The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Two

Griffin drew back the curtain and watched the cloaked figure disappear into the dusk.

It was the figure of a woman. And she’d been waiting in the distance, even before the crowd had gathered. Another admirer, most likely—a bored wife wanting to escape the drudgery of her marriage and seek a little variety between her legs.

He’d had enough experience of bored wives to know that they spread their legs for any man if it gave them gratification.

A pair of arms wrapped round him.

“Isn’t the Mighty Oak going to claim his reward?” a voice purred.

Damn the doxy! He’d fought off Billy Bates, but now needed to defend himself against a desperate, lust-fueled female.

She caressed his chest, moving lower until she reached his waistband. Then, with a little sigh, she slipped her hand into his breeches.

“My,” she purred, “The oak has a thick, strong trunk.”

Did she really think he’d not heard that one before?

He turned to face her. Blonde, buxom, breasts spilling out of the top of her gown.

And her scent—cheap perfume meant to allure, but it only inspired nausea. She rubbed her body against his like a cat in heat.

Then he caught another odor.

Alcohol. The last thing he wanted to bed was a drunken whore.

She squeezed his manhood, barely disguising her frown of disappointment when he didn’t react. Any other woman, and he’d be buried inside her by now—but the smell of ale and spirits turned his stomach.

He closed his eyes, but the image remained—a painted face, lips pouting, a moist pink tongue sweeping along the seam of her mouth in a calculated attempt to seduce. And he’d fallen for it.

Every bloody time.

Louisa.

What trouble she’d caused—all because he’d been too free with his cock and with his heart.

If only he could erase her memory from his mind. But it would remain with him until the day he died. She was immortal because she lived on in another.

He pushed the doxy aside and moved toward the door where his coat was hanging and pulled out a handful of coins. Her eyes widened, greed glittering in their expression.

“Open your hand,” he growled.

She did so, and he tipped five shillings onto her palm. She curled her fingers round her bounty.

“There’s much I can do for five shillings,” she said.

“I’m sure there is,” he replied, “but I only want one thing from you.”

“I know.” She unlaced her bodice until her breasts spilled out, exposing her creamy flesh and the dark, pink nipples. But he was in no mood for a drunken wench. He’d had enough of that for a lifetime.

“I want you to cover yourself up and go.”

Her smile disappeared for a moment, making her face quite ugly. “Am I not good enough for the Mighty Oak?”

“If you’re concerned about your reputation as a whore, I’m happy to tell the world that you fucked me, and I loved every minute of it.”

Her smile returned. “From behind?”

He shrugged. “If you like.”

“For five shillings, I’ll say you were like a bull.”

“Very well.” He gave her a dismissive wave. “Now, get out.”

“Don’t I get a kiss?”

“No.”

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll find another man to satisfy me.”

Her words darkened his mood even more. An attempt to incite jealousy was the foulest act a woman could undertake. He’d learned long ago that such women were not to be trusted—whether they were a whore attempting to secure a higher price…

…or a wife who bedded her way through his friends.

“Get out before I crush that pretty neck of yours,” he growled. “And if you want my advice, steer clear of the gin. A man might as well fist himself for all the pleasures a drunken slut can give him.”

“I can always tell them you were unable to perform.”

“Tell and be damned,” he said. “Do you think I care what a two-penny whore thinks?”

“You’ll never know what you missed.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “I only need ask half the men in the bar downstairs—I daresay you’ll be spreading for them within five minutes of leaving this chamber.”

She gave a snort of exasperation, then exited the chamber, slamming the door. Not long after, he heard her voice, coaxing, as she propositioned a customer—most likely one of the merchants staying in the guest rooms.

Griffin removed his breeches, peeling off the layer of the Mighty Oak until he stood in nothing but his skin. His manhood stood proud, eager for release, and he took it in his hand and stroked.

Then he removed his hand, ashamed. He wasn’t some lad of fifteen, fisting himself in secret. He was a man who could have any woman he chose.

But he was also a man with responsibilities. And tonight, now he’d had his release in the arena, he needed to resume them.

He reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a suit—an unfathomable array of polished boots, stockings, breeches, shirt, cravat, and waistcoat. Damned expensive—he’d commissioned it from a tailor on Savile Row so that he might not disgrace himself at tomorrow night’s dinner party. Though, why his banker—what was his name, Sir Dexter Hart?—insisted on inviting him, he couldn’t fathom. But it was an entry, of sorts, into society. And he wasn’t in a position to be choosy over invitations.

Lord only knew in which order these bloody things had to be put on. But they were a necessary evil if those peacocks of London society were even to acknowledge his presence, let alone accept him. It was most likely a futile endeavor, but it had to be done.

For her.

For Rowena.

And, at that moment, even though she loathed him, Rowena was the only person in the world he loved—or would ever love. He wanted so much more for her than to share her mother’s fate. He’d grown up in the gutter, fighting his way—literally—to a fortune, and he wanted Rowena to enjoy the life he could only ever have dreamed of as a boy.

A life of acceptance into society.

But it would take more than his wealth to achieve that. Rowena needed to learn the benefits of respect, self-restraint, and decorum. And however God-fearing Mrs. Ellis might be, the woman had failed. Rowe needed the guidance of a woman who understood London society, not the widow of a country parson.

In short, she needed a proper chaperone. A few discreet inquiries tomorrow might bear fruit. Sir Dexter was bound to have a wide acquaintance, and he might help Griffin find the solution to his problems.

Preferably in the form of the plainest, primmest, most sexless woman in all of London.