Free Marry Me by Heidi Wessman Kneale Page B

her in a circle alone with Mr. Elliott.
    She had to stand on her own. She fought her nerves. Why did everyone have to look at her?
    But wasn’t this what she wanted? To be noticed, to be heard?
    Time to say what she wanted to say, nice and loud.
    “I don’t know who you think you are, but you and I are not together.” She looked about her audience. A few of them whispered together, but otherwise, all eyes were on her. “We never have been.”
    Mr. Elliott was also very conscious of the crowd. He gave a nervous chuckle. “What are you talking about?” He approached her. She stepped back. The crowd moved accordingly. Seemed they didn’t want to succor the mad woman who screamed in public.
    Millie held up her hand. “You might have fooled my mother, but you cannot fool me. I’m on to your tricks.” Time to set him straight. “I am here with Mr. Raymond Wilson, a far better man than you.”
    At this the crowd rumbled and a few even chuckled.
    That stuck in Mr. Elliott’s craw. “What? That loser? You can’t throw me over for him. Haven’t you noticed he’s got a pra-pra-problem?”
    Millie balled her hands. “Oh, you did not just say that.” She advanced on him. Wouldn’t it feel good to plant her fists into his face? “He is one of the most honorable men I have ever met.”
    “Hear, hear,” cried someone from the crowd.
    Millie wasn’t finished. “He is far more honorable than you. He actually cares what I have to say. I’d much rather marry him than have anything to do with you, you greasy lout!” There. She’d called him a name and in public, too.
    A rumble rolled through the crowd. Millie looked about. Quite a fine assembly surrounded her in all their evening splendor, bending close to murmur in each other’s ears and to point. Oh, they kept it as discreet as possible, but the flicker of fingers in her direction was unmistakeable. The light-hearted music from upstairs drifted down, mocking the gravity of the situation.
    The quiet comments of the spectators washed over her, but one in particular caught her attention.
    “Raymond,” said Mrs. Chandler. “You didn’t tell me that.”
    Millie turned around. There were the Chandlers, conversing closely. Next to his sister stood Raymond, two glasses of champagne in his hand and a surprised look on his face.
    The moment she saw him, Millie clamped her hands over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She hadn’t meant to say it at all.
    Raymond’s lips twitched. He murmured something to his sister, something Millie couldn’t hear, and handed over the glasses.
    A hand fell on Millie’s arm, jerking her back. “We’re going,” Mr. Elliott growled in her ear.
    Raymond advanced, stripping off his evening jacket. “Hands o-o-off-f m-m-my—”
    But Mr. Elliott did not relinquish his painful grip on Millie. “Oh no, Wa-Wa-Wilson. She’s mine.”
    “I’m not.” Millie kicked at him again, but this time he was prepared. Effectively side-stepping her assault, he backed toward the door.
    Raymond dropped his jacket on the floor. He threw a punch at Mr. Elliott.
    Elliott, not expecting the attack, grabbed even harder to Millie’s arm, dragging her down.
    As Mr. Elliott released her, she stumbled and fell, onto Raymond’s jacket.
    Something small fell out of a pocket—a candy heart. She grabbed it and the jacket and scooted out of the way, tripping on the hem of her pink evening gown. A few gentlemanly hands caught her and lifted her up, then melted back into the crowd, leaving her alone.
    The crowd formed a circle as Raymond and Mr. Elliott squared off.
    Several of the gathered women cried out in surprise and retreated to the safer perimeter of the room. The men surged forth in eagerness, decorum slipping away at the prospect of a juicy fight.
    Behind her, Millie heard someone wager, “Two bits on Wilson.”
    His fellow replied, “No thanks. Wilson will wipe the floor with that doorknocker.”
    Millie hugged Raymond’s jacket tight.