“Don’t stick your nose where it does not belong,” his uncle bit off. He jabbed a thick, sausagy finger at Sebastian, coming within a few inches of his chest. “You didn’t even care about Miss Winslow until you heard I was planning to marry her.”
“Actually, that’s not true,” Sebastian said, almost affably. “And in fact, I would counter that you had decided to be done with her until you thought I might be interested.”
“The last thing I’d want is one of your trollops. Which she”-he jerked his head toward Annabel, who had been watching the entire exchange with openmouthed horror-“is in fast danger of becoming.”
That tightening in Sebastian’s gut did another twist. “Careful,” he warned, his voice dangerously soft. “You’re insulting a lady.”
Lord Newbury rolled his bloodshot eyes. “I’m insulting a whore.”
And that was it. Sebastian Grey, the man who walked away from confrontation; the man who’d spent the war far from the action, picking off the enemy one by one; the man who found anger to be such a tedious emotion…
He went berserk.
He didn’t think, he barely felt, and he had no idea what anyone was saying or doing around him. His entire being shrank and twisted, and the hideous, primitive cry that came from his throat-he had no more control over that than he did the rest of his body, which launched forward, practically flying through the air as he knocked his uncle to the floor.
They crashed through a table, Lord Newbury’s heft splintering the wood, and two candelabras, both fully lit, went tumbling down.
There was a shriek, and Sebastian had a dim awareness of someone stamping out flames, but the entire bloody house could have been on fire and it would not have stopped him from his one singular goal.
Wrapping his hands around his uncle’s throat.
“Apologize to the lady,” he growled, jamming his knee right where it would hurt most.
Newbury let out a howl at the insulting blow.
Sebastian’s thumbs rested longingly on his uncle’s windpipe. “That didn’t sound like an apology.”
His uncle glared up at him and spit.
Sebastian did not even flinch. “Apologize,” he said again, each syllable clipped and hard.
All around him people were yelling, and someone actually grabbed one of his arms, trying to haul him off his uncle before he killed him. But Sebastian could not make out anything they were saying. Nothing could possibly register above the hot roar of rage rushing through his head. He’d served in the army. He’d shot dozens of French soldiers from his sniper’s perch, but never had he wanted to see another man dead.
But oh Lord, he did now.
“Apologize or so help me God I will kill you,” he spat. He tightened his hands, feeling almost gleeful as his uncle’s eyes bulged and face grew purple, and-
And then he was yanked off him and held back, and he heard Edward grunting with exertion as he hissed, “Get hold of yourself.”
“Apologize to Miss Winslow,” Sebastian snarled at his uncle, trying to shake loose. But Edward and Lord Challis were holding firm.
Two other gentlemen helped Lord Newbury to a sitting position, still on the floor amidst the rubble of the table they’d broken. He was gasping for air, and his skin was still an awful shade of pink, but he had enough hatred in him to try to spit at Annabel, harshly rasping, “Whore.”
Sebastian let out another roar and hurled himself at his uncle, dragging both Edward and Lord Challis with him. They all lurched forward a few steps, but Sebastian was restrained before he could reach his uncle.
“Apologize to the lady,” he bit off.
“No.”
“Apologize!” Sebastian roared.
“It’s all right,” Annabel said. Or maybe she said it. Even she could not quite break through the haze of rage rushing through his skull.
He yanked forward, trying once again to reach his uncle. His blood was pounding and his pulse was racing, and his entire body was itching for a fight. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to maim. But he was held back by Edward and Lord Challis, and so instead he gathered his breath and said, “Apologize to Miss Winslow or so help me God, I will have satisfaction.”
Several heads whipped around to face him. Had he just suggested a duel? Even Sebastian wasn’t sure.
But Lord Newbury just lumbered to his feet and said, “Get him away from me.”
Sebastian held his ground, despite the urging of the two men trying to pull him back. He watched as Newbury brushed off his sleeves, and all he could think was-it wasn’t right. It could not end this way, with his uncle just walking away. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, and Annabel deserved better.
And so he said it. Clearly, this time. “Name your seconds.”
“No!” Annabel cried out.
“What the hell are you doing?” Edward demanded, yanking him aside.
Lord Newbury turned slowly around, staring at him in shock.
“Are you mad?” Edward whispered, hushed but urgent.
Sebastian finally shook off Edward. “He has insulted Annabel and I demand satisfaction.”
“He is your uncle.”
“Not by choice.”
“If you kill him-” Edward shook his head frantically. He looked over at Lord Newbury, then at Annabel, then at Newbury, then finally gave up and turned to Sebastian with an expression of utter panic. “You’re his heir. Everyone would think you’d killed him for the title. You’ll be thrown into gaol.”
More likely he’d hang, Sebastian thought grimly. But all he said was, “He insulted Annabel.”
“I don’t care,” Annabel said quickly, wedging herself next to Edward. “Honestly, I don’t.”
“I care.”
“Sebastian, please,” she pleaded. “It will only make things worse.”
“Think,” Edward urged. “There is nothing to be gained. Nothing.”
Sebastian knew they were right, but he could not quite calm himself down enough to accept it. All his life his uncle had insulted him. He’d called him names-some fair; most not. Sebastian had brushed it off because that was his way. But when Newbury had insulted Annabel…
That could not be borne.
“I know I’m not a-what he called me,” Annabel said softly, placing her hand on his arm. “And I know you know it, too. That is all that matters to me.”
But Sebastian wanted revenge. He couldn’t help it. It was petty and it was childish, but he wanted his uncle to hurt. He wanted him humiliated. And it just so happened that this objective was in complete accord with the only other goal in his life, which was to make Annabel Winslow his wife.
“I withdraw my challenge,” he said loudly.
There was a collective exhale. The room, it seemed, had tensed and tightened, every shoulder drawn up to the ears, every set of eyes wide and worried.
Lord Newbury, still standing in the doorway leading out to the corridor, narrowed his eyes.
Sebastian wasted no time. Taking Annabel’s hand, he dropped to one knee.
“Oh my goodness!” someone gasped. Someone else said Newbury’s name, maybe to prevent him from leaving again.
“Annabel Winslow,” Sebastian said, and when he gazed up at her, it wasn’t with one of his hot, melting smiles, the kind he knew made female hearts bounce and skip, from age nine to ninety. It wasn’t his dry half smile, either, the kind that said he knew things, secret things, and if he leaned down and whispered in your ear, you might know them, too.
When he looked up at Annabel, he was just a man, looking at a woman, hoping and praying that she loved him the way he loved her.
He brought her hand to his lips. “Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
Her lips trembled, and she whispered, “Yes.” And then, more loudly, “Yes!”
He rose to his feet and swept her into his arms. All around him people were cheering. Not everyone, but enough to make the moment a little bit theatrical. Which Seb belatedly realized wasn’t what he wanted. He did not deny a little burst of joy at having so publicly bested his uncle (he’d never be so pure of heart that he could deny that), but as he held Annabel, smiling into her hair, several people began to chant, “Kiss! Kiss!” and he realized that he didn’t want to do this in front of an audience.