"What is this? What is going on here?"
The voice was calm, cold, and radiated an authority that immediately seized control of the chaotic room. It was Duke Philip. He stood in the doorway of the private parlor, his expression one of weary disdain. Anne, who had been bracing for Weston's attack, looked up and saw him, her own anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by a stunned surprise.
Philip used the tip of his elegant walking cane to push firmly against Weston's chest. It was not a violent shove, but it was decisive and immovable. Weston, caught off balance and completely unprepared for the intervention, fell backward onto the plush carpet with a grunt of surprise, his head hitting the floor.
"Where you about to strike a lady?" Philip asked him. The question hung in the air with no response.
"Oh my, Weston! My child. Are you alright?" Viscountess Penelope rushed to her son's side, her face a mask of motherly panic as she helped him sit up. " Are you hurt?"
