“I’m so sorry!"

Normally, for a lady who unintentionally trod on a gentleman’s shoe, it was best advised to settle such trifle mishap with a few bats of eyelashes and a coquettish smile, to be followed by a graceful sway on hips for the exit and the harassed toes would be forgotten. On the other hand, for her to tread on a shoe of a certain gentleman whose darkening countenance was enough to make the pluckiest of soul quail, it was very likely that feminine charms wouldn’t do the trick after all.

And the poor Miss Lorrington had the singular misfortune to find herself pitchforked into the latter.

Gulping a copious amount of fluid in her throat, she mustered all the courage to speak once more to the daunting figure who was glowering ferociously down at her. Either because of the pain inflicted by her slipper or on the account of sullying his shoe, there was no reckoning yet.

“I-I’m so s-sorry, my lord! Indeed, it w-was so c-clumsy of m-meee!” said the flustered young lady, her already flushed face turned a shade darker.

“Well, are you quite finished? Then may I suggest to you to get out of my way, for the last thing I wanted is to shove a lady for me to pass,” the gentleman returned ruthlessly.

To be a recipient of such crude response would no doubt offend one’s sensibilities, as it did to Miss Lorrington’s, and consequently prompted a gasp of shock loud enough to turn the heads of pretentious revelers peering from their fluttering fans, or surreptitiously observing the scene behind their glasses. Even the dancing couples’ heads were straying from where they should be, all the while their bodies were twisting and turning on the beat of the music.

Impervious to the reactions drawn by this impropriety, the offending gentleman only lifted one elegant brow and put further the young lady into jitters as he drawled impatiently, “Well?”

For the third time, Miss Lorrington murmured her apology, and with a downcast head, exited his vicinity in a frantic manner quite unwonted for a young woman of graceful bearing. She reached the other side of the ballroom, where a flock of debutantes huddled together, looking very wretched from what had just transpired. The tell-tale flushed cheek and moistening brown eyes were enough to provoked sympathies and outrage amongst the occupants of the circle. The offended young lady, wisely refusing to give in to tears, chose to fortify herself instead with a proffered glass of punch and consolation from her friends.

“But how rude of him, to say such things to you!” exclaimed by one Miss Debery after Miss Lorrington substantially recounted her earlier plight.

“No scruples at all!” Miss Lennox responded, aghast.

“Well, who says he has scruples, pray? Mama said ‘tis a good thing for him to have secured an earldom and pelf, for the rest of him is anything but pleasant!” Miss Debery reasoned with remarkable vehemence. It was received with several eager nods from the party, followed by the fluttering of fans again.

“It wasn’t really my intention at all and I begged his pardon, you see,” explained Miss Lorrington with a catch on her soft voice. “But his face… it was really frightening that it could give me nightmares!”

“There, now, dear!” soothed the other young lady. “Well, goodness knows how one could withstand after coming against his ill-humors! Why, there is—,”

Miss Debery’s speech was cut off, for a startlingly handsome young gentleman presented himself in their little circle and went straight beside Miss Lorrington, “But my dear Miss Lorrington!” interposed the newcomer, clasping the lady’s hand to his heart, “What is this I’m hearing about?A nightmare, you say? Tell me!”

Lord Ethan Wickham was an eloquent young man, whose passionate nature was not unknown to several circles, though apparently regarded with little abhorrence by the objects of his affection: one could not help but notice how Miss Lorrington contrived to be free from his clutches the moment it reached her.

“Indeed, there’s no nightmare, sir! Only there’s Lord Stokeford!”

“Lord Stokeford— that cull! What did he do to you? Where is he?” His eyes narrowed dangerously as they roamed the premises, looking for his quarry.

It was Miss Debery who supplied the answer, and not without a little exaggeration. “Only the most appalling thing, to be sure! Telling her rudely to shove her and all, and glaring at her like she did the very worst thing, when in fact his shoe hasn’t a speck of dust on it!” Apparently the last statement was a bluff; she never really bothered to look for Lord Stokeford and crouch over his shoe to attest it.

"That bastard,” muttered Lord Wickham under his breath, soft enough not to reach the ladies’ ears. His anxious countenance turned into a black look; the young peer was more than ready for a fisticuff. Damn him for inflicting distress on his sweet and fragile muse! And to stand there without doing anything! Yes, by Jove, he would give the Earl a piece of his mind, and after that…

“Well, the deuce take me if I’d let this pass!”

“But Lord Wickham!” Miss Debery was now increasingly alarmed at the young lord’s expression, and mentally begging for some Divine intervention against the imminent outburst. “Whatever do you mean?”

The indignant, and utterly foolish Lord Wickham declared before he could give any true meaning to his words: “I’ll demand satisfaction for offending Miss Lorrington!”

Gracious heavens, worse than fisticuffs after all! Miss Lorrington’s jaw dropped, Miss Lennox’s countenance whitened even more, and Miss Debery’s grey eyes widened.

“NO!” they calmored in unison.

