A couple of weeks ago, I had a lovely time on Zoom talking to Elizabeth Ellen Carter about redeeming rakes, unredeemable rakes, and my Marquis of Aldridge.
Here’s the interview.
Check out Elizabeth’s channel for other great interviews.
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHbPv1zpUfKsHaCL__oaWRQ
Do you enjoy stories with older characters as the main protagonists? If you’ve written one, please share an excerpt in the comments. I’m currently writing the last book in the Paradise Tryptych: the happy ever after for my Duchess of Haverford and the man she loves. It starts something like this.
Eleanor was tired of wearing black; tired of dresses with minimal trim and accessories that repeated the dismal colour. She hated the unspoken rules that restricted the types of activity a widow might enjoy. She missed her friends and her usual social round. She despised the hypocrisy that expected her to make an outward show of mourning a cruel despot who had never shown her a particle of affection or consideration, and who would have consumed every vestige of her will and destroyed all of her happiness if she had not found ways to manage him.
Above all, she was bored, bored, bored. No. That was not her predominant emotion. She would be honest with herself though she dissembled to the rest of the world. The feeling that currently ruled her life was grief, but not for Haverford.
Thank goodness she had been strong enough to hold out for the right to keep the children. As long as he never saw them, was not expected to acknowledge them in any way, and provided nothing extra for their support, he chose to treat her fostering as an eccentric hobby.
Frances had been the third, her birth a scandalous secret even Haverford did not want disclosed. Eleanor loved the three girls with all her heart, loved them as fiercely as she loved her two sons. And she could not regret bringing them into her home, selfish of her though it was.
She had learned better, especially after the disastrous end to David Wakefield’s time under the Haverford roofs. For years now, she had been quietly settling her husband’s by-blows in less scrutinised households, carefully supervised to ensure they had the love and care she wanted for those who shared blood with her sons.
As for the three sisters, their origins and the prominence of the family meant they would face many barriers in a quest for a fulfilling life. If only they did not so strongly bear the Grenford stamp! Still, with her support and that of her sons, all would be well. She hoped. She prayed.
Time to announce her presence. “Miss Markson, is this a good time for an interruption? I have come to take tea with the young ladies.”
***
Hollystone Hall, December 1812
Eleanor smiled at the family gathered in her private sitting room. Matilda was pouring the tea, and Frances was carefully carrying each cup to the person for whom it had been prepared. Jessica was sitting on the arm of Aldridge’s chair, regaling him with stories about the kitten she had adopted from the kitchen. Cedrica sat quietly, as usual, but the distracted smile and the glow of happiness were new, and her thoughts were clearly on her French chef, whom she had, unless Eleanor missed her guess, kissed in the garden last night.
Jonathan—dear Jonathan, back in England and arriving by surprise on Christmas Eve—was making Jessica laugh with faces he was pulling out of Aldridge’s view, though from the quirk in the corner of Aldridge’s mouth, he was well aware of his brother’s antics.
Eleanor smiled around the room at her children, her heart at ease to have all five of her children with her. Two sons of her body, and three daughters of her heart. Deciding to bring the girls into her nursery had been one of the best decisions she had ever made.
Eleanor accepted another cup of tea from Frances, exchanged a smile with Matilda, and saluted the other three with her cup. How fortunate she was.
If she had been a cowed and obedient wife, her life would have lacked much richness. She had regrets—who didn’t? If she’d been braver, she would have permitted the girls to call her ‘Mama’, rather than ‘Aunt Eleanor’. But that would have been a red rag to the duke’s bull. The safer path was, probably, the right one.
Eleanor caught Frances’s eye and patted the seat beside her. “You did that very well, my dear,” she told the girl. Frances was much younger than the other two, and Eleanor was pleased she’d be at home for a while longer. Perhaps, by the time Frances married, one of the others would have given her grandchildren. She smiled again at the thought. Yes, Eleanor had been very fortunate.
Fifth week prize is:Each entry also gets you a place in the draw for the Grand Prize, to be drawn in six weeks.
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The Merry Marquis has finally won his match.
The ebooks are winging their way out across the world as we speak, and print books are also available.
Thank you, Aldridge, for being a voice in my head these past six years. I’m glad to make you happy at last.
Or sisters. Sisters would be fine. Share an excerpt that features a brother or sister or similar age cousin to your hero or heroine. I’m just finishing my beta draft for the next Bluestocking Belles box set, and I have a rather lovely brother. Awkward, much? Yes, quite a bit. But he means well. In the excerpt below, he decides a family connection will do a better job of presenting his sister than he can.
