When Braddon bowed at the conclusion of their dance, Chloe smiled at him with an effort. She was having a hard time maintaining a smiling front, given Will’s unwarranted attack. She didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he so angry about her beautiful gown? Chloe had no idea how delectable she looked in the gown, the way every man in the room was practically salivating just to see her. Will saw those men looking at Chloe in the gown, or rather looking at the parts of her that were hanging out of the gown, and it made him feel like a bull set loose in a field of dogs. He saw red.

Even as Braddon dropped his arm from Chloe’s waist, Will grabbed her elbow. She jumped in surprise.

“You again,” Braddon said, rather less affably than he had before. “I was about to escort Miss van Stork—”

“Nowhere!” Will snapped. “She’s busy.”

“No, I am not!” Chloe said sharply, struggling to free her arm from his punishing grip. “I’m not going anywhere with you, you—”

Will’s temper grew. “Yes, you are! If you want to go out on the terrace again, you’ll go out with me!”

Braddon Chatwin looked from one to the other with a sense of regret. Pity: He really liked Miss van Stork. He had been on the cusp of seeing her as the answer to his mother’s prayers. Oh, well, he reminded himself. If he wasn’t the brightest man in London, he had been told several times that he was very sensitive for a man. And what a sensitive man would do in this situation, clearly, was to make himself scarce.

“Miss van Stork, your servant,” he said. “Will.” He bowed regally (she was giving up an earl for a baron, after all) and left.

Chloe raised her chin stubbornly. “Lord Holland,” she said coolly, summoning the self-control acquired during years of attending the best schools without having the best background. “Is there something you would like to say, excluding further commentary on my apparel?”

Will stared at her, nonplussed. “Yes.” He pulled her through the open French windows and onto the terrace.

Chloe looked about quickly. They were well chaperoned; several matrons were sitting at their ease in the cool evening air.

“Well?” she said, in a tone of acute uninterest, pulling her arm from his. Rather than looking up she inspected her arm as if she thought to find bruises already appearing. There was a little silence.