A Season of Seduction by Jennifer Haymore Page B

and gasped at what—or rather who —she discovered standing there. Not only her brother. As if that wouldn’t have been horrible enough. No, it seemed half the population of London crowded the door.
Becky’s cousin Tristan stood behind Garrett, fury darkening his features. His wife, Sophie, was at his side. A large group of people Becky didn’t recognize stood behind them.
“What is it? Let me see!” Lady Borrill thrust aside a slender young man and burst into the room. Others closed in behind her.
Becky had been in a life-or-death situation before. She’d combated overwhelming panic and remained strong. But at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to shrink until she was pea-sized and disappear beneath the covers, or better, vanish entirely and never show her face to any of these people again. She stared dumbly at them, unable to move, to speak. Her hands clutched the bedclothes so tightly, her nails dug into her palms and broke the skin.
For a long, charged moment, silence ruled. Then, all at once, noise erupted. Some murmured, others shouted, their words tumbling together. Garrett strode toward Becky and Jack, his face white, his lips tight, his fists bunched, looking for all the world as if he meant to murder Jack Fulton with his bare hands.
Sophie lunged forward and grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back. She spoke, but Becky could not discern her words in the din.
She could discern Garrett’s words, however, as he shook Sophie off as easily as a horse might flick its ear to rid itself of a fly.
“You bastard,” he snarled, raising his fists. “That’s my sister you’re defiling.”
“What the devil are you doing?” Jack demanded. “Leave this room. Now!”
Garrett surged toward the bed. “I’ll kill you.”
Sophie had turned to see the crowd gathered behind them, and Becky heard her groan of dismay. “Oh, dear.”
Garrett froze, his features a tight mask. Then he sucked in a breath and whirled around. When he spoke, his voice was a low, menacing command. “Get the hell out of here.”
Nobody moved.
“Now!” he bellowed.
People leapt into action, and within seconds, the crowd cleared and the door closed, leaving only Sophie, Tristan, and Garrett in the room with Becky and Jack.
Again, Garrett advanced on Jack.
Jack surged up, raising his hands. “I’m happy to fight you, duke, but is this the time and place?”
“Yes.”
Tension radiated from Jack. “Let’s do this in a civilized fashion. Will this constitute a formal challenge? Pistols at dawn?”
“Fists,” Garrett snapped. “Now.”
Perhaps Kate hadn’t tamed her brother as much as Becky had thought. Fear for Jack finally gave her back her voice. “No, Garrett,” she breathed. “Leave him be.”
Garrett’s light blue eyes flicked to her and then away. His stance didn’t change, nor did his demeanor. As usual, she hadn’t affected him at all. Kate was the one person who could cool him, who could defuse his fury, but she wasn’t present.
Tristan moved to stand beside her brother. He grasped Garrett’s shoulder, keeping him—only temporarily, Becky knew—a safe distance from Jack.
Garrett’s icy blue eyes flicked again to Becky, and a muscle jerked in his jaw. He looked at Jack. “Get off the damn bed.”
Jack obligingly slid off, holding one of the pillows to his groin. The sides of his buttocks hollowed and flexed as he stepped away from the bed. Becky was helpless against the tiny flash of arousal at the sight.
Garrett pointed imperiously through the doorway leading to the sitting room. “Go in there and get dressed,” he said to Jack.
Jack retrieved his trousers and glanced at Becky, who offered a quick nod. “As you wish.” He strode out of the room.
Garrett bent and picked something up off the floor. It was the nearly transparent gown that Becky had worn. “Get some clothes on her.”
Tossing the dress to Sophie, he marched into the sitting room. Tristan followed, shutting the doors behind them. Becky shuddered.