Mr. Anaedsley’s eyebrows rose, and his lips twitched in amusement. “What of my lady’s hatred of violence?”
Ronnie rolled his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes at her. “Fisticuffs aren’t violence. They’re pugilism.”
Mr. Anaedsley glanced at her. “Is that so? If we fight, you swear you will not dash yourself upon the rocks?”
She folded her arms in disgust. “I am more likely to cosh you both over the head while you sleep!”
The damned man did smile then. “That’s not very sporting of you.”
Ronnie seemed to agree. “And it would be violent. Really, Mellie, you don’t truly abhor violence, do you?”
“Oh, I most certainly do. Otherwise you both would be dead by my hand at this very moment.”
Both men nodded, apparently in complete agreement. And then by some secret man signal, they dropped their hands and straightened. Mr. Anaedsley thought to reassure her by flashing his charming smile. “See. All better,” he said.
And Ronnie—damn his eyes—made so bold as to gesture to the parlor. “Shall we have some of those cakes, cousin? I’m suddenly feeling quite hungry.”
* * *
Trevor found her that night as she sipped brandy and stared out at the fireflies dancing across the back lawn. The other men had gone to bed, but she, as hostess, had remained awake—a constant, quiet presence who directed the staff and saw to their comfort. Once he might have discounted the skill it took to manage such a smooth-running household, but he knew what a hash his mother made of it, so he quietly marveled at her accomplishment.
“Shouldn’t you be resting before your dawnaffaired’honor?” she asked, a bite to her tone.
He smiled. He should have realized she’d be aware of him standing at the door to her parlor. After all, he’d spent most of the day much too conscious of her. Even when deep in scientific discussion with her father, a part of him had tracked her movements with the staff, counted the minutes when Ronnie had trapped her in conversation, and even caught her frowning at him more than a dozen times.
“You have no need to cut up at me,” he said as he moved into the delightful parlor at the back of house. “My sacrifice saved you from an unwanted proposal.”
She shot him an irritated glare. “Ronnie proposes on every visit. I assure you, practice has made me skilled at deflecting his attention.”
“But it’s gotten harder, hasn’t it?”
She didn’t answer except to look out the window. He watched her profile in the moonlight, seeing her pert nose and long lashes. Her skin tended to a plebeian light brown, but in the moonlight, she nearly glowed. And with her hair curling around her cheeks, he saw how very beautiful she could be. That realization drew him to sit on the settee beside her.
“I do not want you to protect my honor,” she said as he found his seat.
“You are worried about tomorrow’s fight. I promise you, I shall not hurt your cousin overmuch.”
“You? Hurt him?” She gaped at him. “Good God, you are a fool. You think because you are heir to a dukedom that no man can touch you. Ronnie will take great pleasure in touching you, sir. Indeed he will not stop pummeling you until you are sent to the hospital!”
“You are worried for me!” he said with no small amount of pleasure. “But there isn’t any need. Ronnie did not hurt me this afternoon—”
“You caught him by surprise.”
“And tomorrow will be no different.”
She stared at him, her expression darkening by the second. “He has two stone on you and nearly six inches more reach. His feet are nimble despite his larger size, and you, sir, are blinded by arrogance.”
He tilted his head, surprised by her yet again. “You know something of boxing?”
She pursed her lips in distaste. “I spent the afternoon in study of it.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, indeed. While you were deep in conversation with my father, I was with Ronnie prompting him to share his plans. He sees tomorrow’s fight as an affair of honor—”
“And so it is.”
“And so he intends to put you down.” She shot him a worried look. “Those were his very words:putthecheekybastarddown.”