Mad About the Earl by Christina Brooke Page A

cannot mean you intend to call upon my cousin—your affianced wife —looking like a cursed farm laborer!”
    Curling his lip, Tregarth ran a cursory, contemptuous glance over Lydgate’s splendor. “Better that than a damned fop.”
    In three strides, Lydgate was across the room. Without warning, his fist connected with Tregarth’s jaw.
    Montford watched with interest, lifting a finger to stay Xavier, who had taken one step toward the two men.
    Lydgate might look like a fashion plate, but he boxed regularly with the first pugilists of the day. Besides that, he was more acquainted with gutter fighting than any gentleman ought to be. Rather unfairly, he’d caught Tregarth unawares.
    The big man reeled back, but somehow he managed to keep his footing. A great red welt bloomed across his jaw.
    His brow lowered; his fists clenched.
    “Ah. Tregarth,” said Montford, letting his voice slice through the violence-thickened air. He smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

 
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
    Griffin faced the three Westruther men and tightened the stranglehold on his fury. He had not beaten a man in anger for a long time. He would not break that rule now.
    His temper, far from complacent at the best of times, was threadbare from the long journey to Town. The roads had been bad, rutted by recent rains. While he’d usually ride, the expectation that he’d bring Rosamund back with him had made him take the carriage instead.
    What with the tedium of the journey and the discomfort of the badly sprung chaise, his temper was in shreds by the time he’d arrived at the town house. Only to find, of course, that the house was draped in Holland covers. The retainers he paid to look after the place had no notion of his coming. The letter he’d sent heralding his arrival had failed to reach them in time.
    He loathed hotels, but there didn’t seem much point in setting the London household on its ears when he’d stay two nights at the most. How long could it take for Rosamund to pack her bags, after all?
    He’d secured a room at Limmer’s and come directly to Montford House with the special license Lord deVere had procured for him burning a hole inside his waistcoat.
    He’d put an end to Rosamund’s shilly-shallying, once and for all.
    But he ought to have known it wouldn’t be that easy. He’d have to charge through this formidable phalanx of Westruther men first.
    Of course, Griffin remembered the duke from Montford’s visit to Pendon Place three years ago. The other two were clearly related, with that Westruther arrogance that seemed bred into their very bone structure. All three were different in coloring, build, and stature, but they shared the same high, sharp cheekbones and straight, patrician noses, with that telltale suspicion of a hawkish curve at the end.
    “Where is she?” he repeated, refusing to be cowed by Montford’s aristocratic hauteur.
    “Not here,” answered the golden young man who’d hit him, nursing his bruised knuckles. Griffin hoped that hand hurt as much as his jaw did. He doubted it.
    “Won’t you sit down?” Montford indicated a chair by the fire.
    Griffin shook his head. “I’ve no time for your flummery, Your Grace. Tell me where she is, so we can get married once and for all.”
    “Rather a sudden interest you’re taking in my sister, isn’t it?” the sardonic-looking gentleman said. That must be Xavier, Lord Steyne. Rosamund’s brother.
    Yes, the difference in coloring might have fooled him, but now he saw the likeness. They had the same deep blue eyes, but the brother’s hair was raven-wing black, whereas Rosamund’s shone gold as newly minted guineas. And Rosamund’s eyes were clear and true, unshadowed by the world-weary cynicism that hardened her sibling’s gaze.
    “You’re her brother, are you?” Griffin nodded to Steyne. “Then perhaps you can make her see sense.”
    “Believe me, you wouldn’t want that.” Steyne looked contemptuous. “I doubt your idea of sense