St. Clare followed Maggie’s startled stare. The smile faded from his lips as he brought their dance to an untimely close. “Mr. Burton-Smythe. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Fred’s muscular bulk filled the doorway. The light from the ballroom illuminated his reddening face. He was angry, and getting angrier by the second. A big brawny bully unchanged by time or circumstance. “Get your hands off of her.”

St. Clare was slow to obey, only gradually loosening his arm from Maggie’s waist. He still held her hand in his. He was loath to let it go. “How is your shoulder these days?”

“I said unhand her.” Fred’s voice was practically a snarl.

Maggie’s hand slipped free from St. Clare’s as she moved between them. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fred. We were only waltzing.”

St. Clare stood behind her, towering over her small frame. The tableau the three of them presented was visually ludicrous. Both he and Fred dwarfed Maggie in height and breadth. Yet she behaved as if she were physically strong enough to prevent the two of them from coming to blows. As if the mere fact of her feminine presence could restrain them.

In other circumstances, St. Clare would have been tempted to laugh. But he didn’t feel much like laughing now. Indeed, he was glad Maggie couldn’t see his face. All traces of warmth were gone. He felt quite cold to the heart. “A wound like that, it must be exceedingly painful to move your arm. Any luck yet driving your curricle? Holding your whip?”

“I’m recovered enough to protect what’s mine,” Fred replied through gritted teeth. “Come here, Margaret.” He beckoned her to him with an imperious flick of his fingers. It wasn’t too dissimilar from the way a farmer might summon his dog.

“Really, Fred,” she objected. “I—”

“Now.”

Maggie reluctantly crossed the terrace, her spine stiff with dignity. “You needn’t make a scene,” she said under her breath. “Nothing untoward was going on.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Fred caught hold of her arm and hauled her the rest of the way to his side.

She sucked in a sharp breath at his rough handling.

And St. Clare saw red.

He strode forward. “Let go of her.”

“Don’t!” Maggie turned to block his path. “You’ll only make things worse.”

St. Clare came to an unwilling halt. A smoldering rage built within him, long banked but never extinguished. It wouldn’t have taken much more provocation for him to pitch Fred straight over the rail of the terrace. “Let go of her,” he said again. The fingers of his right hand curled into a fist. His knuckles cracked. “I dislike repeating myself.”

Fred relinquished Maggie’s arm. “Go back inside, Margaret.”

“She’s not yours to command,” St. Clare said.