The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Eighteen

The rain persisted through the night, and by midmorning the next day, it still battered against the windows.

There was no chance of venturing outside, let alone a picnic.

After breakfast, Thea excused herself and retired to her parlor. The light was so poor that she needed a candle to continue her letter to Meggie.

Shortly after, she heard the familiar trudge of her husband’s footsteps on the gravel drive.

Not even the rain deterred him from visiting his beloved inns. Why he didn’t take up permanent residence there, she did not know.

Then she scolded herself for being so ungenerous. Few husbands preferred to spend time with their wives over friends or business associates. Even a husband who loved his wife would struggle to maintain his affection if forced to spend every waking hour with her.

And Griffin had made it plain from the beginning that their marriage wouldn’t be based on love.

She picked up her pen and began to write.

Dearest Meggie,

I find myself in need of your company and your advice.

I have a lovely home and am fortunate to be married to a good man with a lovely young woman for a daughter. But I confess I’m lonely.

She glanced up at a noise and saw movement in the passageway outside.

“Who’s there?”

No reply came, but she glimpsed the hem of a lace petticoat through the gap in the doorway.

“Rowena? Is that you?”

She heard a sigh, and the door opened to reveal her stepdaughter.

“Is there something I can help you with, Rowena?”

The girl fidgeted with her hands, picking at her thumbnail. Then she shook her head.

“Never mind,” Thea continued, forcing a smile. “I’m glad you happened to be passing, for I wanted to speak to you.”

Rowena glanced over her shoulder.

“There’s nothing to be concerned about, my dear,” Thea said. She gestured to a chair. “Why don’t you come in and sit over there?”

“It’s my home. I’ll sit where I please.”

“Of course,” Thea replied. “I merely suggested what I felt was the most comfortable chair.”

Rowena took the chair furthest from Thea and sat, her body stiff with tension. She scratched her thumb again, and Thea noticed how the skin was reddened and inflamed around the nail.

“What do you want?” Rowena asked.

“I was going to send for Mr. Franklin’s works and wondered if there was anything else we could study together.”

“We?” Rowena frowned.

“I understand the rudiments of arithmetic,” Thea said, “and it’s an essential subject to master if you wish to manage your own home.” Rowena rolled her eyes, but undeterred, Thea continued. “And there’s the sciences, of course. We could discuss the matter further when we have our picnic.”

For a moment, Thea thought Rowena might smile, but she lowered her gaze to her hand and continued to pick at the skin around her thumb.

“You can’t replace her.”

“Who?” Thea asked. “Mrs. Ellis?”

Rowena lifted her thumb to her mouth and sucked it. The action raised her sleeve, and Thea caught sight of a dark mark on her arm.

“Rowena, have you been hurt?”

“I…” Rowena hesitated, then sighed and turned her head toward the window. “I fell out of my tree. I’m always doing it. See?” She raised her other hand and pointed to the bruises on her knuckles.

Thea remained silent.

“Don’t tell Papa,” Rowena said.

“He wouldn’t want you hurt.”

“I don’t want him thinking I’m a nasty liar.”

“A nasty liar?” Thea exclaimed. “That’s a horrible name to take to yourself.”

She crossed the floor and took Rowena’s hand. At first, the girl tried to withdraw, then she curled her fingers round Thea’s.

“I’m not here to replace your mother, Rowena,” Thea said.

Rowena nodded, then she withdrew her hand. “May I go now?

“Of course, but I’d like you to consider my offer. I was wondering if you might help me with a scientific experiment later today.”

Rowena cocked her head to one side. “Isn’t science for boys? Miss Ellis says…”

“Miss Ellis says a great deal too much about things she understands too little,” Thea said crisply. She patted Rowena’s hand. “The offer’s there, my dear—but you’re under no obligation to take it.”

She returned to her writing desk and resumed her letter to Meggie, aware of a pair of dark brown eyes watching her.

“Whatever you may think of me, Rowena,” she said, maintaining her focus on the letter in front of her, “I’m here to fight for you—and I’ll fight whoever I need to.”

At length, she heard soft footsteps cross the floor.

“Thank you—Dorothea,” a quiet voice said.

Thea let out the breath she’d been holding and turned round.

Her stepdaughter stood in the doorway. She gave Thea a quick, tight smile before disappearing.

It was progress, if only a little.

*

By the timeGriffin returned home, the storm had cleared.

