Page 92 of The Devil's Accidental Duchess
CHAPTER 31
One look at Selina, bound to a chair by her ankles and wrists, and Philip knew it would be a miracle if he didn’t rip the Marquess limb from limb.
He liked to think of himself as someone calm in times of chaos, but as he watched Selina writhe and twist to free herself, calling out his name, he saw red in a way he never had before. Not even when faced with an enemy horde, or the whip of his father’s cane.
“You bastard!” he roared as he lunged for the weaselly Marquess.
The priest stumbled out of the way as Philip drove his fist straight into the bridge of the Marquess’s nose.
The Marquess stumbled backward, his hands flying to his face. His eyes watered, tears trickling down his cheeks, but he was notthe sort of coward who gave up without a fight. He was a worse kind, the sort of coward who didn’t know when to quit.
As blood poured from his nose, he made a run for the back of the room. “You can’t have her, Ashbrook!” he garbled. “She was promised to me!Iam deserving of her, not you—a dirty soldier without a speck of decency or dignity!”
“I will tear your tongue out!” Philip snarled, striding after the weasel.
In a panic, the Marquess began wrenching drawers open, clearly searching for something. A weapon, no doubt. Meanwhile, Philip didn’t need one. His fists would serve him just fine.
“Philip!” Selina yelped. “Philip, don’t!”
He ignored her and continued his approach.
Twisting around, terror etched on his pale face, the Marquess bolted away from the chests of drawers and ran like a child to the opposite side of the dining table. As if that would be enough to stop Philip.
“Youare the thief! You stole her from me. I am merely taking back what belongs to me,” he rasped, his face smeared with red.
“Belongs toyou?” Philip bristled. “No, Lord Ramsbury, she was never yours.”
He sprang up onto the table, the wood groaning beneath his weight, and stalked toward the terrified Marquess. If the man had any sense, he would flee, but it was obvious that he had no sense whatsoever.
“I will kill her before I let you have her,” the Marquess threatened, frantically searching around for something to defend himself.
“I will killyoubefore you get close,” Philip replied.
The priest put up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Gentlemen, perhaps this is a conversation to have over tea, once you have both calmed down.”
Philip shot him a dark look. The priest didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he turned tail and ran out of the dining room, the slam of the front doors confirming his departure.
Maybe he would fetch the constables. It would be a difficult situation to explain, but that would depend on whether there was a dead marquess when they arrived or not.
Death would be too good for him.
Philip surged forward and leaped off the table, tackling the Marquess to the ground. The Marquess wheezed, more blood pumping from his nose, but he still didn’t seem to understand that the fight was over.
He wriggled and squirmed, fists flailing to try and land a blow. A few grazed Philip’s head and shoulders, but Philip barely felt them.
Just then, the Marquess turned his head and sank his teeth into Philip’s arm—tried to, at least—but the thick fabric of Philip’s greatcoat proved too difficult to get through. Nevertheless, the insult of the bite was enough for Philip to put an end to his futile retaliation.
With one sharp jerk of his head, Philip butted him on the already broken bridge of his nose. A moment later, the Marquess’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp. Not dead, not even close, but out cold.
Leaving the man on the floor, Philip jumped up and went to Selina.
“Are you well? Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice thick. “Did he… do anything to you?”
She shook her head weakly. “You got here in time.”
“I am sorry I took so long.”
He untied her wrists and ankles, and though he longed to pull her into his arms, there was something he needed to do first.