Chloe changed the subject. “I am visiting Lady Seahaven and the Bigglesworth sisters tomorrow morning. Aunt Swithin, will you come with me? I can go with my maid, if you prefer.”
Martin surprised her. “I will escort you, Chloe. I wish to pay my respects to Lady Seahaven, and I should visit our sisters.”
“They will be thrilled, Martin.” Mama had given her second husband, the Earl of Seahaven, two daughters, Emma and Merry. They had remained with the Earl of Seahaven when Mama died, and Uncle Swithin insisted on Chloe being returned to her brother’s household.
Chloe had kept in touch in the intervening years, but Martin had only met his half-sisters after Uncle Swithin’s death.
“Lady Dorothy was telling me about their ball, Chloe, and I had an idea. What do you think of us asking Lady Seahaven to include you as one of her protégées?”
“She has been very kind about including me in when she and her step-daughters make visits,” Chloe observed. Lady Seahaven and the Bigglesworth sisters had started with some personal connections and a few recommendations from relatives, and had brokered them into introductions to most of York Society.
“Precisely,” Martin agreed. “They know many more people than we do, and their ball will be much better attended than any entertainment I could put on for you. But I would not wish you to be neglected in such a big crowd of sisters.”
Aunt Swithin cackled. “Only three sisters that count, Martin. Lady Seahaven is giving the ball for the Seahaven Diamonds, and quite right, too. Next to them, no one will notice that our Chloe, nor any other female, either.”
“Aunt Swithin,” Martin protested, “Chloe would make a fine match for any gentleman of discernment.”
“Josepha and the twins can only marry one man apiece,” Chloe pointed out, though privately she agreed with Aunt Swithin’s assessment. Short and dumpy as she was, she suffered by comparison to the four Bigglesworth sisters who were her age and older, but the three younger girls would have been reigning beauties even in a London Season.
They had been dubbed the Seahaven Diamonds after their first public appearance in York, and the sooner they selected from among their swarming suitors, the better all the other marriageable ladies in York would like it.
“Besides, Aunt Swithin, it isn’t just about the ball. If Lady Seahaven agrees to sponsor me, hostesses who are inviting the Seahavens will include me in their invitations. I will have many more opportunities to meet eligible gentlemen.” And much good it might do me, for I shall still be unfashionably plump, two years past twenty, and far too opinionated for most gentlemen.
Martin nodded. “That is what I thought. I shall ask Lady Seahaven, then, shall I? I will, of course, offer her the money I planned to spend on a party of some kind. Do you think that would be the right thing to do?”
Chloe nodded. “Absolutely.”
After dinner, he showed Chloe some books and trinkets he had brought for the little girls, including some for Lady Seahaven’s little Jane, who was only three. “If I am giving gifts to our sisters, I can’t leave the baby out,” he said.
Sometimes, Chloe was quite hopeful that, out from under Uncle Swithin’s shadow, Martin was becoming almost human.
When they saw her the next day, Lady Seahaven was delighted to take Chloe under her wing, “Though it seems silly for me to be your sponsor, Miss Tavistock, when you and I are the same age. At the very least, you must call me Patience, as your step-sisters do. When they are not calling me ‘Mama’ to tease me.”
She objected when Martin offered to help finance the ball, “and any other expenses you incurr by allowing Chloe to join you.”
“But, Lord Tavistock, your sister is part of the family. I cannot think it proper to charge you a fee.”
“The fact is, Lady Seahaven, that I am at a standstill,” Martin explained. “Patience and I were tutored at home, as you know, and our guardian was not a warm man. Nor were those social connections he did maintain at the right social level for a viscount’s sister. Aunt Swithin is as much out of here depth as I am, and besides, grows more peculiar by the day.” As Patience could see for herself, since Aunt Swithin had barely said good morning to her hostess before announcing that she would go and find Bess, who did not have cotton wool between her ears.
Martin leaned forward in his seat, gifting Patience with a winning smile. “If you will treat Chloe as one of your own flock, I am persuaded she will fare much better than my aunt and I could have managed on our own. I would not think of putting a monetary value on the advantage to Chloe of your sponsorship, compared to the poor launch I would have made of it. You are doing me an enormous favour, and all I can say is thank you. But I have budgeted for a season for Chloe, and it is only fair that the money I was going to spend doing a poor job should be given to you to help you do a far better one.”
