Miss Featherton's Christmas Prince (The Marriage Game Book 9) (25 page)

Just as the town came in sight, Galahad veered off onto a smaller road. A few minutes later, a coach came into sight, and the horse sped up. That was it. Damon breathed a sigh of relief, then reached for his riding crop that had a long whip on the end. “Stay with me now.” If only he had Mentor with him, this would be easy. “I’m going to do something you may not like.”

Hoping that the driver would be on the left side, he urged the horse to the right side of the carriage. Two men were on the box, but the one on the left held the reins. Standing in his stirrups, he struck out with the whip, curling it around the other blackguard’s neck. “Stop now, or he’ll die, and you’ll be next.”

As he knew it would, the coach came to an abrupt halt.

A loud shout came from inside. The door slammed open, and Meg burst out. True to his name, Galahad lost no time in placing himself between her and the coach.

Damon reached inside his hunting jacket, brought out his Manton-made pistol, and approached the coach. Inside, Tarlington, the coward, was howling in pain, holding his hand.

“Meg, are you all right?”

“Yes. When the coach stopped he grabbed me and I bit him.”

Of course she did. He almost laughed, but Tarlington had meant to hurt her, and Damon could not allow that to stand.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Galahad kneel. Meg scrambled onto his back, fixed her skirts, and nodded. Damon’s heart swelled with pride and love. He really had not known how brave she was.

“I just wanted to speak with Miss Featherton,” Tarlington squeaked.

Damon handed Meg the pistol. “Do you know how to shoot?”

She nodded.

“Point it at them.” He motioned to the men on the box, then reached into the coach and dragged Tarlington out.

The worthless fribble landed on the ground, covering his face.

“Get up.” Reaching down, Damon pulled the man to his feet. He slammed his fist into Tarlington’s jaw, and Tarlington went down.

How the devil was Damon supposed to beat the man senseless when he wouldn’t defend himself? Damnation! Did the scoundrel have no pride?

Tarlington whimpered and looked as if he was about to weep. Damon wanted to roll his eyes. “You may consider yourself fortunate that I have not beaten you senseless. Which is what I will do if you ever bother Miss Featherton again.”

“I would not have harmed her,” the cur screeched.

Damon reached down, pulled Tarlington up by his cravat, and shook him. “Never. Touch. Her. Never. Speak to her. Again. Have I made myself clear?”

Tarlington nodded several times before Damon flung him away like the vermin he was.

“Get back in the coach before I change my mind.”

Damon doubted the scoundrel had ever moved so quickly in his life. He slammed the door shut, then stepped back, glancing at the two men on the box seat. The coachman had already freed his companion from Damon’s whip. Damon grabbed the end that was still dangling down the side, retrieving his weapon. “His lordship is leaving.”

The carriage jolted forward and in a few moments, it was gone from sight. He turned to Meg, seeking any sign of distress or injury. “I will always protect you.”

She searched his eyes for several moments, then handed him his gun. “I know you will.”

When Damon had spoken to her former suitor, his face had been dark with rage, his words clipped. For the first time Meg could see the warrior in him. Her heart beat faster. The romantic in her, that she had thought was dead, could easily imagine him in a suit of armor. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but was afraid he would think she was simply thankful for his rescuing her. Although she was shaken— who would not be?—she wanted time alone with him. “Would you like to see the abbey?”

“I would, but later. I think we need to go back to the house. In case you have not noticed, your clothing is rather worse for wear.”

“Oh?” She glanced down, and grimaced as she tried to slap off the dirt. She did not even want to know what her hair or bonnet looked like. “Perhaps you are right.”

Not long after they left the spot of her rescue, Damon and Meg entered the family dining room.

“Did you enjoy your ride?” her mother asked, then glanced up. “What on earth happened to you?”

“We saw Tarlington. Actually, he abducted me.”

Her father, who had been reading some correspondence, looked up. “Did he?”

“Hawksworth saved me and sent him away.” She slid Damon a sidelong look. “I do not think he will return.”

