The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Thirteen

The sign above the entrance to the White Hart creaked as it swung in the breeze.

The hinges needed oiling.

Griffin’s wife had said the same about the doors at Sandiford Manor, but he preferred them to creak—it prevented Rowe or Mrs. Ellis catching him unawares. Though, in Mrs. Ellis’s case, he always heard that bloody cane of hers tapping on the floor before she accosted him with yet another tale of Rowena’s misdemeanors.

A fortnight had passed since he’d brought his wife home, and he hadn’t seen much improvement other than meals being easier on the palate. Last night’s steak presented no risk of pulling a tooth when he bit into it. This morning’s scrambled eggs, however, were runny. But, on voicing his opinion, he was met with a lecture on how the French cooked their eggs, while Rowena watched their discussion with interest, no doubt plotting some nefarious scheme of her own.

He glanced up at the sign—a wild hart, prancing in a forest, its white flank reminding him of his wife’s skin, pale against her jet-black hair.

She possessed a wild, passionate heart. He was sure of it. But she kept it well hidden.

Perhaps that was for the best. Louisa had been a passionate woman—she’d driven him mad with desire until he realized how freely she distributed her favors throughout the village.

He opened the door and, as he did each time, averted his gaze from the staircase leading to the guest rooms—the staircase at the bottom of which his late wife had lain, a crumpled heap on the floor, her neck broken.

He had no wish to bring Dorothea here. With her perceptive gaze, just like her brother’s, she’d see the guilt which stabbed him every time he thought of Louisa.

What would she do if she learned the truth about Louisa’s death? What would her brother do? On the day of Griffin’s wedding, Sir Dexter had taken him to one side and threatened to repay him a thousandfold if he hurt so much of a hair on Dorothea’s head.

It was plain to see that Griffin’s wife had no idea of the depth of her brother’s love for her. She must have spent most of her life believing that she was unloved and unwanted.

But Sir Dexter had not given Dorothea to Griffin out of necessity. A man that rich could weather scandal. He must have given her to Griffin because he believed him worthy of her.

He was a formidable man indeed. Why hadn’t Griffin had a friend such as him, rather than…

He shook his head. There was little point dwelling on the past—or on Alex Ogilvie.

With his good looks and charm, Ogilvie had fooled them all. But he’d earned his just reward and now languished in Horsham Gaol, where he could no longer tempt his best friend’s wife to part her thighs.

“Ah! Griff—there you are!”

Griffin turned his back on the scene of Louisa’s death and joined his manager.

“All set for the fight this weekend, Ned?” he asked.

“Cellar’s all stocked, though we’d draw a bigger crowd if you took part.” Ned poured a glass of ale and handed it to Griffin. “Why don’t you bring that pretty wife of yours?”

“The White Hart’s no place for her.”

“Too much of a society miss to dirty her hands?” Ned laughed. “Will you forsake your friends in your ambition to become a gentleman?

“A woman isn’t going to change me,” Griffin said. “Not again.”

“Except where her fortune will be used to renovate this place,” Ned said. “You must agree marriage has its benefits—and she’s easy on the eyes.”

Griffin tempered the flare of jealousy. “Has she been here?”

“I saw her at church on Sunday with your daughter,” Ned said. “I didn’t see you. Are you so free of sin that you’ve no need of absolution?”

Griffin shook his head. “We both know I’ve sinned so much, there’s little point in asking forgiveness.” He pushed the beer glass back to Ned, untouched.

Ned sighed and took the glass back. “What happened to Louisa wasn’t your fault. Alex Ogilvie was to blame.”

“He wouldn’t have taken the goods had they not been offered so freely,” Griffin said.

“You’ve taken enough yourself,” Ned said. “Is that why you’re not fighting this weekend? Because your wife’s afraid you’ll stray? She doesn’t know you as I do, my friend. Why not bring her? I’m sure she’d love to see your talents displayed, and it might increase her…” Ned winked, “…enthusiasm for you, or does she need no help in that quarter?”

“That’s none of your business,” Griffin growled.

“You sound frustrated.” Ned grinned. “She looked a little prim, sitting in church. Does she find the act so distasteful that she insists it’s done under cover of darkness while she lays back and thinks of London?”

“Ned…” Griffin warned.

“Didn’t you tell me that most women were whores underneath? Is your wife the exception? I’ll wager ten shillings that you’ll have her spreading her legs as soon as she hears you unbuttoning your breeches and screaming your name loud enough to wake the dead before the month is out!”

Anger simmered like a bubble and expanded in Griffin’s chest. Ned’s good-natured teasing never bothered him until now—when it was directed at Dorothea. How could he subject her to the crudeness of the White Hart? It was a place he loved—the first inn he’d owned. But it was no place for a lady. The notion of Dorothea turning her prim little nose up at the source of his pride was not something he could bear. He found himself unwilling to expose himself to the risk of having her disappointed in him.

More disappointed than she already was.

“I’ve no intention of finding out whether my wife is a whore or not,” he said.

Ned let out a laugh. “You’re leaving her be? Has the Mighty Oak lost his potency? Shall I help out? You wouldn’t want an unsatisfied wife, and I like ’em posh.”

The bubble burst. With a growl of fury, he reached over the bar, grasped Ned by the collar, and pulled him close until Ned’s body was half sprawled over the bar. The beer glass toppled onto the floor and shattered with an explosion of brown liquid.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” he roared.

Ned’s face tuned pink, and he coughed and sputtered, clawing at Griffin’s hands, his eyes wide with terror.

What the devil was he doing?

Griffin released Ned, who fell back, clutching his throat.

“Forgive me, Ned,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

But he did—and so did Ned.

It was jealousy. Primal, possessive jealousy.

Rather than the resignation he’d felt at Louisa’s adultery, a searing pain ripped through him at the notion of another man touching Dorothea.

She belonged to him, and he’d kill any man who tried to take her away.

Including the man whose return he feared the most. Alex Ogilvie—the man who’d stolen Louisa’s heart.

The man who was Rowena’s father.