The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Fourteen

Thea sat at the escritoire and began to write.

Dear Meggie,

Sandiford Manor is very pleasant, and I have much to do here. The gardens are larger than yours, and the apple trees need pruning. Shortly after I arrived, I discovered a pinery. You must come and visit so that I can show it to you. If Dexter can spare you, I should very much like you to come next month…

Coarse laughter echoed from outside. Thea lowered her pen and glanced out of the window.

Rowena was hanging upside down from an apple tree, her petticoats on full display.

It was no coincidence that the girl had chosen the tree within sight of the parlor window.

But at least Rowena noticed her.

Her husband barely spoke more than ten words to her each day—five to wish her good morning, and another five to bid her goodnight. Each night, like a lovesick fool, she waited, hoping he’d visit her. But as each night passed, she grew more assured of his disregard—that he viewed her as nothing more than a companion for his daughter.

There had been some progress with Rowena. Rather than force a relationship, Thea hoped that her silent, reassuring presence and touches of regard might make the girl soften toward her. She’d taught Mrs. Morris to make shortbread and, though Rowena had initially refused a piece, Thea spotted her stealing a biscuit when she thought nobody was looking. The girl needed to be shown that someone cared for her rather than be told. And, as with anything, showing always took longer than telling.

Rowena might pretend indifference, but Thea often spotted the girl watching her. And on many days—such as today—Rowena seemed to ensure that her misbehavior was within Thea’s eyeline, often showing visible frustration when Thea didn’t react.

Once Rowena learned—through experience, rather than being lectured—that Thea would ignore such nonsense rather than make a fuss about it, the wall she’d erected round herself might crumble and reveal the personality within. Rowena was like a tree, and a tree needed to bend and grow, not as Mrs. Ellis clearly wished, to have her branches savagely pruned until she broke.

Rowena valued her own space, and Thea had no wish to encroach upon it until she was invited. When Mrs. Ellis had taken her to the pinery, Thea had spotted the telltale signs of occupation—scuffs in the dust, a thumbprint on the glass of the door, and a blanket neatly folded in the corner with two books on top—a book of Byron’s poems and, if Thea was not mistaken, the same book of anatomy she’d spotted Rowena procuring from the library.

Thea glanced at the words she’d written on the page, then scrunched up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace.

Bland pleasantries wouldn’t fool Meggie. Thea needed to open her heart to someone, or she’d lose her mind.

And opening her heart in a letter meant that she had to admit to herself what she wanted—what she needed.

She wanted him. The Mighty Oak—her Hercules—the demi-god who’d strutted across the ground, wrestled his opponent into the dirt, then stood and roared his victory, like some great beast—the man who’d warmed her blood into a raging inferno of need.

She wanted him to want her back.

She wanted to experience the unbridled ecstasy that made women scream a man’s name.

How could she articulate that in a letter?

Someone knocked on the door, and she called out. A young maidservant entered, carrying a tray of tea. According to Miss Ellis, Betsy was a foolish and lazy girl. But since Thea had offered her a full-time, live-in position as housemaid, she’d found her intelligent and willing to work.

“Come in, Betsy,” Thea said. “Put the tea on the table.”

“Sorry I was late, ma’am. I was busy with Mrs. Ellis’s tea. She wanted it earlier than usual, on account of her nerves.”

Thea sighed. “Mrs. Ellis’s nerves cause a great deal of work for everyone else. I’ll speak to her.”

“I wouldn’t want to cause no trouble,” Betsy said.

“It’s no trouble,” Thea said, “at least not for anyone other than Mrs. Ellis.”

She rose and exited the parlor.

She found Mrs. Ellis asleep on a chaise longue. Judging by the smile on the woman’s face, her nerves were in perfect working order.

Beside her on the table was a plate laden with shortbread biscuits.

The same biscuits Thea had spent yesterday afternoon baking for Rowena.

Thea stood in the dark of the doorway and cleared her throat.

“Ahem.”

Mrs. Ellis’s eyelids fluttered open, and she sat up, her face creased into sourness.

“How many times, Betsy, did I tell you…”

Thea stepped into the light, and Mrs. Ellis drew in a sharp breath.

“What did you tell Betsy, Mrs. Ellis?”

“I asked her to wake me when it was time for Rowena’s next lesson.”

“It’s after four, Mrs. Ellis,” Thea said. “Rowena’s been outside since luncheon. Or did her lesson involve an exploration of the grounds while you slept?”

