How to Marry a Rake by Deb Marlowe Read Free Book Online Page B

settled into a belligerent scowl.
    This was it, then, one of those moments by which a man defined himself and shaped the course of his life. Stephen allowed himself the briefest sliver of a moment in which to mourn his lost opportunities, to prepare himself for an added burn of guilt, before he embraced the wrath surging through his veins and entered the fray.
    ‘I dare say you would, Ryeton,’ he ground out. ‘But what if the case were reversed? Surely it would be better to be shot for a heroic warhorse than a dim-witted, braying ass.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ Ryeton turned his reddened face to their host. ‘What did he say to me?’
    Toswick only sputtered helplessly.
    ‘You heard me, my lord. Feeling better about yourself, are you, for having judged a man by the bits he is missing?’ Stephen’s fury raged through him, opening wounds he’d thought long buried. Suddenly every mocking slur cast against his unorthodox family, every whispered taunt about his sad and lonely mother stunghim again, releasing their venom into his veins. ‘It’s obvious, though, that he’s not the only one here missing a few vital pieces. And were I forced to choose between your affliction and his, I’d gladly give up my leg and the use of my hand if it meant I could keep my honour and integrity.’
    Another round of gasps went up from the crowd. Ryeton, nearly purple with fury, thrust his glass at Toswick. ‘I shall find a great deal of pleasure in making you regret those words.’ Ryeton’s voice took an unexpected turn to a higher octave at the end of his threat.
    Stephen might have laughed if he hadn’t understood just how many ways it could come true. He took a menacing step towards the man. ‘You are welcome to consider whom you would like as your second. I believe we were in the process of arranging to meet in any case, it would be just as well to make it a dawn appointment.’
    ‘No.’ Matthew’s voice rang out this time, the authority inherent in his tone a direct contrast to Ryeton’s bleating. ‘It’s my infirmities he mocks, and did I think him worth it, it would be me meeting him at dawn.’ He gave Ryeton a hard stare. ‘And though I may have only one good hand left, my lord, I’ve killed more than a few Frenchmen with it. I doubt I’d have any trouble dispatching you.’
    He paused and swept a steely look across the gawking guests. ‘But I don’t find him worth the trouble. He’s entitled to his opinion. Whatever he thinks of my “abnormalities”, I know I obtained them on a field of honour, defending my fellows and my country, and my king.’
    Matthew might have said more, but he was interruptedby a softly uttered, ‘Oh, bravo!’ from the chit he’d been talking with. He coloured once more and looked to Stephen.
    ‘Let’s go,’ Stephen said shortly. He gave Ryeton a last glare before gesturing to the crowd knotted around them. A path opened up, and he waited for his friend to set out before him.
    But the evening held one last shock. Stephen stared as several footmen burst into the ballroom. Two pulled up just inside the door, but one had his head down and a dogged expression on his face. Guests shrieked, scattering before him. Drawing closer, Stephen saw the reason behind it all. Fleet as a frisky colt, a boy dodged and darted just ahead of the man—a grime-spattered boy who, cap in hand, caught sight of the cleared aisle and pelted down the centre of it. He skidded to a stop at the sight of the earl.
    ‘Lord Ryeton,’ he wheezed. He bent over to catch his breath. ‘There’s trouble in the stables. ‘Tis Pratchett, my lord!’
    The crowd began to murmur. All the buzzing, gossiping people who had begun to turn away surged forwards again, eager to catch a glimpse of the new commotion.
    Stephen noted that the high colour had drained from Ryeton’s face. ‘Well?’ he barked at the child. ‘Spit it out, boy! Pratchett, you say? What’s amiss with my best horse?’
    ‘He’s been stolen, my