In retrospect, Hugh thought, he should have realized that the young woman standing before him was unhinged when she declared him no gentleman. Not that it wasn’t the truth; for all that he tried to behave as a civilized adult, he knew that his soul had been black as soot for years.

But really... “You, sir, are no gentleman” directly following “I hope you’re satisfied” and “Have you no shame?”

Surely no adult of reasonable intelligence and sanity would be so redundant. Not to mention trite. Either the poor woman had been spending too much time at the theater, or she’d convinced herself she was a character in one of those awful melodramas everyone was reading lately.

His inclination was to turn on his good heel and depart, but judging by the wild look in her eyes she’d probably follow, and he wasn’t exactly the speediest fox in the hunt these days. Best to tackle the problem head-on, so to speak.

“Are you unwell?” he asked carefully. “Would you like me to fetch someone for you?”

She sputtered and fumed, her cheeks turning so pink he could see the deepening color even in the dim light cast by the sconces. “You... You...”

He took a discreet step away. He did not think she was literally spitting her words, but with the way her lips were pressing together, he really could not be too careful.

“Perhaps you should sit down?” he suggested. He motioned to a nearby settee, hoping she would not expect him to help her get there. His balance was not what it once was.

“Fourteen men,” she hissed.

He could not even begin to wonder what she was about.

“Did you know that?” she asked, and he realized she was shaking. “Fourteen.”

He cleared his throat. “And only one of me.”

There was a moment of silence. A moment of blessed silence. Then she spoke.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she demanded.

Hugh regarded her more closely. She looked vaguely familiar, but logically speaking, this meant nothing. Hugh did not socialize very often, but there were only so many members of the ton. Eventually every face would look familiar.

If he had remained at this evening’s gathering for more than a few moments, he might have learned her identity, but he had left the ballroom almost as quickly as he’d found it. Charles Dunwoody’s expression had turned ashen when Hugh had offered his felicitations, leaving Hugh to wonder if he had lost his last friend in London. Finally Charles pulled him aside and informed him that Daniel Smythe-Smith’s mother and sister were present.

He had not asked Hugh to leave, but then again, they’d both known he’d not needed to. Hugh had immediately bowed and retreated. He’d caused those two women enough pain. To remain at the ball would have been nothing short of spiteful.

Especially since he couldn’t bloody well dance.

But his leg had hurt, and he hadn’t felt like pushing through the line of carriages outside to find a hired hack, at least not right away. So he’d made his way to a quiet salon, where he’d been hoping to sit and rest in solitude.

Or not.

The woman who had intruded upon his refuge was still standing just inside the doorway, her fury so palpable that Hugh was almost prepared to reexamine his beliefs on the possibility of spontaneous combustion of the human form.

“You have ruined my life,” she hissed.

That he knew to be untrue. He had ruined Daniel Smythe-Smith’s life, and by extension possibly that of his unmarried younger sister, but this darkly brunette woman in front of him was not Honoria Smythe-Smith. Lady Honoria had much lighter hair, and her face wasn’t nearly as expressive, although the deep emotion on this woman could easily have been brought on by insanity. Or, now that he thought on it, drink.

Yes, that was far more likely. Hugh was not sure how many glasses of ratafia were required to intoxicate a woman of approximately nine stone, but clearly she’d managed it.

“I regret that I have distressed you,” he said, “but I’m afraid you have confused me with someone else.” Then he added—not because he wanted to but rather because he had to; she was bloody well blocking the corridor and clearly needed some sort of verbal nudge to be on her way—“If I may be of any further assistance...”

“You may assist me,” she spat, “by removing your presence from London.”

He tried not to groan. This was getting tedious.

“Or from this world,” she said venomously.

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” he swore. Whoever this woman was, she’d long since sacrificed any obligation he had to speak as a gentleman in her presence. “Please” —he bowed, with flair and sarcasm in equal measure—“allow me to kill myself at your tender request, O unnamed woman whose life I have destroyed.”

