But for now, he had no idea what he’d just done.
And she had mere seconds to undo it.
She glanced over her shoulder, meeting Priya’s eyes, then Tamsin’s. They rushed forward to join her without a word, as the surprised silence swallowed the cheerful chatter around them. It didn’t last, of course. The musicians played on, but the dancers nearby stopped in their tracks. A lady dropped her glass and it shattered, spattering red wine. Men punching each other was generally reserved for bouts in the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s or late night rambles between pubs. There were gasps, exclamations.
Eaton sprawled on the floor, red with shock and fury. Dougal stood over him, perfectly at his ease. As if he barely noticed the reactions of the aristocrats all around him.
Tamsin was the first to reach them. She fluttered like a butterfly, touching Eaton’s shoulder, his red cheek. Meg knew better than anyone that she was deftly getting in his way, preventing him from leaping to his feet.
Priya was next, then Meg. Then the other debutantes, pressing lace handkerchiefs dipped in ice water at him. He preened, tossing his perfect curls off his forehead. There was blood on his cravat. Meg was fiercely glad for it. Even if it was unladylike of her. She could feel Dougal’s eyes on the back of her neck as her hands joined the others, soothing, patting, flattering.
Eaton ate every morsel of the attention like it was an apple cake.
“What the bloodyhell?” Dougal muttered, watching Meg kneel on the ground in her beautiful, embroidered gown.
For Eaton.
He hardly expected her to bring him roses for an act of violence on the dance floor, but nor did he expect her to comfort the very man she’d bared her teeth at not two hours before. And just when he’d thought she wasn’t as cracked as the others.
The disappointment was far sharper than their short acquaintance warranted.
And yet there it was.
He ignored the stares of the other guests. And the footman, who hovered, confused. One did not throw a duke out of a ballroom.
But on the other hand, dukes did not often punch earls in that same ballroom.
“Now you’ve done it.”
Dougal had not heard Captain Henry Talbot approach. He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall, the perfect picture of a languid aristocrat comfortable touching gold silk wallpaper. Except for the eyes, which seemed to never stop cataloging his surroundings: window, door, fireplace. It was a common enough pattern in the dodgier pubs, but Dougal had not expected to find it here, on a grand summer estate.
Then again, he had hardly expected to find himself with a similar garden summer estate to his name.
“That was a brilliant bit of entertainment,” Henry said. “But I should warn you, it’s not quite the thing.”
As if he didn’t know that.
As if he cared.
“He insulted Miss Swift.”
Henry sighed. “Yes, I imagine he did. Git.” He shot Dougal a sidelong glance. “Found the wagering room, did you?”
He wasn’t nearly angry enough. “I thought Me—, that is, Miss Swift, was your friend.”
“She is. But if you punch him again, which I can see you’re itching too, she might thank you by punching you.”
“And?” He failed to see the problem. She’d been insulted. Several women had.
“And then she’ll punch me for not stopping you.” Henry half smiled. “You seem a decent enough chap but I’m not keen on taking one of her punches for you.”
“Does she punch you often?”
“She doesn’t have to. She’s surprisingly strong.”
“She’s like a willow branch,” he scoffed. And still fussing about Eaton as he rose to his feet.
“Maybe, but she’s also meaner than she looks. She used to put spiders in my shoes when we were little. And once when we were quite a bit older, come to that.”