“She’s been a tiresome child today, Mrs. Oake. I can only endure so much of her incivility.”

“I’ve seen nothing more than the antics of a normal, spirited child,” Thea said.

“If I’m permitted to be frank, Mrs. Oake, you seem ignorant to her faults.”

Insolent woman! “Mrs. Ellis,” Thea said, keeping her voice calm though she longed to scream at the woman, “I understand the difference between frankness and incivility.”

Mrs. Ellis reached for her cane and stood. “I meant no offense.”

“Nonetheless, your remark was received as such.”

Thea fixed her gaze on Mrs. Ellis, and the two women stared at each other. At length, Mrs. Ellis averted her gaze. Like all bullies, she surrendered when someone faced her head-on.

“I trust you’ll appreciate equal frankness from me,” Thea said. “I fail to understand what Rowena could have done to drive you to languish on a sofa all afternoon while the rest of the household see to their duties.”

“The master has no objection to me taking my rest,” Mrs. Ellis said, a sulky tone to her voice.

“I’m in charge of the household and Rowena’s welfare,” Thea replied. “She strikes me as an intelligent young woman in need of a little understanding.”

“She needs discipline—plain and simple. The tricks she’s played on me—you wouldn’t believe! She’s defiled the portraits again!”

“Defiled?”

“It’s disgraceful—and so lacking in respect of his lordship.”

“His lordship?”

“Lord Gillingham.”

“Lord Gillingham no longer lives here,” Thea said, “so he can have no cause to take offense at anything Rowena does.”

Mrs. Ellis tapped her cane on the floor in frustration—the adult equivalent of a stamping her foot. But in one aspect, she was right—if Rowena was to learn how to run a home, the first step was to not desecrate its contents.

“Let me show you,” Mrs. Ellis said crisply.

“As you wish.”

The gallery was on the first floor and spanned almost the entire length of the manor. The walls were covered in portraits that must have been crammed in over the years, displaying a variety of ancient-looking men and women, who stared oppressively out from their canvases.

Halfway along, Mrs. Ellis stopped and pointed upward.

“Look!”

The pictures were stacked in two rows. In the upper row—immediately above a landscape covered in so much grime that the features were barely visible save for a mountain and a bare tree in the foreground—was a portrait of a man.

Thea read the inscription.

“Augustus Theodore Baldwin Henry John Fortescue, eighth Lord Gillingham.”

“The present lord’s great-grandfather,” Mrs. Ellis said, her voice a reverent whisper. “Just look what she’s done to him!”

“Apart from the sour-faced expression, I fail to see anything amiss,” Thea replied.

“Look closer.”

Why did the woman see fit to order Thea about as if she were the servant?

She craned her head upward, then saw it.

A huge black mustache had been stuck onto the subject’s face, in contrast to his thinning gray hair.

“Are you sure that was Rowena?” Thea asked. “The portrait’s out of reach.”

“Of course it was her!” Mrs. Ellis exclaimed. “Tiresome brat—it’s not the first time. Last month she stuck a beard onto the seventh Lady Gillingham, but she denied it—the nasty little liar. I’ve never seen such outrageous disrespect!”

“The subjects are both dead, Mrs. Ellis,” Thea said. “I’m sure that, wherever they are now, they’ve more important things to concern themselves with.

“It’s so…” Mrs. Ellis gestured in the air, her breath catching, “…so wrong! The artist, if not the subject, would not welcome his work being defaced in such an inappropriate manner.”

A wicked urge to laugh swelled within Thea, and she tried to hide her smile. “Should the mustache have been gray to match his lordship’s hair?” she asked.

Mrs. Ellis gave an explosive snort of rage. “She continues to disrespect me! It’s not the behavior of a lady, and Mr. Oake told me he married you primarily in order to turn her into one.”

Had Griffin told Mrs. Ellis why he’d been forced to marry Thea? Did the woman gossip about her in church with all the other disapproving widows?

But, in one aspect, the woman was right. Rowena’s behavior needed curtailing. But she clearly resented authority—and resented Thea even more.

As for Griffin…

He seemed to be doing everything he could to avoid her. He spent every waking hour at his inn—where all manner of women must be throwing themselves at him. How soon would a man of his raw sexuality surrender to the lifestyle he must have enjoyed before being shackled to her? Or had he already succumbed and was, this moment, in the arms of another?

Never did she need the counsel and gentle, loving company of her sister-in-law more than she did at this moment. Meggie would know what to do. Meggie was the one person in the world who truly loved her.