Her mouth fell open. Good. She was speechless.

Finally.

“I would be happy to fulfill your bidding,” he continued, “once you get out of my WAY.” His voice rose to a roar, or rather, his version of a roar, which was more of a malevolent growl. He thrust his cane into the empty space at her left, hoping its jabbing presence would be enough to convince her to step to the side.

Her breath sucked the air from the room in a loud gasp worthy of Drury Lane. “Are you attacking me?”

“Not yet,” he muttered.

She snarled. “Because I wouldn’t be surprised if you attempted it.”

“Neither,” he said, eyes slitting, “would I.”

She gasped again, this one a short little puff far more in keeping with her role as an offended young lady. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“So we have established,” he bit off. “Now then, I am hungry, I am tired, and I want to go home. You, however, are blocking my sole means of egress.”

She crossed her arms and widened her stance.

He tilted his head and considered the situation. “We appear to have two choices,” he finally said. “You can move, or I can push you out of the way.”

Her head bobbed to the side in what could only be described as a swagger. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Remember, I’m no gentleman.”

She smirked. “But I have two good legs.”

He patted his cane with some affection. “I have a weapon.”

“Which I’m fast enough to avoid.”

He smiled blandly. “Ah, but once you move, there will be no obstruction.” He indulged himself with a midair twirl of his free hand. “Then I may be on my way, and if there is any God in our heaven, I shall never lay eyes upon you again.”

She didn’t exactly step out of the way, but she did seem to lean slightly to one side, so Hugh took the opportunity to thrust his cane out as a barrier and shove his way past her. He made it out, too, and in retrospect he really should have kept going, but then she yelled, “I know exactly who you are, Lord Hugh Prentice.”

He stopped. Exhaled slowly. But he did not turn around.

“I am Lady Sarah Pleinsworth,” she announced, and not for the first time he wished he knew how to better interpret ladies’ voices. There was something in her tone he didn’t quite understand, a little catch where her throat might have closed, just for a millisecond.

He didn’t know what that meant.

But he did know—he certainly did not need to see her face to know it—that she expected him to recognize her name. And as much as he wished he did not recognize it, he did.

Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, first cousin to Daniel Smythe-Smith. According to Charles Dunwoody, she had been quite vocal in her fury over the outcome of the duel. Much more so than Daniel’s mother and sister, who, in Hugh’s opinion, had a far more valid claim to anger.

Hugh turned. Lady Sarah was standing just a few feet away, her posture tight and furious. Her hands were fisted at her sides, and her chin was jutting forward in a manner that reminded him of an angry child, trapped in an absurd argument and determined to stand her ground.

“Lady Sarah,” he said with all due politeness. She was Daniel’s cousin, and despite what had transpired in the last few minutes, he was determined to treat her with respect. “We have not formally met.”

“We hardly need—”

“But nonetheless,” he cut in before she could make another melodramatic proclamation, “I know who you are.”

“Apparently not,” she muttered.

“You are cousin to Lord Winstead,” he stated. “I know your name if not your face.”

She gave a nod—the first gesture she’d made that even hinted of civility. Her voice, too, was slightly more tempered when she spoke again. But only slightly. “You should not have come tonight.”

He paused. Then said, “I have known Charles Dunwoody for over a decade. I wished to congratulate him on his betrothal.”

This did not seem to impress her. “Your presence was most distressing to my aunt and cousin.”

“And for that I am sorry.” He was, truly, and he was doing everything he could to set things right. But he could not share that with the Smythe-Smiths until he met with success. It would be cruel to raise the hopes of Daniel’s family. And perhaps more to the point, he could not imagine they would receive him if he paid a call.

“You’re sorry?” Lady Sarah said scornfully. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Again, he paused. He did not like to respond to provocation with immediate outburst. He never had, which made his behavior with Daniel all the more galling. If he hadn’t been drinking, he would have behaved rationally, and none of this would have happened. He certainly would not have been standing here in a darkened corner of Charles Dunwoody’s parents’ home, in the company of a woman who had obviously sought him out for no other reason than to hurl insults at his head.

