, as he touched the back of his hand to her cheek.
The party was still animated and the room crowded as he let himself back into it. No one appeared to be looking for Dita so he stood there feeling lost and wondering at himself while he massaged the bruised knuckles of his right hand.
She was out there thinking about the man she loved. The bastard who obviously did not care for her, or he would be with her, protecting her from rakes. Protecting her from Alistair Lyndon.
His vision clouded and it took him a moment to realise it was with tears. Appalled, Alistair strode from the room, into the hall, snapped his fingers for his hat, cane and cloak. ‘Tell my coachman to drive home, I’ll walk,’ he said.
When he reached the street he strode out, uncaring where he was going. Damn it, she was his. He loved her—what was she doing, wanting another man? He loved her. Alistair stopped dead in the middle of the pavement.
So that was what this was, this restlessness, this feeling of peace when he was with her, the mingling of thoughts and the shared laughter. The passion. The need to protect her. Love, the emotion he did not believe that mature, clear-headed men felt.
‘Want to be friendly, ducky?’ He glanced down to find a sharp-faced girl looking up at him, her right arm crooked in the time-honoured invitation to take it and walk with her to some dark alley.
‘No,’ he said as he fished in his pocket and found her a coin. ‘No, I am not inclined to be friendly at all.’
The street-walker bit it and walked off, casting a coquettish look over her shoulder, her skinny figure swaying in her tawdry finery.
On the ship Dita had asked him why he didn’t marry her and then, without waiting for his answer, had told him why she wouldn’t take him, even if he offered. I want you, but I do not love you. I do not even like you, half of the time, she had said.
And he had pressed her to marry him, over and over so that the passages between them when the old, uncomplicated friendship had seemed to return were marred by his insistence, her resistance. And for him that lingering friendship, the passion, the sense of duty, had changed into something more, so slowly, so naturally he hadn’t even been aware of it. Perhaps that love had always been there, waiting to emerge.
Could he convince her? Woo her? But if she had given her heart to another man she would not settle for anything—anyone—less.
‘Hell, I have made a mull of this,’ he said to the empty street. How was he going to live without Dita?
He had gone, without protest, and left the field to some unknown man, Dita thought bleakly. Of course, he didn’t even know there was a field. He didn’t know she loved him, didn’t know she longed for him to love her, too. Like the honourable man he was, he had rescued her from Langham, made sure she was safe and then walked away, finally accepting her refusal because she was in love. The perfect gentleman.