The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Sixteen

The next day, as Griffin approached the breakfast room, he spotted his wife in her parlor, opening a parcel.

So that explained the hoofbeats outside at some unholy hour of the morning.

And a bloody awful morning it was to be out. The air was thick and oppressive, and he’d woken with a headache, which still throbbed behind his temples.

“What’s that?” Griffin pointed to the parcel.

“It’s a parcel.”

Why did she always have to be so damned logical?

He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

Her mouth twitched into a smile. “I’ve been expecting it,” she said. “It’s from Lilah.”

She looked at him expectedly, as if he ought to know who the devil Lilah was.

“My youngest sister, Delilah,” she said, reaching into the parcel and pulling out a book. “Her second set of poems has been published, and she’d promised to send me copies.”

She held the book up to the light. The gold embossing on the cover glinted in the sunlight, and her face broke into a smile of pride. Her eyes shone in the sunlight, a vivid blue that reminded him of the bluebells that graced the woodlands of Sandiford in spring.

She was a beautiful creature when she wanted to be! Her features may not be striking, but they had character—the firmness around the mouth which conveyed strength and resilience, the sharp intelligence in the sparkle of her eyes, and the pride in her smile—pride in a sister she loved.

Most women would be jealous of a younger sister who’d secured the hand of a duke and realized her career ambitions. But not Dorothea. Such a capacity for selfless love was not often to be found.

Would she ever be proud of him—or love him—as much?

She opened the book and flicked through the pages. Then she gave a little gasp, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.

He took her hand. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, closing the book. “It’s time for breakfast—the eggs will curdle if we delay.” She withdrew her hand and moved to the door.

“May I have a copy?” he blurted.

For a moment, he thought she’d refuse—grab the parcel and conceal it in her room, the same way she concealed her heart. Then she nodded.

“Of course,” she said. “Rowena can have one also if she wishes. Lilah’s sent enough.”

She exited the parlor, and he reached for a book, tracing the letters of the title with his fingertip.

My Heart’s Completion.

What the devil did that mean? Was that what had upset her?

He flicked through the book, stopping at a page at random, and his gaze wandered over the lines…

Hard against the granite wall, we seek fulfillment in the pleasure of the earth…

Bloody hell! There was no way he’d let Rowena read that. He read on, his blood warming at the raw passion of the verse. They were just words on a page, but they had the power to evoke such need—and stiffen his cock. He closed his eyes, relishing the notion of taking a woman against the rock of the Highlands. He hardened at the image of his wife’s face—lips parted as she cried his name…

Then he opened his eyes and drew in a sharp breath. It wouldn’t do to be caught with a cockstand in the middle of the parlor.

He flicked to the front of the book, and his eye caught the dedication.

To my darling Thea, whose capacity for love inspired me to write this book. May your heart find the true completion it deserves.

The touching, heartfelt words in the dedication were in sharp contrast to the raw, unbridled passion in the verse. Dorothea’s sister was a wordsmith indeed—those few words of dedication said more about Griffin’s wife than she had revealed herself.

That she yearned to love—and to be loved.

Snapping the book shut, he followed his wife into the breakfast room.

*

By the timeGriffin arrived at the White Hart, the dull ache which plagued his head during breakfast had intensified until it felt as if the Sandiford blacksmith was using his skull for an anvil. He’d not been fit for anything, and eventually, he succumbed to Ned’s insistence that he spend the remainder of the day at home.

As he trudged along the path adjoining the garden, he caught sight of his wife. She stood beneath the canopy of a tree and seemed to be talking to it.

No—she was talking to a pair of legs that dangled from the leaves.

She folded her arms and set off in the direction of the orchard, and, shortly after, a body appeared to accompany the legs, and Rowe leapt onto the lawn. She stared after her stepmother, watching as she stopped beside one of the apple trees.

Then Will’s voice echoed across the garden, and Dorothea waved, hailing him with a smile and a laugh. Griffin loosened his collar in an attempt to ease the effects of the heat. The air really was oppressive today—and why the devil couldn’t his wife smile and laugh with him?

Dorothea glanced over her shoulder toward Rowe with a smile but made no attempt to speak to her, and she resumed her conversation with Will, pointing at the apple tree and gesturing with her hands.

Rowe crossed the garden to stand a little distance away from Will and Dorothea, watching them, her eyes dark with concentration. She made no attempt to engage in the conversation, nor did Dorothea try to draw her in.

He stood back and continued to watch, swallowing the surge of jealousy at the easy conversation and gentle laughter.

She circled the apple tree, pointing to the branches. He moved forward, then concealed himself behind a bush, unwilling to disturb them. Eventually, they ceased conversation and crossed the garden together, leaving Rowe standing alone. He shrank back as they neared the bush, and he caught their conversation.

“The pinery hasn’t been used for years,” Will said.

What the bloody hell was a pinery?

“We can have it up and running in no time,” Dorothea said. “The plants are still alive, and we can get them to yield fruit next year if we tend to them now—maybe this year if we’re lucky. The returns could be considerable.”

They passed the bush, and Griffin watched their retreating backs as they walked toward the abandoned hothouse.

So that was the pinery.

“Are the fruits that valuable?” Will asked.

“There are people willing—or foolish—enough to pay huge sums of money to hire one for an evening,” she said. “My brother once spent ten guineas for the privilege of displaying one as a centerpiece for a dinner party in order to impress a titled client.”

“Did it work?”

She laughed. “No, it didn’t! According to my sister-in-law, the fruit was so rotten that the guests were far too eager to finish their meal and leave as soon as possible to get away from the smell.”

“It seems rather a waste, begging your pardon.”

“I agree,” she said. “Dexter learned a valuable lesson. The next time he purchased a pineapple outright and served it to his guests. He gained three large accounts in a single evening. After all, fruit are meant to be eaten, not handed around the tables of London society until they rot.”

“Have you eaten one?”

“Meggie was kind enough to save me a piece,” she said. “An exotic taste, which I look forward to enjoying again. If the pinery yields any fruit, we shall all share the first one.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Nonsense!” she said, her schoolmistress tone coming to the fore again. She gave an exasperated little sigh and swatted at the air.

“Curse these flies!” she cried. “They’re everywhere today.”

“They’re storm flies,” Will said. “Can’t you feel it in the air? There’s a storm coming.”

They reached the hothouse, and their voices faded as they slipped inside.

Griffin jumped at a voice from behind.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop, Pa?”

He turned and saw Rowe, standing next to the bush, a sneer on her lips.

“Spying, are you? Do you think she fancies the gardener?”

“Don’t speak nonsense, child!” he retorted. “And if I hear any more talk of that sort, I’ll take my hand to you.”

“I’d like to see you try!”

He reached out to her, and she darted back, a flash of fear in her eyes. Did she really think he’d hit her? He might be a brute, but he only hit opponents in the ring—not women, and certainly not his child.

She folded her arms, and the mischief returned to her expression.

“Have you heard her sing yet?”

“Sing?”

Her expression turned to triumph. “You haven’t, have you?” she laughed. “She sings to herself in the upstairs parlor when she thinks nobody’s listening.”

“Spying, were you?” he said.

Her face fell.

Curse it!Just because she behaved like a petulant child, there was no excuse for him to do the same.

“Forgive me, Rowe,” he said, “I didn’t mean…”

“No,” she said. “You did.”

Before he could respond, she turned and ran across the lawn in his wife’s wake.