At least the storm outside had cleared. What about the one brewing inside? Rowe seemed to hate him more each day. And his relationship with his wife looked to be moving in the same direction.

Why weren’t women easier to understand? They were a different species entirely. They said what they didn’t mean and didn’t say what they wanted. In a marriage, the rules regarding the woman seemed to change for no explicable reason, yet the man was expected to know and understand them at any given time.

Unlike a fight. There, the rules were simple. Tonight’s fight at the White Hart promised to yield a considerable profit. Johnny Tighe had arrived from London that morning, and several small fortunes had changed hands as his followers placed their bets. Ned had tried to persuade Griffin to fight, but he’d refused. If he were to become a respectable husband, he must rise above his basest urges—including the urge to beat another man to a pulp—to show his wife he was capable of becoming a gentleman.

But not all physical urges could be easily conquered.

As if to prove the point, he caught sight of his wife hurrying toward the kitchen. Her hair in disarray, face flushed with exertion. She bore the wild look of a woman ripe for pleasuring—a sharp contrast to her usual spinsterish air.

The severe style of her gown could not completely conceal her figure—the womanly curves she did so much to hide and the lovely round arse beneath the folds of her skirt.

He followed her to the kitchen, where she was setting out a number of vials on the table. Then she approached the stove and dropped a white cloth into a pot, suspended over the fire.

What the bloody hell was she doing?

“Dorothea.”

With a yelp, she jumped and turned to face him. She patted her hairs, trying to tame the stray tendrils.

“You needn’t do that on my account,” he said. “I prefer it when you don’t look like a spinster aunt.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her expression. “What do you want?”

He gestured toward the pot. “I wondered what you were doing.”

“I’m preparing an experiment for Rowena.”

He peered inside the pot, which contained a mush of red cabbage. She pressed her spoon onto the cloth and stirred it.

“Are you conducting an experiment on which of the two substances—cabbage or cotton—is a tougher meal?” he asked. “Is this to be my punishment for not eating all my vegetables last night?”

Her lips curled upward as she continued to stir.

“Ah—a smile!” he cried. “Perhaps I should conduct an experiment of my own to find out how I can stop my wife from appearing so discontented all the time.”

The smile disappeared.

Bugger. He’d done it again.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m not clever enough to know the right thing to say. Would you be kind enough to explain your experiment?”

She grasped a pair of tongs and lifted the piece of cloth from the pot, which was now stained a soft pink.

“It’s something I tested at home in London,” she said.

“Your home is here now,” he said quietly, “and I’m glad of it.”

The smile returned—his reward for repairing the earlier damage.

“I’m testing the acidity of different liquids,” she said. “The pigment in the cabbage changes color when mixed with liquids of differing levels of acidity. The effect is more easily seen when the liquids are dropped onto a cloth stained with the pigment.”

“Differing levels of acidity?” he asked. “I thought a liquid either was an acid, or it wasn’t.”

“There are differing degrees,” she said. “Some liquids are strongly acidic and burn the skin. Others less so, and just cause a mild sting or, in the case of vinegar, a sour taste on the tongue. It’s the same as people. Some are so disagreeable that you cannot bear their company. Others are only mildly irritating.”

He threw back his head and laughed, and her eyes widened in surprise.

“You have a peculiar way of explaining things, Thea,” he said. She turned her head away, but not before he caught her shy smile at his use of her name.

“Are you doing this for Rowe?” he asked.

She nodded. “I find it’s often easier to learn through practical application rather than sitting at a desk and reading. And Rowena cannot sit still for long—she needs to be kept occupied.”

At that moment, the subject of their discussion entered the kitchen, carrying an armful of flowers and grasses, and humming a melody. She caught sight of Thea and Griffin and stiffened.

“Oh,” she said. “I can come back later.”

“There’s no need, Rowena,” Thea said. “I’ve been preparing our experiment.” She nodded toward the grasses in Rowe’s arms.

“They’re very pretty.”

“You like them?”

“Yes, I do,” Thea said. “Grasses are more interesting than flowers.”

“Are they?” Griffin asked, voicing his curiosity even though he didn’t wish to interrupt.

His wife focused her sapphire eyes on him. “Flowers attract one’s attention immediately through their bright colors,” she said. “Grasses, on the other hand, exhibit more subtle hues, which require deeper observation. To the untrained eye, they’re plain and uninteresting. But to those of us who take the time to look, they give us a greater insight into the concept of beauty.”