Chloe was impressed by the speech, and so was Doro, who commented, “That is reasonable, Patience. Lord Tavistock’s money added to ours will allow us to make more of an impression than either of us could manage on our own.”
That settled, Martin was carried off to the schoolroom by an ecstatic pair of schoolgirls. At twelve and ten, and used to a house full of women, Emma and Merry were awed and fascinated by their adult brother.
Fourth week prize is:Each entry also gets you a place in the draw for the Grand Prize, to be drawn in six weeks.
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Hollystone Hall, December 1812
The Duchess of Haverford waved her dresser away and stood so she could better see Matilda, Jessica, and Frances. Yes, even Frances was to go to tonight’s fancy-dress ball, for a short while and under the strict supervision and care of her sisters.
How lovely they were! Matilda and Jessica had faced a difficult first Season with grace and courage. Even Eleanor’s influence could not overcome their murky origins. Society could be remarkable stupid.
Eleanor had had high hopes of the Earl of Hamner, although he also showed an interest in Lady Felicity Belvoir. If he did not stay the course, somewhere out there was a man who would look past Matilda’s parentage to her beautiful nature: her kindness, her intelligence, all the wonderful qualities that made Eleanor so proud of her.
Jessica was more of a worry in a way, covering her hurt at any snubs by layering on more charm, until she skirted the edge of flirting. Perhaps there was someone here at this house party who could give Jessica the love she needed?
At least Frances was safe for a couple more years, and perhaps, by the time she made her debut, her sisters would be married and able to help her.
In some ways, Eleanor wished they were all still in the schoolroom.
Haverford Castle, July 1810
Eleanor paused in the doorway of the schoolroom, where her three foster daughters were drawing under the supervision of their governess. The subject was a collection of objects: a flower in a rounded glazed bowl, a trinket box open to display a set of coral beads that trailed over the edge onto the polished surface of the table, a delicate statuette of a gun dog, with proudly pointing muzzle.
A difficult composition for such young girls, though little Frances was talented, and the older two girls competent enough. At thirteen, Frances had inhabited the Haverford nursery floor for nearly eleven years, and by the time of her debut, in three or four years, the scandal of her existence was likely to be minimal. Except that she, the youngest of the three, most resembled their shared father.
Matilda would face the ton first. At sixteen, she was as much a beauty as her mother had been, with the dark hair and stunning figure that had made her mother a reigning beauty of the demimonde, though she was only an opera dancer. A courageous one, too, who—given the chance to start a new life back in her homeland of Ireland—braved Haverford House to beg for a safe home for her daughter, perhaps a tenant farm on an out-of-the-way Haverford estate.
It was just chance that Haverford was away on that occasion, and that Eleanor had just been arriving home. Or an intercession of the divine. Haverford would have turned his full ducal rage on the intruder, and denied everything. But Eleanor took the baby in her arms and fell in love.
She smiled as she watched the three heads bent in concentration. It had taken His Grace nine months to realise that his nurseries were once again occupied, and by then Jessica had joined them, some six months younger and the daughter of a pretty maid who once attracted Haverford’s attention. The combination of youth and prettiness was lethal, for the girl had died in childbirth, and the grieving grandmother brought the baby to Haverford House, to Eleanor. No-one could doubt Jessica’s parentage. She and Lord Jonathan, Eleanor’s second son, were as alike as male and female could be.
Haverford, of course, denied that he’d sired the two girls, and ignored them completely. His solution to the unfortunate results of his careless whoring was to blame the female, a bag of coins (carefully measured to their social position) the only assistance they could expect.
The whole world knows Aldridge is a wicked sinner. They used to be right.
The ton has labelled Charlotte a saint for her virtue and good works. They don’t know the ruinous secret she hides.
Then an implacable enemy reveals all. The past that haunts them wounds their nearest relatives and turns any hope of a future to ashes.
Must they choose between family and one another?
Buy now for delivery on 17 September: https://books2read.com/CMK-ToTame
February 1812
The Marquis of Aldridge was closeted with His Grace. The Duke of Winshire, Charlotte’s grandfather, had permitted no visitors for months, ever since an apoplexy robbed his movements of precision and slurred his speech. But this morning he had agreed to see Aldridge.
“He can’t force you into the marriage,” her twin sister Sarah whispered through the spy hole from the servants’ passage in the wall, when she came to tell Charlotte about the visitor. Whether Sarah meant Aldridge or Grandfather, Charlotte wasn’t sure, but Sarah was wrong. Grandfather had already assured her she would be Aldridge’s bride if she had to be carried into the mansion’s chapel bound and gagged.