And despite the demands Dexter had placed on Thea’s husband when drawing up the marriage contract, despite all the threats about using her dowry, about ensuring she was kept safe from harm…

Despite all that, Thea only wanted one thing.

To be loved.

*

“I tell you,Mr. Oake. Your wife is incapable of controlling the child.”

Couldn’t the woman even let him get inside his own house before accosting him?

Mrs. Ellis might have come recommended by that fool Gillingham as “a good, god-fearing woman” who could tend to his house and educate Rowena, but in reality, she was incapable of either.

She was the type of woman who made a show of attending church—preaching the morals of the sermons she heard there—but on the other six days of the week, she forgot the basic principles of loving her neighbors.

“You must speak to your wife,” Mrs. Ellis continued, her voice reminiscent of a crow stuck in the chimney. “My nerves cannot take much more of the brat’s disobedience.”

“Does Rowena disrespect my wife?” he asked.

Mrs. Ellis let out a huff. “She’s been disrespectful to me. Your wife spends little time in her company.”

A shard of pain throbbed in his temple—as it always did when he had to listen to Mrs. Ellis for too long.

“Very well,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Leave me be, and I’ll speak to my wife.”

In truth, he’d been avoiding Dorothea. Women had a tendency to nag. And there was nothing worse than a nagging, discontented wife.

But Dorothea, in the weeks since he’d married her, had said very little. When she expressed discontent at something, she mentioned it once, then took action herself to address it.

Such as the steaks. He had to admit that he’d eaten last night’s supper with relish. All his life, food had been a mere necessity to maintain his strength. But she’d taught him that it was also to be savored, enjoyed, and relished.

Like a delectable female form—to be devoured slowly, each bite filling his body with delicious sensations of pleasure.

He shifted position as his breeches tightened at the thought of unpeeling his wife’s staid little gowns to reveal the figure underneath. Would she, like a ripe steak, reveal the succulent interior when he sliced through her prim outer form?

Then he shook his head. He’d not married her to rut her. His wife’s role was to fashion Rowe into a lady. And while the food at his table was edible, and the house no longer smelled of mold—Rowena still had faults aplenty.

He left Mrs. Ellis standing in the hall and made his way to his wife’s parlor.

He found her sitting at her writing desk. The last rays of the setting sun caught her hair, giving it a soft sheen. His fingers itched to remove the pins which kept her severe hairstyle in place, to tumble her hair about her shoulders.

What might she look like, her face framed by a wild abandon of tresses, flushed in ecstasy, mouth open, his name on her lips while he slipped inside her?

His gaze followed the line of her profile—a proud brow, perfectly formed nose, and those full, red lips which she’d once offered up to him for a kiss.

He licked his own lips at the memory of their taste—sweet honey with an undercurrent of the spice of passion.

Then she turned and focused her clear gaze on him.

Feeling as guilty as a schoolboy caught spying on an adult, he moved toward her.

“I hadn’t expected you to come home so early,” she said. “Supper won’t be ready for some time.”

Did he detect bitterness in her voice?

He nodded toward the pen in her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Writing a letter.”

“To Lady Hart?”

“I’ve already written to Meggie,” she said, turning her back and resuming her attention on the paper in front of her. “I invited her to stay. I trust that meets with your approval. Were you ever here during the day, I’d have asked you directly.”

Yes—definitely bitterness.

“And now?” he asked.

“I’m writing to an employment agency in London.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because I wish to employ someone.”

Infuriating woman! Was she trying to goad him?

“No—I mean, why in London?”

“It’s where the agency is located.”

Were she directing her comments at another, he’d have laughed at their dryness—but they were directed at him, laced with an undercurrent of exasperation.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and glanced at the letter, which was written in a neat, elegant hand, as if a law-writer had penned it. She sighed, and his skin tightened as her warm breath caressed the back of his hand. He rubbed his thumb along the fabric of her dress, then moved his forefinger until his fingertip touched the skin of her neck. She caught her breath and shifted position, leaning almost imperceptibly toward him. Then she stiffened and straightened her posture, her rational mind conquering her body’s instinct.

She had feelings but kept them suppressed. Perhaps she’d had her heart broken before.

His mind wandered to the rumor he’d heard about the Hart sister who’d taken a lover and been ruined before Sir Dexter had made his fortune.

Curse the man—whoever he’d been.

Griffin withdrew his hand. He needed to remember that he’d also had his heart broken.