She might as well have been speaking of herself. Most of society thought her dull—that had been clear from his observations in London. Yet, the more he looked at his wife, the more he noticed her beauty.

She colored under his scrutiny, then addressed his daughter.

“Rowena, my dear, may I have some of those grasses for my chamber? They’d look very pretty there.”

“Of course,” Rowe said. “I’ll find you a vase.”

Griffin raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Since when had Rowe been so obliging?

Dorothea frowned at him as if admonishing him for his lack of faith in his daughter.

She was perceptive as well as beautiful.

“Rowena’s been of great use today,” she said.

“Mrs. Ellis will be pleased to hear that,” Griffin said. “She always says…”

“Let us not speak of Mrs. Ellis,” Dorothea said, glancing at Rowe, who’d visibly stiffened.

“May I be excused, Dorothea?” Rowe asked.

“Of course. Supper is at eight.”

Rowe gave Dorothea a smile—an actual smile!—then she exited the kitchen.

“You’re doing well with Rowe,” he said. “She was almost civil just then.”

“Your daughter’s a lovely young woman,” she replied. “She appears to have been misunderstood for most of her life—or at least, the last few years.” She turned to face him, the directness of her gaze unsettling. “I intend to get to the bottom of what’s troubling her.”

“For what purpose?”

The last thing he wanted was his wife meddling about with the past, destroying the memories of a loving mother that he’d constructed so carefully.

Her eyes widened at his sharp tone.

“To give her peace of mind,” she said.

“There’s nothing wrong with her mind,” he said. “You shouldn’t interfere in matters which aren’t your concern.”

“Your daughter’s welfare is my concern!” she cried. “Isn’t that the sole reason you condescended to marry me?”

Bloody hell—he’d said the wrong thing again.

“No,” he said quietly, “that’s not the sole reason.”

“Do you regret our marriage?”

Her words came out like a taunt, but her voice wavered, and her hands shook as she plucked at the grasses in her fist. Her expression conveyed defiance, but he saw something else.

A yearning to be valued.

He grasped her shoulders.

“No,” he said. “Dear Lord, no—I shall never regret marrying you.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, they stared at each other.

Then, unable to resist the craving which had burned from the moment he’d seen her disheveled form, he pulled her to him and placed his mouth over hers.

She stiffened in his grip, like a frightened woodland creature needing to be coaxed into submission. But she made no move to push him away.

Which he took as a good sign.

He lifted a hand and caressed her hair, then he peppered her mouth with tiny feather-light kisses until she began to soften in his arms.

A sigh escaped her lips, her breath a warm caress, and his whole body tightened with a surge of need. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, probing, teasing, begging entry while his manhood strained against his breeches.

She parted her lips—an invitation borne of instinct, and the aroma of herbs, which always lingered in the kitchen, sharpened into something else—the unmistakable, sweet scent of raw female need.

Dear Lord, she tasted like no woman he’d tasted before!

He opened his eyes to find her staring directly at him, the pupils dilated until they were almost black—deep pools into which he could plunge and take pleasure like never before. The raw desire in their expression shone like tiny stars deep within her soul.

Then she touched his tongue with hers—tentative at first, but she grew bolder and swept her tongue across his, engaging in a seductive dance. The hands which once held him at bay now clung to the fabric of his jacket.

What other woman kissed in such a wanton manner, other than the most accomplished whores? Most women closed their eyes to preserve their modesty and mystery. But the woman in his arms now stared right into him, her eyes conveying the basest, most primal need.

The need to be thoroughly and completely bedded.

In one move, he could bend her over the kitchen table, spread her legs, and rut her into the next county…

What the bloody hell was he doing!

Dorothea…” he said. “Forgive me. I have no idea what came over me.”

She stared back at him, lips swollen from his kiss.

Shame replaced the desire in her eyes.

Damn it!He should have left her alone—sought relief at his own hand, or doused himself with a bucket of cold water.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“There’s no need to explain,” she said, her voice tight. “Please go.”

He moved toward her, and she held up her hand. Then she lowered her gaze to his groin and let out a cry.

That was a first. No woman had cried at the sight of his erection before.

Finding himself dismissed, he retreated. Then, his mind made up, he crossed the main hallway and strode outside. Stopping only to tell a surprised-looking Will that he would not be coming back until late, he set off for the White Hart.

There was only one way to ease his torment—there had only ever been one way.

A bloody good fight.