"What is this? What is going on here?"
The voice was calm, cold, and radiated an authority that imdiately seized control of the chaotic room. It was Duke Philip. He stood in the doorway of the private parlor, his expression one of weary disdain. Anne, who had been bracing for Weston’s attack, looked up and saw him, her own anger montarily forgotten, replaced by a stunned surprise.
Philip used the tip of his elegant walking cane to push firmly against Weston’s chest. It was not a violent shove, but it was decisive and immovable. Weston, caught off balance and completely unprepared for the intervention, fell backward onto the plush carpet with a grunt of surprise, his head hitting the floor.
"Where you about to strike a lady?" Philip asked him. The question hung in the air with no response.
"Oh my, Weston! My child. Are you alright?" Viscountess Penelope rushed to her son’s side, her face a mask of motherly panic as she helped him sit up. " Are you hurt?"
Weston shook his head indicating he’s fine.
Anne was still looking at Philip, her mind trying to process his sudden appearance. Philip, however, was not looking at her. His cold gaze was fixed on her mother.
"Hello again, Baroness," he said, his voice laced with a dry, humorless amusent.
Augusta, who had been frozen in her seat, managed a tight, nervous smile. "Your Grace. We et again"
They’ve t before? Anne thought to herself, a new wave of confusion washing over her. She looked at her mother then looked at the Duke and back at her mother. Her mother moved in circles she knew nothing about.
Philip smiled, a thin, knowing expression. "Are you following by any chance, Baroness?" he asked, his tone mocking. "It seems we frequent the sa establishnts."
"Not at all, Your Grace," Augusta replied smoothly, her composure returning. "A happy coincidence, I assure you."
It was only then that Philip’s gaze finally shifted to Anne. He looked at her, truly looked at her for the first ti. From where she sat, her daringly cut crimson dress left a great deal of her pale skin exposed. His eyes registered her flushed skin, the low cut of her bodice showing the swell of her cleavage, her shoulders, her neck and the defiant, challenging look in her eyes. For a fraction of a second, he saw her not as a person, but as a spectacle. Then, just as quickly, he averted his gaze, a flicker of sothing that looked like distaste or perhaps even embarrassnt crossing his features. He looked away as if seeing her was a vulgarism he wanted no part of.
Weston, scrambling to his feet with the help of his mother, his face red with humiliation and rage, saw his chance.
"You!" he snarled, "How dare you?" He said, preparing to lunge at Philip, the man who had so effortlessly pushed him to the floor.
But Philip didn’t even flinch. He simply reached inside his coat and, with a smooth, practiced motion, produced a small, silver-plated pistol. He didn’t point it. He just held it in his hand, the polished tal gleaming in the soft light of the parlor.
"What?" Philip asked calmly, his voice dangerously quiet. "Do you know who I am? Do you want to fight with ? Should we make it more civil by participating in a formal duel? Because I will be happy to oblige. But do you truly think you would win? What if I miss my target and it hits your mother?"
Then he pointed the pistol at Viscountess Penelope whose eyes widen with surprise and back at Weston who raised his hands in an act of defeat.
The sight of the weapon, the cold promise of violence in Philip’s eyes, was enough. Penelope, terrified, grabbed her son’s arm, pulling him back.
"Baroness Augusta," the Viscountess said, her voice shaking with rage and fear as she turned to face her. "This alliance is cancelled! This entire eting was a disgrace! I will send a letter to your husband to explain this insult and I don’t want to see you, or your ill-mannered daughter’s face, ever again!"
Anne smiled. A genuine, satisfied smile. She had gotten exactly what she wanted. Sabotaging her marriage set up.
Penelope, dragging her fuming but now silent son, stord out of the parlor without a backwards glance.
Augusta’s own smile, which had been plastered on her face, faltered for a second. She had not intended for the alliance to be so completely destroyed so soon. She thought of how Henry will be angry and will fill her ears with never ending complaints when she gets ho. She stood up and hurried after them.
"Wait, Viscountess!" she called out, her voice a desperate plea. "Don’t do this! We can talk about this! Viscountess!"
Anne let out a soft, annoyed sigh as she watched her mother chase after the offended nobles. " It’s not actually needed. Let them go. Argh... how annoying." She murmured to herself.She stood up, intending to follow, but then she stopped. She turned and watched Philip, who was now calmly putting his pistol back inside his coat. He seed completely unbothered by the chaos he had just commanded. He began walking towards the private exit at the back of the parlor, his cane making a soft, rhythmic thud... thud... thud on the thick carpet.
A strange new feeling sparked inside Anne. Intrigue. He was powerful, handso, wealthy, dangerous, and utterly uninterested in the gas she played. He was nothing like the fawning, weak n she was used to.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she called out, her voice softer now, more genuine. "Thank you for your help..."
But Philip didn’t pay any attention to her. He didn’t slow down, he didn’t turn around, he didn’t even acknowledge that she had spoken. He just continued walking, his focus entirely on his own path, the sound of his cane a steady, dismissive beat as he disappeared from the room, leaving her standing alone. Her mind formulating a plan.
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