He gave an exaggerated sigh. “You are by far the most respectable pretend betrothed I have ever had.” She had to laugh at how disappointed he sounded—had he expected her to be some sort of Jezebel or Lady Godiva wandering into a ballroom wearing only a horse?

“But I am glad I was here,” he said, nearly baring his teeth again. “He might have said worse if you were a lady on your own.”

And just like that all her amusement at his primal urges disappeared, and she was angry all over again, that he’d be so presumptive as to assume she couldn’t take care of herself, that she required a man to rescue her from situations.

A man was the one who got her into her situation, thank you very much. Without him, she wouldn’t have eloped, or been ruined, or returned to London as an unwed mother.

She’d be one of those debutantes dangling for a husband, perhaps assessing Lord Stanbury here as a potential husband. If she were one of those women, she’d be terrified, not intrigued, by his size and his past. She’d be willing to overlook his rough behavior and occasional lapses in manners because he was a lord, and part of the aristocracy into which she was supposed to marry.

She wouldn’t see his good qualities, like his intense loyalty, his steadfast ferocity, his humor, his abundance of self-confidence.

So he should be grateful she was who she was, and in no need of his protection. Or anything of his, for that matter.

“Should we leave?” A pause, and then he spoke in a soft rasp, so low she had to strain to hear him. “I promise it will be better than this.”

She jerked her head up to stare him in the face. He frowned, as though confused. He didn’t understand how truly angry she was.

“I want to leave, yes,” she said in a normal tone of voice. A few of the people still gawking around them nodded as though in agreement.

“Allow me to escort you home, my lady.” He held his arm out to her, and she nodded as she took it. She hoped he had learned his lesson and wouldn’t attempt to assert his dominance over her again—if she wanted his arm, she’d take it. If she wanted anything else of his, she’d take that too.

Griffith nearly howled in relief as they walked out of the party. They’d only been inside for a few minutes, but it had been long enough to remind him that he hated these kinds of functions, that most people were terrible, and that what he really wanted most was to get her naked and underneath him. Or on top, he wasn’t particular.

“I have a—” he began, only to swallow his words as she cut him off.

“No.”