“My chaplain will marry you right and tight, without you saying a word, and once Aldridge has his hands on you, you’ll obey him like a wife should or suffer the consequences. The boy takes after his father. He’ll know how to handle a reluctant wife.”
Aldridge wasn’t like that. Was he? Five years ago, when he and Charlotte were friends, she would have been certain of him. But his friendship was a kindness to a child. By the time she was old enough to be in Society, her confidence in men had been shattered, and the whispers about Aldridge’s women had been a minor factor in her adamant refusal of his first two proposals.
This time, though, his father and her grandfather had brokered the arrangement, and the Duke of Winshire was determined to bring the unwilling bride to heel. Charlotte was fighting the match with all her powers, but those were few. “I’ll tell Aldridge why I’m unfit to be a bride,” she threatened her grandfather.
“Do that, and I’ll put you, your sister, and your mother out into the street in your chemises,” the old man promised. “Useless coven of females.”
The danger wasn’t as dire as it sounded. Aunt Georgie would make sure they were clothed and fed, and had a roof over their heads. But Charlotte’s threat was even more toothless. Her work depended on her reputation in Society, but even if she was prepared to lose that, she couldn’t condemn her mother or her beloved sister to forever living on the fringes of the Polite World, hidden from view, their very existence an affront.
Would it be so terrible to be married to Aldridge? Yes, and precisely because he was, in his own way, a decent man. She could very easily fall back in love with him as she had when she was fifteen, and that way lay unending heartache. Even if her own scandal remained a secret, he was a rakehell. She could not expect him to remain faithful to any woman, especially one who hated being touched. To love a man who sought his pleasure elsewhere—however discreetly—would be a kind of hell. And then there was the other…
The key rattled in her door and it swung open at the hands of the tall footman who stood guard over her and followed her everywhere she was permitted. Neither he nor his colleague would meet Charlotte’s eyes. “His Lordship the Marquis of Aldridge awaits you in the green parlour, my lady,” said the one in the lead.
Charlotte briefly considered refusing, but they probably had orders to carry her if she wouldn’t go. She tried for a sort of freedom anyway. “Please tell the marquis I will be down shortly.”
The footmen exchanged glances. “We must escort you, my lady,” said the spokesman.
Might as well get it over, then. If Aldridge was determined to go ahead with the marriage, she would tell him all and let come what may. If she made him swear first not to tell His Grace his reasons for crying off, would he keep his word? He was known for always keeping promises, but most men didn’t believe their honour compromised by breaking promises made to women.
With her mind on the coming interview, she was out of the family wing and on her way down the private stairs before she realised that the halls had been a stirred ant nest of activity, and here, hurrying up to brush past her with a chorus of murmured apologies, came the duke’s covey of physicians.
She turned to watch them ascend and disappear through the door into the family wing. “Is something wrong with my grandfather?”
The quieter of the two footmen replied, “They say he took another fit, my lady. When he was seein’ Lord Aldridge.”
Another apoplexy. Each robbed him of a little more function. She found it hard to summon any pity for the old tyrant, especially since he had undoubtedly set things up to rule them all from beyond the grave. Even if he had not, the unknown uncle who would succeed him was sure to be cut from the same cloth, as had been her father and brother.
If she weren’t so damaged, a dynastic marriage to Aldridge would have been preferable to remaining under the rule of the men of her family. As long as she could avoid the stupidity of falling in love. Kindness and respect lasted longer, and Aldridge was kind to his mother and sisters. Though who knew what a man was really like behind closed doors?
In any case, the point was moot. She would tell him all—or most—and it would be over.
He stood as she entered the parlour. From the artistic disorder of his fair hair to the mirror-gleam of his boots, he was dressed with his usual elegance. His coat fitted his broad shoulders like a glove. The single emerald on the gold pin that anchored his snowy cravat echoed the embroidery on his waistcoat and the glints of green in his hazel eyes. His tight pantaloons lovingly shaped slender hips and muscular thighs. Which she was not going to look at.
He’d chosen a seat on the far side of the room from the door, and he now ordered the footmen to wait outside. “I require a few moments of privacy with my betrothed.” After a moment’s hesitation, they obeyed, leaving the door wide open.
As she took a chair, he murmured, “Are there servant passages near us? Can we be heard if we keep our voices low?”
So that is why he’d chosen a seating group by the outside wall. “Not if we are quiet,” she confirmed.
