The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Eleven

“How do you find your new home?” Griffin asked.

His wife looked up from attempting to cut her steak.

“Very pleasant, thank you.”

Pleasant. Ugh.Since he’d returned to the house that evening, she’d presented him with the dull, staid persona of the spinster aunt.

Where had the passion gone? During the ride to Sandiford, he’d watched her while she slept. She’d changed into her traveling clothes during a brief stop at her brother’s townhouse before they continued on to Sussex. The plain gray gown had not quite concealed her form, but she’d covered herself with a shawl as if the thought of him seeing her body disgusted her.

But as she slept, the shawl had slipped from her shoulders to reveal her form.

Her very delectable form.

What might she look like spread before him?

Shortly before they’d arrived, she’d let out a soft moan. There was no doubt she’d been dreaming of a lover, the way the skin at the swell of her breasts turned a delicate shade of pink. He could swear he’d spotted two little peaks poking at the material just below her neckline, and his mouth watered at the prospect of suckling them.

Then she murmured a name.

“Hercules…”

Who the bloody hell was Hercules? Her lover?

He’d shaken her awake, his touch roughened by jealousy, and a glimmer of shame crossed her expression before she’d smoothed it away.

She resumed her attention on her steak, attempting to slice her knife through it. But Griffin had learned over the years that Mrs. Morris’s steaks were tough enough to defend themselves against most items of cutlery.

“I trust Sandiford Manor isn’t too—rustic—for your tastes,” he said.

She slipped, and her knife clattered to the floor.

Rowe gave a snort of laughter. He shot her a warning look, but she pulled a face, then resumed her attention on the plate in front of her.

Dorothea held up her steak, impaled on her fork—which was now bent at the head—then she dropped it on the plate.

“The building itself is to my taste,” she said. “As to everything else, I’ll keep my opinions to myself for fear of giving offense.”

Rowena pushed her plate away. “May I be excused?” she asked. “I’m not hungry.”

“No,” he said.

“But I’m tired!”

“Rowena, you must show more respect to your…”

“Let her go!” Dorothea snapped.

He opened his mouth to chastise his wife, then caught the distress in her eyes. It wouldn’t do for Rowena to observe them arguing—and Dorothea had endured enough for today.

“Very well,” he said. “But go straight to your chamber, Rowena. No more antics, or you’ll be sorry.”

She drew back her chair and exited the room. His wife sat, staring straight ahead.

“Mrs. Morris makes a good apple pie,” he said. “Perhaps that’ll be more to your taste.”

She remained still, almost as if she’d not heard him, then she sighed. “There’s much we need to discuss about the house.”

“So, it’s not to your taste?”

“Not in terms of how it’s run.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can see that,” she said. “For one thing, Mrs. Ellis shouldn’t occupy both positions of housekeeper and governess. And the cook shouldn’t serve supper.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not done!”

“Why? Because it’s frowned upon by society?”

“The society into which you want your daughter to be accepted,” she said. “Her education is not purely through instruction or discipline, but it also comes from the environment in which she’s raised. I take it that not only do you wish for her to learn the manners of a lady, but you wish for her to be comfortable in a lady’s environment?”

He couldn’t argue with that, but did she have to explain it in such a condescending manner?

But then, he’d not shown her much civility or acted the gentleman himself.

“Clearly defined roles exist to enable perfection,” she continued. “I rather wonder at Mrs. Ellis’s skills in either of her roles. As for Mrs. Morris…” She nodded to her discarded steak as if to prove a point. “If she confines her role to the kitchen, she can perfect her skills there. Has it never occurred to you that, while she’s serving the steak, her apple pie might be burning?”

“And you have the answer?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll need to inspect the ledgers and interview the rest of the staff to understand where need exceeds capacity, but this house is the same as my brother’s townhouse, except that it’s larger and therefore needs a larger staff.”

“Do you intend to waste my money on staff we don’t need?” he asked.

She tipped her head up, a determined set to her jaw.

“Your money?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m head of this family and should have the final say in how the money is spent.”