“May I ask you something, Dorothea?”

She turned, and he caught a glimmer of hope in her eyes. Her lips curled up a fraction, and he found himself yearning to see her smile.

“I would ask you to consider hiring locally if you’re wanting staff,” he said, “rather than writing to London.”

She frowned, and he caught a flicker of sorrow in her expression before the prim persona returned.

“If you want your home run efficiently in order to give your daughter an appropriate environment in which to learn what it is to be a lady, then you must permit me to hire an appropriate body of staff.”

An appropriate body of staff?A soulless turn of phrase meant to intimidate others with her intellect.

“From London?” he asked. “Is that what you want?”

“What do you want?” she asked, fixing her gaze on him.

He hesitated. Was she asking about his wishes regarding the staff or asking for something more—to know his innermost desires?

He lowered his gaze, lest he betray those desires. “I would like you to give the villagers a chance.”

“I…” she hesitated, “that is, we, need, at the very least, a butler capable of managing the rest of the staff. The benefit of an agency is that they’ll have already vetted suitable candidates and can recommend someone to meet our requirements. I know very little of the villagers here—certainly not enough to determine whether they’d be suitable for such a post.”

“I know them,” he said. “Why don’t you select a list of potential candidates, and I’ll help you decide.”

She turned her head away. “You mean, you’ll decide for me.”

“I’d merely advise you so you could make…” He hesitated. Damn it—what was the phrase? “…an informed decision.”

Her mouth curved into a smile, softening her features, and he fought the urge to capture her lips in a kiss.

“Sometimes you remind me of Dex,” she said.

Oh, dear.For all his excellent qualities as a businessman, Sir Dexter was an overbearing arse.

“How?” he asked, then shook his head. “No—don’t tell me.”

She let out a laugh, and her eyes widened as if she surprised herself. He met her gaze and smiled back. Her eyes sparkled against her pale face, like sapphires in the snow, and he felt a sharp pull deep within his soul.

“Do I amuse you?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “You forget—two months ago, I had no thoughts of matrimony, let alone the prospect of finding a husband just like my brother.”

She colored as she spoke. Was she ashamed of the notion of being married? Or did she blush for some other reason—perhaps the same reason which had led her to offer her lips to him that night on the terrace…

Those lush lips with the promise of sweetness elsewhere…

Lips which he only needed to lower his head a fraction to claim.

Then she looked away, and the moment was lost.

She picked up the letter and crunched it into a ball. “If you’re willing to advise me,” she said, her voice crisp and business-like, “then I’ll make inquiries in the village.”

“Give me a list of all the positions you wish to fill,” he said.

“The senior staff can be trusted to assist with the rest,” she said. “Therefore, we should begin with the butler and housekeeper.”

“We have Mrs. Ellis,” he said.

“I should like to hire someone else.”

“Mrs. Ellis has been with us for five years and came recommended by Lady Gillingham.”

“Lady Gillingham is no longer the lady of Sandiford Manor, is she?”

Why did she always have to take on that spinsterish tone of hers?

“Mrs. Ellis tells me Rowena exhibited further bad behavior today,” he said, the mention of the woman reminding him of his original reason for wanting to see his wife. “She says you have yet to deal with the girl.”

“I’ll see to Rowena in my own time,” she retorted.

“She’s my daughter, Dorothea,” he replied. “She’s yet to show improvement, and you’ve been here almost a month.”

She stiffened, and her voice grew cold. “A young woman cannot be fashioned into a lady overnight.”

“Or at all, if she’s left to run wild. Aren’t you supposed to teach her how to behave? After all, that’s why I agreed to marry you.”

He regretted the words as soon as they’d slipped out of his mouth.

She jerked herself free from his touch, then stood and approached the window where she looked out, her face silhouetted against the evening sunlight.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’ll see you at supper.”

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have…” he began, but she interrupted.

“I need no reminder of the circumstances which forced us together,” she said. “You made it clear that you don’t wish me to make any unnecessary—demands—on you. I will refrain from doing so, as best as I’m able, but it behooves me to say that Mrs. Ellis is not the paragon you believe her to be.”

“Dorothea, I…”

“Please go.”

Her voice wavered, and he caught a glint of moisture in her eyes.

Nothing he could say would appease her, so the best course of action was to retreat. With luck, her cold shell would reform by the time he had to face her at the supper table. Then he wouldn’t have to be confronted by her disappointment in him—which was nothing compared to his disappointment in himself.