“Son of a bitch!” Brock massaged his clenched fist. He’d never been a violent man, but Connor had begged for it. No man insulted a woman in his presence, not matter what Brock felt for the woman himself.
The club’s butler rushed toward him, and the men who’d gathered closer to watch now took a step back.
“My lord.” The butler took Brock by the elbow and guided him to a small meeting room next to the card room. “This way, please.”
Brock was aware that White’s frowned upon violence within its walls, and it was common for men to step outside the door when driven to fisticuffs. He glanced over his shoulder one last time before the door to the room closed tightly against the prying eyes of the ton. Men lined up eagerly to place wagers at the famous betting book within the club. He didn’t doubt that speculation would run rampant and only add fuel to the fire for the gossipmongers about town. He only hoped the flames didn’t take both him and Lady Viola down.
The room seemed to shrink as he paced the length waiting for his temper to recede. His long stride ate up the floor underfoot and before he knew it he was turning once again to return to the other end of the room. The walls closed in on him and he struggled to pull the warm air into his lungs. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d ripped off his perfectly knotted cravat and it lay discarded with his jacket.
“Fuck!” He dropped into an overstuffed arm chair positioned in front of a roaring fire and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Bloody hell and damnation.”
The cursing relieved a bit of his anger. What had he been thinking? Yet again, he’d caused a scene—a needless scene, at that. Connor wasn’t worth his time or the possibility of being disbarred from a club his family had been members of for over a hundred years.
Violence wasn’t him. Even during his many years as a soldier he’d sought to resolve conflict in a non-violent way. Why now?
The door to the room slammed open on its well-oiled hinges, knocking into the wall behind it.
Brock jumped to his feet, ready for he knew not what.
“What in the hell happened out there?”
He heard Harold before he saw him.
“Hello? Answer me!” Harold yelled. “What has gotten into you?”
“Close the door, will you?” Brock sighed. “And keep your voice down.”
Harold nudged the door shut with his foot and continued toward Brock. “Keep my voice down? Keep my voice down?” Harold repeated in disbelief. “That is rich. You punch a man in the face—unprovoked, as the story goes at the moment—and you are worried about me raising my voice?” He grabbed Brock by his unbuttoned lapels and shook him.
“Get your blasted hands off me or you will meet a similar fate.”
Harold’s grasp on Brock’s shirt tightened. “Is that your new solution to your problems? To go around striking any person who dares insult you? That is pathetic.”
“No one would dare insult me,” Brock yelled back. “I am Lord Haversham, and I will be respected.”
Harold laughed, but did not release his grip. “You talk about respect, but who have you shown respect to recently? Definitely not your mother’s memory—”
“Do not bring my family into this.” Brock pushed into his friend’s grip, but Harold held his ground.
“That is fine. I can leave your family out of it.” Harold continued to stare hard at Brock. “How about Lady Viola and her family? Was that respect you showed her when you embarrassed her in front of all of society?”
Brock only returned his friend’s hard stare.
“If you are going to hit me, then do it,” Harold whispered. “If that will make you feel better, more of a man, then by all means take your anger and frustration out on me.”
With that comment, the tightness left Brock’s body. He averted his gaze.
“No? Pity.” Harold released Brock’s shirt and moved toward the door.
“Harold,” Brock called as he sank to the chair behind him.
His friend halted but did not turn. “I will see you at home.”
With that, Brock was once again left alone. Utterly, completely, hauntingly alone.