“That woman was my aunt. I didn’t have time to explain everything. I wrote you letters but you must have already left Boston. I’ve been fighting a forest fire that raged for weeks. We lost so many lives. My father included.”

“Oh, Ian. I’m so sorry.”

The entire ballroom was transfixed. Mrs. Chandler finally unfroze and surged toward them. “Mr. Murphy, you must leave at once!”

“I said I’m not leaving without Vanessa. She can’t marry this fop of a duke.”

“My title is Your Grace,” said West, giving him a dangerous look.

“Oh, you’re all dainty and graceful, are you? All golden-haired and la-di-da I’m as blue-blooded as they come.”

Americans.

There were outraged gasps around them.

“I’m your one true love, Vanessa, and you know it,” Mr. Murphy said wildly.

“Pummel him, Westbury,” came a shout from the onlookers.

“Demand satisfaction!”

“Call him out, Westbury!” A grumbling groundswell of malcontent.

West laughed mirthlessly. “Take her and be gone, man.”

Mr. Murphy raised his fists. “Damn you, Duke. I’ll take her but I’ll fight you first.”

West assumed a boxer’s stance. If the man wanted a fight, he’d get one.

“Please, Ian,” pleaded Miss Chandler. “May we speak later in private? You’re causing a dreadful scandal.”

Which Lady Dexter was watching with obvious delight.

Mrs. Chandler searched the crowd frantically for her husband, who was presumably still enjoying his port and cigars.

“You’re going to have my sons, Vanessa,” Mr. Murphy said loudly. “And we’re going to build the biggest house in Boston. I inherited everything. I have enough money now to marry you. That’s what I was waiting for.”

The footmen closed in, five of them. “All right, all right. I’m leaving.” He turned his anguished face to Vanessa. “Come with me.” He held out his hand.

West saw the emotions warring on Miss Chandler’s lovely face. One mocking word from Lady Dexter and she’d toss her former love out the door. But Mr. Murphy just kept talking softly to her, telling her about the house they’d have, the children they’d raise, and she melted into his arms. “Yes, Ian, oh yes. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

The American let out a loud whoop, grabbed Miss Chandler’s hand, and rushed her out of the room.

Matrons gaped. Gentlemen shouted.

Mrs. Chandler swooned into the arms of a footman who half carried her toward the door, following her wayward daughter.

True love had won the day. Miss Beaton would be so pleased. West found her in the crowd. She was standing stock-still, her face rigid with shock.

All he’d wanted was to make things right. Make his sisters so wealthy that they would have their choice of eager suitors.

And he’d managed to cause an even bigger scandal.