looked perplexed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Sir Henry blinked, then smiled avuncularly and patted her wrist. “I don’t suppose you do, m’dear. Not the sort of thing a gentlewoman should think about, heh?”
Before she could disabuse him of that ludicrous notion, he was hailed by someone from across the room; excusing himself, he left her side.
The younger gentlemen were even worse.
“That temper, you know. Always thought it would get the better of him one day.” That from a Lachlan acquaintance.
The reply, from Mr. Kenneally, an Irishman known for his dissolute ways, “I heard he can be quite ferocious when roused. No holding him,” left Letitia literally speechless.
When Christian unexpectedly appeared by her side, she fell on him as the only safe outlet for her increasing ire.
“They’re making Justin sound like a madman!” Facing Christian, she fought to keep her voice down. “The waythey’re talking, it’s as if the infamous Vaux temper is an affliction. A prelude to insanity!”
Christian eyed her cynically. “The family, you included, have been perfectly content to be known as the vile-tempered Vaux for generations. You can’t expect people to suddenly forget.”
She sent him a glittering glance. “You know we’re not that bad.”
“Yes. But then I know the Vaux rather well.” The subtle emphasis he placed on the latter words might have had her blushing, but through the veil he couldn’t tell. “It was your great-grandfather who started it, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and he truly was a bona fide terror. From the stories my grandfather related, he must have had the most vicious tongue known to man. Not that my grandfather was all that much better, but by all accounts he was an improvement. My father, as you know, could never be described as a comfortable person, but no matter how verbally violent we might be, we’re not—never have been— physically dangerous.”
“Except when you throw things.”
“We never throw things at people, and our aim is good. You can’t ask for more.” She dragged in a breath. “But none of that—the truth—seems to matter!”
Clutching his sleeve, she swung around and pointed at a youthful gentleman. “Do you know what Finley Courtauld said?”
Through her grip on his arm, Christian sensed just how strung up she was. She proceed to relate numerous comments either made to her or that she’d overheard, all confirming the ton’s solidifying belief that Justin Vaux had, in a fit of the famous—or infamous—Vaux temper, beaten his brother-in-law to death.
Her own temper was not just showing but spiraling—to a dangerous degree.
He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve, squeezed until she stopped her escalating rant and looked at him. When shedid, he said in a perfectly even voice, “You’re feeling unwell. Come—I’ll take you home.”
Through the filmy veil she narrowed her eyes at him; her lips had firmed into a thin line.
He returned her gaze steadily; they both knew that if she remained in Lady Lachlan’s drawing room and continued in her present vein, she would risk reaching the stage where her temper slipped its leash and took over.
And they both knew how histrionically violent, how dramatic and sensational, the outcome was all but guaranteed to be.
She humphed, and looked across the room, locating their hostess. “Only because I can’t afford to create a scene at this moment, on this topic.”
“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “The ton really doesn’t need a demonstration of just how violent—verbally or otherwise—a Vaux can be.”
She humphed again, but consented to be led across the floor, to make her farewells, rather brittlely, to Lady Lachlan, then to walk with him into the front hall, where they waited while her carriage was fetched.
Although Letitia preserved a rigid silence, he knew that her temper, once aroused, wasn’t that easy to deflect. To douse. The Vaux temper didn’t respond to logic,
Sir Henry blinked, then smiled avuncularly and patted her wrist. “I don’t suppose you do, m’dear. Not the sort of thing a gentlewoman should think about, heh?”
Before she could disabuse him of that ludicrous notion, he was hailed by someone from across the room; excusing himself, he left her side.
The younger gentlemen were even worse.
“That temper, you know. Always thought it would get the better of him one day.” That from a Lachlan acquaintance.
The reply, from Mr. Kenneally, an Irishman known for his dissolute ways, “I heard he can be quite ferocious when roused. No holding him,” left Letitia literally speechless.
When Christian unexpectedly appeared by her side, she fell on him as the only safe outlet for her increasing ire.
“They’re making Justin sound like a madman!” Facing Christian, she fought to keep her voice down. “The waythey’re talking, it’s as if the infamous Vaux temper is an affliction. A prelude to insanity!”
Christian eyed her cynically. “The family, you included, have been perfectly content to be known as the vile-tempered Vaux for generations. You can’t expect people to suddenly forget.”
She sent him a glittering glance. “You know we’re not that bad.”
“Yes. But then I know the Vaux rather well.” The subtle emphasis he placed on the latter words might have had her blushing, but through the veil he couldn’t tell. “It was your great-grandfather who started it, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and he truly was a bona fide terror. From the stories my grandfather related, he must have had the most vicious tongue known to man. Not that my grandfather was all that much better, but by all accounts he was an improvement. My father, as you know, could never be described as a comfortable person, but no matter how verbally violent we might be, we’re not—never have been— physically dangerous.”
“Except when you throw things.”
“We never throw things at people, and our aim is good. You can’t ask for more.” She dragged in a breath. “But none of that—the truth—seems to matter!”
Clutching his sleeve, she swung around and pointed at a youthful gentleman. “Do you know what Finley Courtauld said?”
Through her grip on his arm, Christian sensed just how strung up she was. She proceed to relate numerous comments either made to her or that she’d overheard, all confirming the ton’s solidifying belief that Justin Vaux had, in a fit of the famous—or infamous—Vaux temper, beaten his brother-in-law to death.
Her own temper was not just showing but spiraling—to a dangerous degree.
He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve, squeezed until she stopped her escalating rant and looked at him. When shedid, he said in a perfectly even voice, “You’re feeling unwell. Come—I’ll take you home.”
Through the filmy veil she narrowed her eyes at him; her lips had firmed into a thin line.
He returned her gaze steadily; they both knew that if she remained in Lady Lachlan’s drawing room and continued in her present vein, she would risk reaching the stage where her temper slipped its leash and took over.
And they both knew how histrionically violent, how dramatic and sensational, the outcome was all but guaranteed to be.
She humphed, and looked across the room, locating their hostess. “Only because I can’t afford to create a scene at this moment, on this topic.”
“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “The ton really doesn’t need a demonstration of just how violent—verbally or otherwise—a Vaux can be.”
She humphed again, but consented to be led across the floor, to make her farewells, rather brittlely, to Lady Lachlan, then to walk with him into the front hall, where they waited while her carriage was fetched.
Although Letitia preserved a rigid silence, he knew that her temper, once aroused, wasn’t that easy to deflect. To douse. The Vaux temper didn’t respond to logic,
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