It may be from one of my published works or a work in progress. Sometimes, if the muse hits, I might post something new and fresh that popped into my brain. This is a good way to keep my writing muscles flexed and ready. We all know I need this after the six month hiatus I've been on.
So, without further ado, my first Thursday Three Hundred.
Max sat at one of the small tables and opened the well-worn Bible he’d pulled from his valise. He’d gone into the library to spend a few minutes of quiet time before leaving for Pemberley. A heavy sigh lifted his shoulders and with his hand resting on his most treasured possession, other than his wife, he released his breath, letting frustration and worry expel alongside.
“Lord, have I lost everything? My lack of trust in Georgiana has caused such a rift in our families. I need a miracle of biblical proportions to win back her love.” He glanced down at the Bible, opened to the book of Joshua. “Joshua faced many enemies, but never wavered in his trust. I need the fortitude and faith of Joshua, Lord, to slay the giant of my pride.”
He closed his eyes in contemplative silence, opening them only when the door crashed open. Viscount Ashton burst into the room; anger etched deep in his face.
“Your Grace, I apologize. I explained to the Viscount you were not receiving.” His butler, clearly distraught, followed Ashton into the room.
“It’s all right, Benson. You may go.”
With a polite bow, Benson left the room, closing the door behind him. Not sure what the Viscount would say or do, but willing to receive a verbal chastisement, Max stood.
Ashton moved so fast, Max barely had time to blink before Georgiana’s irate cousin had his throat clutched in a deadly grip. Gasping for breath, he struggled to break free from the larger man’s strangle hold.
“You may have wrestled with younger brothers, your Grace,” Ash leaned close to his face and growled, his breath hot on Max's cheek, “but Darcy, Richard and I grew up with Wickham.”
For the first time in his life, ice cold fear crept through his veins and snaked around his heart. The venomous hatred in Ash’s voice, as well as the unspoken truth that anything learned from George Wickham was underhanded and foul, cautioned him to tread lightly. He tried, unsuccessfully, to twist out from Ash’s hold.
“You abandoned my cousin” – the fingers squeezed again – “sentencing her to solitary confinement without so much as telling the prisoner her supposed crime. Darcy is too much of a gentleman to attack you physically. Richard would run you through with his sword, but as a Colonel in his Majesty’s military he’d face court martial and possible deportment, if not the death sentence. I, on the other hand, have no plans of ever marrying and carrying on the Matlock name. It would be my honor to make Georgiana a widow.”