After a few moments of studying them, her father said, “I agree with your assessment.”

Perhaps now Papa would be receptive to speaking with Damon about marrying her—after she told him she loved him, that is. If only she could find some time to be alone with him.

 

Late the next morning, Meg had still not been able to be private with Damon. Last night, she was about to go to him when her youngest sister woke from a bad dream, causing everyone in the family wing to awaken. She had decided that after their Pantomime practice, she would tell her mother what she wished to do.

She and Damon sat on the sofa reading the script, while Georgiana, Sarah, and Alan were practicing their roles for
Twelfth Night
, when Benson appeared. “Miss Featherton, my lord, the Duke of—”

“Stand aside, man. I told you I don’t need to be announced.” A tall gentleman, who looked to be in his late sixties, pushed the butler out of the way.

The man’s high-handed rudeness and lack of good breeding was inexcusable. She clamped her lips together to stop herself from engaging in a similar display of incivility. Even without the beginning of the title, Meg would have known exactly who he was. His resemblance to his son was unmistakable.

His Grace of Somerset had just thoroughly aroused her fury, and he was about to be taken down a notch or two.

The children lapsed into what had to be stunned silence. They had probably never heard anyone speak to Benson with such disdain.

Damon stood, his countenance a mask. If not for the tick in his jaw, she would not have known how angry he was, and she fought to keep her temper under control. A fight she might very well lose.

Meg took the hand Damon held out, rose, curtseyed, and raised a brow just as she had seen the dowager duchess do. No one could suppress pretentions and bad behavior better or more quickly than her grace. She glanced at Benson. “I shall apologize for his grace’s conduct, as it is clear he will not. You may leave us now.”

“You—you!” The duke’s complexion darkened. “No one, especially some young chit, takes that tone with me.”

Maintaining a chilly haughtiness, she directed her attention back to the older man. “I was not addressing you.” Damon’s fingers tightened around hers. His other hand was almost certainly clenched. “I am Miss Featherton. You, sir, are in my family’s home uninvited. I do not particularly care how you behave with your own servants, but I will not tolerate the mistreatment of our staff by anyone.”

Damon cut her a warning glance, perhaps to restrain her, but after everything she had heard from her grandmother and him, she had had a surfeit of the Duke of Somerset. And personal acquaintance had not improved him.

She kept her voice stern but calm. “If you cannot behave like a gentleman, I shall have you removed.”

The duke narrowed his eyes. “I came to get my son. After that, I shall be delighted to depart.”

Meg raised the other brow. “Have you not noticed that Hawksworth is a grown man long past his majority, a decorated war veteran, and well able to run his own life?”

The duke pointed a finger at her, stabbing the air for effect. “
You
are an impertinent girl. He is my heir and will do as I say.” He turned his head toward Damon, as if to cut Meg out of the conversation. “Hawksworth, your valet may follow us. I have decided on a wife for you. You have an appointment to meet her and propose. I do not wish to arrive after dinner.”

Meg’s free hand curled into a fist. What she would not give to be able to punch the old brute in his nose for making Damon’s life a misery. She tamped down the anger that threatened to boil over. His grace was about to feel the sharp side of her tongue. A little plain speaking, giving the man a taste of his own medicine, would probably do the trick. If not, then she might just hit him. “I am vastly sorry to be the one to disabuse you,” she said with specious sweetness, “but Lord Hawksworth is already betrothed to me.” Damon squeezed her fingers again and the tension seemed to leave him. She turned to him and gazed into his eyes, hoping he would be able to see how much she loved him and that she would fight for them to be together, and protect him as he had protected her.

After a moment his gaze warmed, and he nodded. Turning back to his father, she lied. “The settlement agreements have already been signed, and the wedding will be on the morning of Twelfth Night.” To Alan she said, “Summon Benson and tell him to bring two footmen. His grace is leaving now.”

The duke sputtered and flushed red. “I will not be thwarted by you! Hawksworth, come immediately.”

