The Making Of Baron Haversmere

He smiled in response, but the gesture appeared feral with his white teeth grinding behind shapely but wooden-looking lips.

It seemed that words were not going to convince him to step to the side.

A weapon was what she needed. Glancing about, she spotted a twig, a grey feather and a tuft of newly sprouted grass.

Her shoe it must be, although the toe was rounded more than pointed. The heel might do, being a small block of wood.

Reaching down, she plucked it off, waved it in front of his nose. The shoe would not disable him, but perhaps it would dissuade him. No gentleman would want to return to the ballroom with his face scratched. Questions would be asked.

‘My dear, dear lady.’ He caught her wrist, squeezed hard until she dropped the shoe. ‘You need not disrobe for what I have in mind.’

She struggled against his mean grip. She ought to scream. She truly ought to, but she had faced so much shame already she could not bear any more.

If people believed she was assaulted in the garden, there would be no end to the pitying looks.

She kicked his shin. He snared her waist, trying to drag her while she dug her feet into the gravel path.

Something pierced her heel. She yelped because it stung like the dickens.

To her everlasting astonishment, a fist ploughed over her shoulder from behind, then slammed into Waverly’s nose.

She spun about, gazing straight into the enraged face of her—Victor’s, rather—cowboy. She was only vaguely aware of Lord Waverly swaying on his knees and clutching his bleeding nose.

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