He was examining her in the way that always made her restless—a steady look, as if he could see her innermost thoughts. “You asked to see me,” she reminded him, to put an end to it.
That broke his gaze. His lids dropped, and he laughed, a short unamused bark. “And you would like to see me in Jericho. Straight to the point, then, Lady Charlotte. Your mother told my mother that you are being threatened with dire consequences if you do not marry me.”
He leaned forward, meeting her eyes again, his voice vibrating with sincerity. “I have never forced a woman, and I don’t plan to do so. I will not take an unwilling wife.”
Charlotte tried to hide the upwelling relief, but some of it must have shown, for he sighed as he sat back, his shoulders shifting in what would have been a slump in a less elegant man. “It is true, then. Given a choice, you will not have me.”
Charlotte had not expected his disappointment, the sorrow deep in his eyes, swiftly masked. Before she could measure her words, she leapt to reassure him. “It is not you. I do not plan ever to marry.”
He grimaced. “That is what my mother tells me. Is there nothing I can say that would change your mind? You would be an outstanding duchess.”
No. She really wouldn’t. Like everyone else, he saw only the duke’s granddaughter, not the woman within. Perhaps, if he had been a man of lesser estate, if he had spoken about affection and companionship, she might have risked it. Not love. Charlotte did not trust love.
Again, he read something of her mind, for he sighed again, and gave her a wry smile and the very words she wanted. “We were friends once, my Cherry, were we not? Long ago?”
Her resolve softened at the nickname he had given her that golden summer, before it all went wrong. “I was very young and you were very drunk,” she retorted.
He huffed a brief laugh. “Both very true. Still, we could be friends again, I think. I have always hoped for a wife who could also be my friend.” He frowned. “Is it my damnable reputation? I am not quite the reprobate they paint me, you know.”
Charlotte shook her head, then rethought her response. His reputation might outrun his actions, but he was reprobate enough, and the lifestyle he brushed off so casually had destroyed her brother. And her, as well, though not through her own fault.
“Not that, though if I were disposed to marry, I would not choose a rake. Marriage is not for me, however.” She should at least hint at the reason. “I cannot be your duchess, Aldridge.” She hesitated. How should she tell him? Blurt it out? Make a story of it?
The words wouldn’t come, and he must have assumed that she’d finished. His social mask dropped back into place, proud though affable. “I have told your grandfather we will not suit. He asked if you had told me what he called ‘your maidenly reservations’, and I assured him I had not spoken with you. I let him think that the marriage arrangement was my father’s idea, and not mine.”
Marrying her had been Aldridge’s idea? Charlotte put that away to think about later. “Thank you. He has had me locked in until I agreed to receive your proposal.”
Aldridge nodded, unsurprised. The mother network must have included that information. “I am afraid my repudiation of the arrangement made him ill again. I’m sorry to say he took a fit.”
Charlotte shrugged. She couldn’t be sorry, even if that made her a horrible person. Again, Aldridge seemed to know what she was thinking.
“He, like my own sire, is too used to everyone leaping to his commands. We can’t let their refusal to brook denial shape our lives any more than they must.” He stood. “Still, I must hope I haven’t killed him. Will you let me know?”
“I will. And thank you.” She held out her hand in farewell, and he took it, turning it over and placing a kiss in the palm.
Once again, his mask dropped away, and something unfathomable stirred in his eyes. “If you change your mind, or if you ever have need of anything I can do for you, let me know, Cherry. I will always come at your command.”
With that, he dropped her hand and strode for the door, leaving Charlotte less happy than she expected. If he had been a yeoman farmer, or a lawyer, or some other humble man to whom she might aspire—someone who did not require from her the primary duty of a peer’s wife—they might have been happy together. But then, he would not have been Aldridge.
To Tame the Wild Rake is the last novel in the series The Return of the Mountain King. Can it be read as a stand-alone? Yes, it can. The main plot line is the romance between the Marquis of Aldridge and Lady Charlotte Winderfield. In this novel, you’ll find out about their history, together and separately, what stands between them, and how it is resolved. And I’ll give you a glimpse of their happy ever after in the epilogue.
If you want to know the full story of the villain’s dealings with the two main families in the book, or the stories of the married son and daughter of the Duke of Winshire, and of Charlotte’s sister, you may wish to read the other books in the series. They’re listed in order at the back and on my web, and on retailer sites, you’ll notice that the novels are numbered on the cover.