“You couldn’t wait to be parted from me the moment you arrived here,” she said. “Why should I defer to you?”

“Because you’re my wife!”

She flinched at his outburst, then sat back and nodded. “Forgive me for forgetting that our marriage is just another of my brother’s business arrangements where I’m merely the goods.”

Frustration laced her tone and something else.

Thwarted ambition.

“Dorothea…” he began, but she interrupted him.

“I’m tired,” she said.

“Then I suggest you retire.”

She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, nodded, and stood, scraping her chair back. She smoothed down the front of her dress, then exited the dining room, almost colliding with Mrs. Morris in the doorway.

The cook bobbed a curtsey, deposited the apple pie on the table, then cleared the plates.

At least he had the pie to himself, which he knew, from experience, he’d be able to eat without breaking his teeth.

Unlike that damned steak.

*

Thea dismissed hermaid and looked about the bedchamber. The burning fire couldn’t disguise the tell-tale smell of mold.

At least the room was warm, and the bed a good size.

She flushed as her train of thought led her to the image of two naked bodies locked in passion beneath the covers.

Or might he take her on the floor? The hearth rug was large enough for two. Meggie had once let slip that Dexter had, on impulse, spent half the night loving her on the bearskin rug beside the fireplace and, despite complaining about friction burns on his knees, he’d enjoyed it enough to indulge in the activity several times since.

She tugged at the laces on her nightrail. Would her husband prefer her naked when he visited her? Or would he wish to undress her himself?

She approached the bed, drew back the covers, and gave a start.

A huge, brown toad sat in the center of the bed, staring balefully at her. She folded her arms and stared back, and the toad crawled backward.

The poor creature was more afraid of her than she of it.

She scooped it into her hands.

“Good evening, little fellow,” she said. “There’s no need to fear me. I’m a newcomer here, just like you.”

The creature continued to stare out of its bulbous eyes.

“I fear you wouldn’t thrive indoors,” she continued. “While I relish the prospect of a fire and a warm bed, you’ll be more comfortable near a pond or concealed beneath an obliging rock in the garden. Shall we go in search of one?”

The animal blinked.

“Very good,” she said. “Perhaps you could teach my husband a lesson in communication—you’re considerably more accomplished in the art of it.”

She giggled to herself, then slipped on her shoes and tiptoed out of her chamber.

The house was quiet, save the occasional clang of pans. Most likely poor Mrs. Morris was in charge of cleaning the crockery, too. Thea’s first task would be to find her some help. That steak was appalling, though the aroma coming from the apple pie had made her mouth water, even if she’d nearly sent it flying tonight when she’d bumped into Mrs. Morris.

What was Mrs. Ellis playing at? She had no idea how to keep a house—or, from what Thea had seen—govern a wayward child.

Though the sun had already set, the air was still warm. Thea slipped into the back garden and picked her way toward the far boundary, where the fading light found the smooth surface of a pond, broken by the occasional ripple of a fish. A perfect sanctuary for her new friend. She placed the toad beside the water’s edge, and he crawled toward a rock. Then he let out a deep croak.

“You’re welcome!” She laughed.

She looked back toward the manor and noticed a glasshouse built against one end, which had been invisible from the front entrance. A hothouse, perhaps? Tomorrow she’d explore the house on her own, to assess the enormity of the task which lay before her as its mistress.

Not to mention the task as Rowena’s stepmother.

As she crossed the lawn on her return journey, a silhouette appeared in one of the upper-floor windows. She stopped and looked up, and the silhouette darted out of sight, then reappeared.

Smiling to herself, she slipped back inside the house, returned to her bedchamber, and waited for her husband.

An hour later, heavy footsteps approached her chamber, and a shadow appeared under the doorframe. Her skin tingled in anticipation of his hands on her, and she held her breath and waited. Her body grew warm, with the faint pulse in the secret place between her thighs.

Would he touch her—there?

The shadow moved, then it disappeared, and the footsteps receded.

His cold words the day he’d offered for her returned to taunt her.

As to the more intimate matters associated with marriage…I’ll leave you be.

He didn’t want her.