“You may believe what you wish,” he replied. He owed her no explanations.

For a moment neither spoke, then Lady Sarah said, “They left, in case you were wondering.”

He tilted his head in query.

“Aunt Virginia and Honoria. They left as soon as they realized you were here.”

Hugh did not know what she intended with her statement. Was he meant to feel guilty? Had they wanted to remain at the party? Or was this more of an insult? Perhaps Lady Sarah was trying to tell him that he was so repellent that her cousins could not tolerate his presence.

So he said nothing. He did not wish to make an incorrect reply. But then something niggled at his brain. A puzzle of sorts. Nothing more than an unanswered question, but it was so strange and out of place that he had to know the answer. And so he asked, “What did you mean earlier, fourteen men?”

Lady Sarah’s mouth flattened into a grim line. Well, more grim, if such a thing were possible.

“When you first saw me,” he reminded her, although he rather thought she knew precisely what he was talking about, “you said something about fourteen men.”

“It was nothing,” she said dismissively, but her eyes shifted the tiniest bit to the right. She was lying. Or embarrassed. Probably both.

“Fourteen is not nothing.” He was being pedantic, he knew, but she’d already tried his patience in every way but the mathematical. 14 ≠ 0, but more to the point, why did people bring things up if they didn’t want to talk about them? If she hadn’t intended to explain the comment, she bloody well should have kept it to herself.

She stepped rather noticeably to the side. “Please,” she said, “go.”

He didn’t move. She’d piqued his curiosity, and there was little in this world more tenacious than Hugh Prentice with an unanswered question.

“You have just spent the last hour ordering me out of your way,” she ground out.

“Five minutes,” he corrected, “and while I do long for the serenity of my own home, I find myself curious about your fourteen men.”

“They were not my fourteen men,” she snapped.

“I should hope not,” he murmured, then added, “not that I would judge.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Tell me about the fourteen men,” he prodded.

“I told you,” she insisted, her cheeks flushing a satisfactory shade of pink, “it was nothing.”

“But I’m curious. Fourteen men for supper? For tea? It’s too many for a team of cricket, but—”

“Stop!” she burst out.

He did. Quirked a brow, even.

“If you must know,” she said, her voice clipped with fury, “there were fourteen men who became engaged to be married in 1821.”

There was a very long pause. Hugh was not an unintelligent man, but he had no idea what this had to do with anything. “Did all fourteen men become married?” he asked politely.

She stared at him.

“You said fourteen became engaged to be married.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to them, I would imagine.”

He’d thought they were done with histrionics, but Lady Sarah let out a cry of frustration. “You don’t understand anything!”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?” she demanded. “While you sit in your comfortable home, all cozy in London—”

“Shut up,” he said, only he had no idea if he’d said it aloud. He just wanted her to stop. Stop talking, stop arguing, stop everything.

But instead she stepped forward and, with a venomous glare, demanded, “Do you know many lives you have ruined?”

He took a breath. Air, he needed air. He did not need to listen to this. Not from her. He knew precisely how many lives he’d ruined, and hers was not one of them.

But she would not let up. “Have you no conscience?” she hissed.

And finally, he snapped. Without a thought to his leg, he stepped forward until they were close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath. He backed her against the wall, trapping her with nothing but the fury of his presence. “You do not know me,” he bit off. “You do not know what I think or what I feel or what measure of hell I visit each and every day of my life. And the next time you feel so wronged—you, who do not even bear the same surname as Lord Winstead—you would do well to remember that one of the lives I have ruined is my own.”

And then he stepped away. “Good night,” he said, as pleasantly as a summer day.

For a moment he thought they might finally be done, but then she said the one thing that could redeem her.

“They are my family.”

He closed his eyes.

“They are my family,” she said in a choked voice, “and you have hurt them beyond repair. For that, I can never forgive you.”

“Neither,” he said, his words for his ears alone, “can I.”