Beyond that, I write historical romances set in a complex Regency world of my own imagining, where all the most powerful families know one another, and a main character from one book may be a secondary or background character in another. For example, Aldridge has appeared in more than thirteen of my novels, novellas, and short stories, and not only in this series. When I edit, I have to discipline myself to cut out all the detail about these extra people that doesn’t have anything to do with the plot lines of the particular book I’m writing. I don’t want to confuse new readers. But I know readers of my other books enjoy these glimpses of old friends.
This book has one unresolved plot line from the series. What becomes of the relationship between Aldridge’s mother, the Duchess of Haverford, and Charlotte’s uncle, the Duke of Winshire? That story will be published as Paradise At Last in a three-part set later this year. I’m aiming at 15 December. The set, The Paradise Triptych, will include the duke’s novella, Paradise Regained, the duchess’s memoirs, Paradise Lost, and Paradise At Last.
Action scenes make reading interesting, as long as they make sense. I tend to act things out to see if they would work, which must be hilarious to any invisible bystanders. This week’s excerpt is from the novella I have to have done within the next week. My hero notices a woman being accosted and realises that it is someone he knows. If you have an action scene to share, please pop it in the comments.
He broke into a run. He would intervene to help any woman, but he’d seen that redingote before. Some primitive part of him had no doubt of the identification. Mine! it growled, and when one of the insolent tormenters dared to put a hand on Miss Tavistock’s arm, grinning at his companions, Dom had to fight back a red fog of rage.
Fighting eight men might feed the possessive beast, and he was confident they’d all walk away bleeding. But he couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t overwhelm him in the end, and then what would happen to Miss Tavistock?
He nudged one of the men out of his way and stepped into the circle, already talking, waving the pin he’d just pulled from his cravat. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not think it would take me so long. I found it, though.” He waved the pin with one hand and knocked the offensive hand from Miss Tavistock’s arm with the other, making it look purely incidental to taking her hand inside his elbow.
“When I suggested you stroll ahead, my dear lady, I did not intend you to take the shortcut to your brother’s home. Though I suppose we must hurry. Lord Tavistock will be sending out the servants to find you, and he may never let me escort you again if he finds I allowed you to step ahead of me.”
Several of the men stepped backward when he called Miss Tavistock ‘lady’, which is why he had done it. They fell further back when he mentioned Lord Tavistock. Dom could deal with the rest. Grooms, by the look of them. He raised a single brow as he pretended to notice them for the first time?
“Do you know these persons, my lady?” he asked, allowing his voice to drip doubt as thick as treacle.
“No, Lord Finchley, I do not,” Chloe replied. “I was just declaring my disinterest in any acquaintance.” Clever girl. Dropping his first name to give him a spurious title had several more of the grooms slinking back into their mews.
Dom allowed the other eyebrow to drift upwards as he fixed the ringleader with a glare. “You made a mistake,” he told the man. “Don’t compound it.”
But there’s alway at least one idiot. The man took a swing at him, just as one of the other grooms exclaimed, “Here, that’s Cap’n Cuckoo. Leave ’im be, Ted. That’s Do-or-Die Cuckoo, that is!”
The warning came too late for the idiot, whose blow had missed its target when Dom swayed to one side. The fist came in handy for tugging said idiot away from a collision with Miss Tolliver, which would have been a piece of impertinence too far.
Idiot stumbled a few feet away, propelled by the force of his missed swing, and then roared as he caught himself and turned back towards his tormentor. Oh dear. A bull-brain. The man who had recognised Dom was shouting further warnings at Idiot, who ignored him.
“Would you be kind enough to step to the side of the lane?” Dom murmured to Miss Tavistock, who further showed her intelligence by immediate compliance. She was out of the way just in time. Bull Idiot charged, both fist swinging. Again, Dom shifted out of the way, but this time, he stuck out a booted foot, so Bull Idiot hurtled into the dust of the alley.
He rose again, still roaring. In Dom’s peripheral vision, a few of the remaining bystanders clenched their fists and hunched forward. Those on one side halted at a few words from Miss Tavistock. On the other by the groom who’d called Dom by his old army nickname interposed himself between the would-be assailants and the battle.
Dom was, for a few moments, too busy to pay any more attention to those who were watching, as he allowed Bull Idiot a glancing blow so Dom could get close enough to finish the fight. A kick to the family jewels, a fist to the chin as Bull Idiot bent in half, the side of the hand to the back of the neck as he went down.
Dom stepped over the groaning man and offered his arm to Miss Tavistock. “Shall we continue our walk, my lady?”