* * * * * * * *

There was no doubt that such riveting conversation never failed to reach the ears of the older patrons from the nearby circle, and no sooner had the young ones exhausted the topic, than Lord Stokeford’s name was being bandied again in a discussion, with the Duke of Carlton being the first to allude it to his companions. “Stokeford’s as stuffy as ever, eh?” said His Grace offhandedly.

“No wonder he’s got bad blood with Wickham. Both stuffy, they are,” replied the Viscount Giles with a smug smile while eyeing the young lord, who was at the moment under the ministrations of the debutantes (whose protestations were presently keeping him from calling out the Earl). The Viscount mused uncharitably that Wickham, possessing more pluck than sense, would never stand a chance against a marksman like Stokeford. Doughty as hound he might be, but Lord Giles would lay a monkey there would be no danger of him damaging a tree limb even at the distance of ten paces.

“All the same, he is a handsome man, I should say. A pity he’s a misogynist!” sighed the coquettish Lady Mathilda.

“Wickham?” asked the Duke incredulously. The lady in return looked at him under her brows and replied rather impetuously, “Why, Stokeford, of course! Goodness, have you ever consulted a dictionary, Duke?"

His Grace made a harrumphing sound at this jab, but wisely curbed his tongue from retorting.

“But he isn’t at all a misogynist!” put in Miss Penningbrooke, shaking her head vigorously. “It’s only rare to see Lord Stokeford in a lady’s company, for heaven knows half of the ladies here in London’s afraid of him!”

“I, for one, am not in the least afraid of him. I daresay those silly debutantes cramming on the wall embodied that half you’re saying,” replied the other lady scornfully.

“No wonder. The man’s scowl is enough to take them to their heels,” the Viscount said and emptied his glass before adding, “And his temper—now, that’s a very formidable thing, indeed!”

Presently, the subject of these heated colloquies was standing idly at the far side of the ballroom, a glass of claret in one hand whilst observing the bustle under puckered brows. He was, of course, completely unaware of someone already contemplating his death at the other end of the room, or those several uneasy glances thrown into his direction. But such ado as this one wasn’t novelty wherever he was bounded, presumably because of his proximity to being a bad ton—something which never went unobserved,(and unremarked for that matter) by the Polite Society.

Oh, not that he was a dashing rogue who tends to dally with innocent women, or sneak in a boudoir of some elderly lord’s wife, or a buck who frequented gaming hells to pile more of his debts. Nor did he engage himself in duels, for no one in his sane mind (excluding Lord Wickham) would be so foolhardy as to call him out, lest be shot dead before sun’s full rising.

But these aforementioned did not delineate his flaws.

Indeed, his fault lies on the other side of the pole. If there was a more splenetic, surly-faced, petulant young man who would likely induced the genteel ladies to scurry away instead of setting their caps at him, and bend the ramrod spines of those who were putting airs, he was none other than Lord Stefan Beaumont, Earl of Stokeford. He didn’t have a gentleman’s grace on his person, nor was he inclined to play gallantry to the opposite sex, or stick to the propriety which a set of good manners was requisite. Everyone doubted he had one, anyway.

Finally, he caught a young fop staring gingerly at him, and in return gave him his notorious black look, whereupon the poor fellow chocked on his wine and had to be patted at the back by his companion to set his breathing aright .

“That wasn’t so nice of you, Stefan,” a gentleman sporting a dark blue superfine coat and cream-colored knee-breeches who just appeared beside him said condescendingly. Lord Robert March, a pleasant-looking young man of easy manners and lively demeanour, was an exact opposite of the otherwise somber and often cantankerous Earl. Nonetheless, however striking were the differences between these two gentlemen, their close attachment was formed way back to their heydays at Eton, and from juvenility to adulthood, the two became inseparable.

“Damn if it was,” Stefan replied without looking at his friend.

“Lord, man, what’s making you blue-deviled now?” At Lord Stokeford’s persistent silence, he continued, without deprecation at his friend’s conduct, “I’ve heard you gave Miss Lorrington a rude cut earlier. Young Wickham’s practically eager to reach for your neck.”

That finally caught the Earl’s attention. “And how the deuce did you know that?”

“If you think the ears around here weren’t as sharp as pike,” rejoined the Viscount wryly, “you’re entirely mistaken Stefan.”

“Ah, and yours too? No wonder,” came the sardonic reply.

Robert chuckled and shook his head. “God, don’t I just know that? I say, isn’t that Miss Winscott?” He nodded to the direction of a lovely blonde girl in primrose ball gown, standing at the opposite side of the wall with a herd of young bloods hovering at her elbow, and a few more crowding just nearby, apparently waiting for a chance to scrape acquaintance.

“Who?” Stefan’s gaze shifted to where his friend’s sight was set. Oddly enough, the moment he laid his eyes upon the person of Miss Winscott, his countenance faintly underwent a transformation: the pall was suddenly dispelled, making the unpleasant creases between his brows disappear. For the first time during the entire evening, Lord Stefan appeared calm and collected.

“Miss Sophia Winscott,” supplied his friend helpfully. “Now, that’s what I call a Beauty! Received seven offers last year, y’know, and no doubt will double the number this time. No way! Is that Melton at her elbow? Devil take that blockhead, he’s got the nerve!”

