Isaac had hatched any number of such schemes, but Hecate’s solicitors at the time had had their own agenda for abetting her continued independence, and thank heavens for that.
Johnny seized her other hand. “Tearing myself away from you was the hardest thing I ever did, Hecate, and that is saying a great deal, given the difficulty of life in the wilds of Canada. We shall be married. I will not renounce the agreement, and you must at least give me a chance to win your heart.”
No, I must not. Ten years ago, a promise to return to her, a few letters, a lock of his hair… the slightest indication of loyalty or affection from him would have been enough to convince her of his esteem.
Instead, he’d given her some parting advice and a pat on the shoulder. Now he rivaled Portia in his ability to create false history to suit his present agenda.
“I am unwilling for you to court me,” Hecate said, “much less marry me. The Church of England takes a dim view of a woman being forced to the altar against her will. A very dim view.” Marriage could be nullified in the absence of true consent, though that was a scandalous road to travel.
“Marriage to me will be consistent with your wishes, Hecate. I assure you of that.”
Her only warning was a tightening of his grip on her hands, then he swooped in, got an arm around her shoulders, and was mashing his lips against her cheek.
“John Brompton, what the rubbishing blazes do you think—?”
His mouth landed on hers, and Hecate’s weariness and disbelief were joined by a spike of fear. The torches had been extinguished, the house was abed, and Johnny was much, much stronger than he’d been as a skinny youth in his loose-fitting uniform.
Hecate twisted, trying to aim a knee at the bounder’s cods, but she succeeded only in getting a halfhearted heel stomp to his boot.
Then Johnny was gone.
Hecate braced herself against the bench, dragging in air and preparing to pelt straight for the house, but there was Phillip…
He had one hand in Johnny’s golden locks, the other held one of Johnny’s hands against his back. The pugilists doubtless had a name for that maneuver, while Hecate called it well timed.
“Is this what passes for courting in Canada?” Phillip asked pleasantly. “Brompton, you owe the lady an apology. Your fumbling attentions were clearly unwanted.”
Even in the darkness, Hecate could see the calculation pass through Johnny’s eyes. Phillip had let go of Johnny’s hair, but still had a hand hiked behind him.
“Miss Brompton, I do apologize. I am to blame for misreading the situation, and it won’t happen again.”
Hecate’s fear acquired a leavening of rage. How dare he, and what if Phillip hadn’t come along, and what sort of thanks was this for spending a small fortune and working herself to exhaustion…?
And yet, a Brompton-style tantrum would not do. “Keep your distance from me,” she said. “Lay a hand on me again, and you will long for those wilderness hardships.”
She did her best to flounce off, but hadn’t the energy for a grand exit. By the time she reached her room, she was shaking with a combination of fatigue, anger, shock, and horror. The whole scene had been outlandish, and yet, Johnny had spoken confidently of signed documents. Then too, matrimonial schemes had been Isaac’s dearest preoccupation for several years.
She was nearly too tired to undress and certainly too far gone to do more than take down her hair and fashion it into a single braid. No hundred strokes with the brush or entering the day’s tasks or tomorrow’s challenges in her journal.
What if Phillip hadn’t taken the situation in hand?
Rape wasn’t necessary to compromise a lady. If she screamed for help and was caught in a private situation with a man who looked guilty, tongues would start wagging.
And Johnny had known that.
Hecate climbed into bed, furious in her bones, but grateful too. Phillip had come along. Phillip had sorted Johnny out. Johnny’s stupid, wretched, miserable plan had been foiled, and Hecate was no more compromised than she was engaged to be married.
Johnny Brompton could take his handsome, scheming self straight back to the coldest depths of the worst winter Canada had to offer, and Hecate would wish him Godspeed.
Chapter Thirteen
“You can let go of me, my lord,” Johnny Brompton said. “I’m sure dear Hecate will lock her door against thieves, brigands, and cousins overcome by passion.”
Phillip let loose of Brompton reluctantly. The problem wasn’t that Brompton required further restraint, but rather, that while keeping hold of him, Phillip could resist the temptation to beat the rotter bloody.
“Does the English language work differently in Canada?” Phillip asked. “Does ‘I am unwilling for you to court me’ suggest the lady was inviting your advances? Did her struggles to free herself somehow translate into welcoming your assault?”
Brompton tossed himself onto the bench and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I rushed my fences. I don’t deny it. Badly done of me.”
He’d not rushed his fences. He’d crashed straight through them, destroying all in his path.
“You have to admit,” Brompton went on, “a woman sometimes protests too much.” He tried for a smile of manly self-deprecation.
Phillip, instead of calming down, was growing angrier. What if he’d not heard Hecate relocking his door? What if he’d tarried a few minutes more to don waistcoat and neckcloth? What if Brompton had trailed Hecate and accosted her in her very bedroom?
“Miss Brompton was not protesting,” Phillip said. “She was making it absolutely clear that your advances were unwelcome. You are not to touch her, not to be alone with her, not to impose on her in any manner whatsoever.”
“That will be a bit difficult, given that we are engaged.”
“She told you she has no intention of being coerced to the altar.”
Brompton looked up at Phillip. “What are you doing wandering about the garden, half undressed, at such an hour? Were you eavesdropping? Waiting for your own opportunity to persuade Hecate to the altar?”
“I was stopping a rapist from committing a hanging felony.”
Brompton made a face. “You’re gentry, aren’t you? Despite the courtesy title. Gentry can be so uppish. I would not have raped her. Rape can get loud. A man has to be furious to make a proper job of rape. I’m not furious, I’m besotted. There’s a difference.”
Phillip would have said the Bromptons generally were lazy, scheming, venal, and shallow, but their nastiness was petty. They were too lazy for true evil.
Johnny’s casual assessment of the conditions conducive to rape, his reference to making a proper job of violating another person, put him in a different league. He was not a garden-variety Brompton, but rather, a man whose ambitions had honed self-centeredness into arrogance and determination into ruthlessness.
“You don’t need Miss Brompton’s money, apparently,” Phillip said, “so why court scandal by forcing yourself on her?”
“She would have come around,” Johnny said as casually as if his horse would have won the match, given another furlong. “She will come around. The law is on my side.”
He was too smug, too sure of himself. If Phillip remained in his presence, he’d pummel Brompton flat. Hecate wouldn’t appreciate the drama, but the feel of Phillip’s fist plowing into the Canadian Casanova’s chiseled jaw would have been delicious.