Especially as he was apparently a friend of Lord Torrington’s. He who had almost-kissed her, who without provocation let alone permission had deliberately teased her in her own front hall.
The moment flared in her mind; her nerves tensed…
Ruthlessly, she bundled the memory aside—he probably did such things all the time. She refocused on Adriana and her court. Adjusting her parasol, she strolled on.
She had no warning, no premonition of danger, until she heard herself hailed in a voice that cut like a whip.
She whirled, but Torrington was already upon her. Hard fingers closing manacle-like about her elbow, he swung her around and marched her down the lawn, away from the carriageway.
“What—?” She tried to free her arm, but couldn’t. She glared at him. “Unhand me, sir!”
He ignored her. He strode on, forcing her with him; she either had to keep up, or stumble and fall. His face was set like stone, his expression unforgivingly grim. Thunderclouds would have looked more comforting.
She glanced back at the others, strolling on unaware. “Stop! I have to watch over my sister.”
He glanced briefly at her—too briefly for her to read his eyes—then lifted his gaze and looked back at the others. “She’s with Manningham. She’s safe.” Looking forward, he growled, “You aren’t.”
He’d lost his senses. She tugged against his hold, then dragged in a breath. “If you don’t stop this instant and let me go—”
Abruptly, he did both. She’d been strolling along the periphery of the fashionable throng; they were now in an area where no others were walking. They were out of earshot of everyone, too far from the carriageway for any to discern even the tenor of their exchange.
On top of that, he stood squarely between her and the rest of the ton. Cutting her off from the world. Stunned, she raised her eyes to his face.
His black gaze impaled her. “What was Ruskin blackmailing you about?”
She blinked; her eyes grew wide. The world lurched and fell away. “Wh—what?”
He gritted his teeth. “Ruskin was blackmailing you. About what?” His eyes narrowed to obsidian shards. “What was the hold he had over you?”
When she didn’t answer, couldn’t get her wits to stop whirling quickly enough—dear God, how had he found out?—his jaw set even harder. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands clench; locking eyes, she sensed he wanted to seize her, shake her, but was exercising quite amazing restraint.
“Was. He. Blackmailing you?”
The words were uttered with such force they dragged the answer from her. “Yes—no! That is…” She stopped.
“Which?” He took a half step nearer, towering over her, menacing, intimidating. Aggression poured from him.
And ignited her temper. She straightened to her full height, tipped back her head, met his piercing black gaze. “Whichever, it is no concern of yours.”
“Think again.”
The low growl skittered over her nerves; she dug her heels in even deeper. “I beg your pardon?” Outraged, she held his gaze, absolutely determined not to quail. “You, my lord, are skating on thin ice. Don’t think to browbeat me!”
For an instant, they stood, all but toe to toe, certainly will against will, then, to her surprise and immense relief, he eased back. Reined in the sheer male power that beat against her senses.
Yet he didn’t shift back; his eyes didn’t leave hers. When he spoke, his tone was dark, definite, but harnessed, fractionally more civilized.
“I’ve been asked to investigate Ruskin’s death. I want to know what your connection with him was.”
She stared. “Why? Who—?”
“Just answer the question. What was your connection with Ruskin?”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “We didn’t have any—I told you!”
“Yet he was blackmailing you.”
“No—at least, not in the way you mean.”