The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 12

The ballroom, once a place of celebration, had become a maelstrom of chaos. The guests were caught in a tense silence as Lord Ramson’s sneer deepened, his gaze darting over the faces surrounding him. He was cornered, and he knew it. Yet in the moments following Vincent’s pointed accusation, his pride spurred him to lash out.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Ramson spat, his voice trembling with unrestrained fury. “Well, if it weren’t for that fool of a butler—Mr. Bugsby—your precious life would have been in ruins by now, just as I intended.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd at his words. Constance’s heart skipped a beat, the truth crashing over her with stunning clarity. It had been Ramson all along—pulling the strings, orchestrating every vile attack on their household, including the attempt on her life. Vincent’s suspicions were confirmed, and the look on his face was one of grim satisfaction.

“So, you admit it,” Vincent said, his voice like steel. “You were the one behind the threats, the sabotage, and the attempted kidnapping of my wife.” His tone held the barest trace of triumph, mingled with disgust. “It will be the last time you ever harm another soul, I assure you.”

Vincent glanced at a nearby footman, whose face had paled with shock. “Summon the constable,” he commanded. “Lord Ramson will not leave these grounds except in shackles.”

Ramson’s eyes darted to the exit, and then to Constance, who stood at Vincent’s side. The realization of his impending fate seemed to crystallize into a wild, desperate determination. His face twisted with malevolence as his hand reached inside his coat.

“I will not go down without a fight,” he snarled. And in one swift motion, he drew a pistol, the polished barrel gleaming under the light of the chandeliers. “If I cannot take your happiness, then I shall take her life!”

There was no time to think, only to react. The world seemed to slow as Constance saw the gun raised toward her, heard the sudden intake of breath from the guests, and felt the terror surge through her limbs. Before the scream could tear itself from her throat, Vincent moved, his reflexes honed from years of riding and sport.

“Constance!” he shouted, lunging toward her. His body collided with hers, forcing her to the ground just as the gun exploded with a deafening crack. The sound echoed throughout the ballroom, followed by a horrified silence as Vincent’s body shuddered and then crumpled beside her.

For one terrible moment, the world stopped. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. Constance’s breath was trapped in her chest, her vision narrowing to a singular point: Vincent, lying on the floor, a dark stain spreading across his chest.

“No,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “No!” She scrambled to his side, her hands trembling as she reached for him, for the face that had become the very center of her life.

Vincent’s eyes fluttered open, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Constance…,” he rasped, his hand weakly reaching up to touch her face. “Are you… unharmed?”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she clutched his hand in both of hers. “You foolish man,” she choked, “you took the bullet for me.”

He gave a faint, pained smile. “I promised… I would never let you come to harm.”

Before she could respond, the sudden commotion at the entrance drew her attention. Several constables had rushed in, and with them, two burly footmen, who seized Lord Ramson’s arms and wrestled the pistol from his grasp. He struggled furiously, his face a twisted mask of rage and hatred.

“You cannot arrest me!” Ramson screamed, his voice wild and high-pitched. “You have no proof! You have nothing!”

Vincent, even as he lay wounded on the floor, managed to summon the strength to speak, his voice low but resolute. “We have your confession, Ramson,” he said, his eyes burning with a cold fire. “And there are other crimes—smuggling, forgery—you will answer for them all.”

As the constables dragged Ramson away, the ballroom descended into pandemonium. Guests began to flee in fright or hover anxiously, unsure whether to leave or stay. The once-glittering atmosphere was now shattered, replaced by an undercurrent of dread. Servants rushed forward, calling for a doctor while some of the more composed guests tried to restore order.

Constance did not leave Vincent’s side, even as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She gently cradled his head in her lap, her hands caressing his hair, whispering fervent pleas for him to hold on, to fight.

“You will not leave me,” she whispered fiercely, as though sheer force of will could heal the wound that bled beneath her hands. “You cannot.”

The sound of hurried footsteps reached them, and Constance turned to see the family physician, summoned at last, pushing through the throng with his medical bag in hand. “Let me see him, my lady,” he said gently but firmly, his expression grave as he knelt to examine the wound.

The physician worked swiftly, issuing quiet instructions to a servant who brought clean linens to staunch the bleeding. Constance watched helplessly as the physician’s brow furrowed with concentration. Vincent’s breathing was labored, his skin pale beneath the stark light of the chandeliers. She could see how much he struggled to keep his eyes open, to remain conscious.

When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “I am… sorry, Constance,” he murmured. “For causing you… such pain.”

A tear slipped down her cheek as she held his hand to her heart. “Do not speak of apologies,” she said, her voice trembling. “You will survive this, Vincent. We shall leave this place and put all of this behind us.”

He gave a weak nod, his gaze softening as it remained fixed upon her. “Yes,” he whispered. “We shall… together.”

As the physician continued to work, Constance could only cling to the fragile hope that Vincent’s promise would be kept—that the man who had shielded her with his very life would recover, and that they would find their way back to the happiness that had seemed so close, only moments before.

The night had indeed fallen into disarray, the echoes of Lord Ramson's malice and the chaos he had wrought still reverberating through the ballroom. Yet amidst the darkness, there remained a flicker of light—a love that had endured even in the face of death itself. And it was that light, that undying devotion, which Constance now clung to, praying that it would guide them both safely through the storm.