“No.” Damon’s tone was soft but firm. “I will choose my own wife. Indeed, I have chosen her already. She is Miss Featherton.”

The duke’s brows drew together. “I will cut you off. You’ll not receive another penny from the estate until I am dead. And you will never see your brothers and sisters again.”

Damon glanced at a woman standing next to the duke, whom Meg had not even noticed. She could only be the Duchess of Somerset.

“I’m sorry, Catherine. As much as I love them, I will not marry another woman. I will not give up the love of my life to dance to his tune.”

Damon’s tone was so full of regret, Meg almost gave in to the duke’s demands. What would it be like for him to be completely cut off from his family? She could not imagine being barred from seeing her mother, brothers, and sisters. Then again, she could no longer envision a life without Damon.

“Somerset,” Her grace said in a soft voice, “I have tried to tell you that taking this tack with Hawksworth will not work. Calm yourself or you will have apoplexy.” She laid her hand on his arm. “He did as you told him and found a lady to marry. He cannot, as you are well aware, jilt Miss Featherton, who is a perfectly acceptable
parti
.”

“Then she shall cry off.”

If Meg had not clamped her lips together, her mouth would have gaped open. Of all the misbegotten, despotic, here-and-therians!

One fist went to her hip, and she jutted her chin out. “I most certainly will not jilt Hawksworth, and you belong in Bedlam for suggesting I do. I am terribly sorry that our love for each other got in the way of your plans, but since you did not see the point in telling Hawksworth of your scheme, you must live with the results.”

“Love?” The Duke of Somerset glared at her as if he would like to spit. “Love has never done anyone any good. It turns one’s brains to mush. It almost killed me, and I will not have it for him. I shall speak to your father immediately and demand that he force you to end it.” He cut his gaze back to Damon. “Hawksworth?”

“I have already given you my answer, sir. I shall marry no one but Miss Featherton.”

For a moment, Meg truly believed the duke would have a stroke right in the middle of the morning room.

Her grace patted her husband’s arm. “Perhaps it is time you explained yourself to Hawksworth. I have done my best to understand and do as you have asked. Still, the fact remains that your behavior has only served to alienate him.”

Damon still clung to Meg’s hand, squeezing it almost painfully. The rest of his body was again rigid. She made a shooing motion to her brother and sisters. Once the door had closed behind the children, she turned her attention to Damon’s step-mother. “I believe it might be time for a talk.”

The duchess smiled softly. “I think you are correct. A pot of tea might help.”

In Meg’s opinion something stronger might be needed, but she tugged the bell-pull. Benson appeared immediately, two footmen standing behind him. “Yes, miss.”

“Tea, please, Benson.”

He bowed. “As you wish.”

She steered Damon to one of the small sofas, while the duchess prodded the duke to the other one. Once they were seated, Meg focused on his step-mother. “Your Grace, I wish we had met under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I as well. However, I believe once everything has been made clear, the situation will change for the better.”

When the tea tray arrived, Meg busied herself pouring, then braced for whatever revelation was about to be made.

Damon sat as close to Meg as propriety allowed. He was still having trouble believing she’d finally told him that she loved him. For the past two days, he had been praying she could admit it to herself. The passion they shared could not exist if it were not for love. It was too special. Like nothing he had ever experienced before.

If it wasn’t for the presence of his father, he would have grabbed her up and whirled her around the room. On the other hand, listening to her give the duke his own was an experience he would not have missed for the world. He only wished his brothers and sisters were present to hear her. She was magnificent.

He sipped his tea. Fortunately, her assertion about the settlement agreements was not a complete lie, not that she knew it. Before Meg had come down to breakfast, he had told Lord Featherton the whole of their story. At that point, his lordship had suggested they discuss the settlements. Wanting to marry as soon as Meg agreed, Damon had readily assented. Lord Featherton’s secretary had studied law, and the documents could already have been drafted. Not that it would matter for the betrothal to be valid.

Damon selected one of the biscuits, intrigued to hear what Catherine had been talking about. Fortunately, he did not have to wait long.