After a fleeting silence on his part, Stefan finally said, “Suppose you introduce me to her.”

Lord March, who was helping himself with a glass of champagne at the exact moment, was almost in the danger of spitting the liquid out. After some coughs and a few dabbing around the lips, he sent him a dark look. “Dammit, Stefan, couldn’t you choose a more appropriate moment? You nearly got me there!” His grey eyes narrowed into slits as he peered at Lord Stokeford. “You’re not shamming it, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

A boyish grin swept across the Viscount’s face. “And to think that miracles don’t exist! Well, best get yourself out of that pucker, Stefan, if you don’t want to scare the wits out of her before—”

“Stokeford!”

The two men’s heads snapped around, and eventually saw Lord Wickham elbowing through the crowd and heading straight towards them. He stopped at barely five paces away from where they stood, and without so much as a cold greeting, declared rather tactlessly: “I demand an apology on behalf of Miss Lorrington who, as I hope you could remember, has suffered from your rudeness earlier.”

Lord March did not like the word ‘demand’ on his statement, and for that matter, nor did Lord Stokeford, who was now seething with resent about this insolent address. Circumspectly, the former took a step forward, completely barricading Lord Wickham’s way to consign his friend to some self-preservation. “Now, see here, Wickham—”

“And what if I don’t?” Lord Stokeford interrupted.

Lord Wickham’s marble eyes flashed at once and the taunt muscles of his face were twitching from holding back his fury. “Then you are certainly the ill-bred cull I’ve always known you to be,” he said with overt loathing in every word.

Several gasps were heard from the nosy crowd that had gathered around them. Sure enough, such confrontation as of these two hot-headed coves would send everyone on their tenterhooks. The music was slowly dying down, replaced by nervous murmuring.

“And you, Wickham,” said Lord Stokeford with equal asperity, “are a spineless vermin I have the misfortune to encounter.”

It was the only response needed to throw the gauntlet down.

“Very well, then,” came the grim rejoinder of the younger man. “Name your seconds, m’lord!”

Lord March instinctively placed his hands up in front of him. “No, dammit, man, you’re too young to die!”

He sent him a withering stare. “Thank you for the warning, March, but my life’s no concern of yours!”

Lord Stokeford did not bother to respond; he knew very well what he was capable of, and the notion of murdering someone who wasn’t quite handy with pistols clearly did not sound appealing after all. But the thought that Wickham had accomplished in putting a nick on his pride, insulting him like that at a ballroom—of all places!—made him clenched his fists. The bastard should be given a lesson, he thought, and if not in a duel, then fisticuffs would do.

He was about to suggest the very thing, but not before he saw Miss Winscott staring at him with anxious blue eyes, as though they were silently imploring him to desist. She was standing just within his reach, the flickering glow of candles illuminating her lovely, but tense face. It was enough to thaw a block of ice.

Thus, instead of plummeling the young Lord Wickham’s glaring face, he surprised everyone by turning his heels and silently stalked out of the room, leaving gasps and murmurs on his wake.

When he was out of earshot and made a considerable distance from the doors of the ballroom, his mood was as black as the night sky. He felt like a caged animal, wanting to pounce on someone to unleash his fury, launch his fist to a human face over and over again until the cheekbones were cracked and jaw entirely broken. Unfortunately for him, there was presently no one around the hall to be of use as his punching sack, and so he continued to brood along the dimmed hall with echoing steps treading after him until he reached the landing of stairs and leisurely climbed down.

The garden came into view just then, boasting a magnificent hedge maze well-lit with torches at its portal and on every nook inside. The pitched roof of the gazebo at the heart of it seemed to beckon anyone who looked for a moment's tranquility. Lord Stokeford never liked mazes, but what had possessed him to walk straight inside of it, he was damned if he knew. With an unhurried pace, he ambled through the labyrinth, carefully noting his way for fear of getting lost.

Which was so silly of him, of course, because the passages definitely all looked the same.

Suddenly, a muffled female voice broke the silence, crying out, “Sir, please let go of me!”

Fairly mystified, the Earl strained his ears, but could not quite put a finger as to where it came. With mounting curiosity, he pursued his path, gingerly taking his steps to produce as little noise as possible. There was a faint rustling sound, followed by the woman’s—no, most likely a young lady's—voice once more.

“Let me go!”

“But Miss Davis!” Another voice put in, and this time it was definitely male.

“No!”

His gait became more brisk as he made a turn to his left and then to his right, and then another to the left, until he was caviling at the inconvenience of curst hedge grow maze. One last turn to his right, and he finally saw the small yard in front of the gazebo, where a girl, and unmistakably a debutante, was struggling free from the embrace of a young man. He stood at the edge for a fleeting moment to observe, the dark shadows completely concealing him from the view.

“Let me go!” the girl shouted and managed to shove her unwanted escort a good two feet away from her person. He was persistent, though, and in a trice, seized her arms once again. At this point, Lord Stokeford finally closed the distance between them in furtive strides and suddenly clutched the blighter’s shoulder from behind, making him jerk around.

Without so much as a monosyllable for warning, to the girl’s astonishment, his lordship swung his right arm and hurled his fist squarely to the man’s face.