The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Twenty-One

As Griffin trudged up the driveway, he knew something was wrong. Will—whose demeanor was usually cheerful, ran out of the main doors, looking ragged.

“What’s the matter, Will?”

“Mrs. Ellis has gone.”

“Where?”

“The mistress dismissed her this morning.”

What the devil had his wife done?

“Dismissed her?”

Will nodded. “I’ve never seen her so angry!”

“Mrs. Ellis—or my wife?”

Will colored and cast his gaze down. “Both.”

“Both?”

“The mistress demanded I take you straight to her as soon as you returned.”

What the bloody hell did she think he was? A wayward schoolboy to be summoned for a scolding?

Will set off toward the house, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but are you coming?”

Heaven help him! She’d even got Will trotting after her.

Griffin thrust his hands into his pockets and followed Will inside. The law and the church might require the wife to pledge a vow of obedience, but in most marriages, it was the man who signed his life away to servitude.

He found his wife on the staircase, polishing the wooden banister.

“Shouldn’t the servants be doing that?” he asked.

She stopped and fixed him with her intense gaze, her mouth creased into a frown. Recognizing the danger, Will muttered something about tending to the woodpile in the back yard and disappeared through a side door.

Coward.

Dorothea watched him, then shook her head in the manner of a disappointed teacher and resumed her attention on Griffin.

“I daresay Will told you what happened today,” she said. He opened his mouth to speak, and she raised her hand.

“Permit me to finish before you present your excuses.”

This was bad.

“I’ve endured the circumstances in this house for some weeks,” she said, “and my suspicions were confirmed today. I’ve decided that enough is enough.”

Had she decided to give up on him? Infuriating woman she might be, but a life without her was not to be borne.

“Are you leaving?” he blurted.

She frowned, then shook her head. “I don’t know where you got that notion from,” she said crisply. “Like it or not, this is my home, and I’ve no intention of leaving. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Oh, Lord—he’d done it again. “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean…”

He broke off as she held up her hand again.

“Mrs. Ellis has left,” she said.

“I know.”

“I take it Will told you, though I ordered him not to,” she continued. “But I half-expected him to disobey me, so I’m not surprised—only disappointed.”

“Why did you dismiss her?” Griffin asked.

“The situation with Rowena became untenable,” she replied. “While you were frittering away your time at your inn, you failed to notice what was going on in your house—the shameful and, frankly, wicked behavior of one who should know better.”

Was she plotting to rid herself of Rowe?

“You can’t send her away,” he said. “I forbid it.”

“Oh, you do—do you?” she said, her eyes flashing.

“I know she’s a willful child,” he said, “but you mustn’t give up on her. Give my daughter a chance—please!”

Her eyes widened. “You think I want to send Rowena away?”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not! What the devil do you take me for?”

“I thought…”

She curled her lip in disgust.

“You thought I was some selfish creature who wished to dispose of your daughter so that I might have you all to myself?” She snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. And how dare you think I’d give up on your child? Don’t you have the slightest notion of what’s been going on here?”

She was talking in riddles again. Why did women never speak plainly enough for a man to understand?

“I can tell by the vacant expression on your face, you have no idea what I’m talking about,” she said. “Let me spell it out for you—Mrs. Ellis has been abusing your daughter.”

“How do you know?”

“Rowena’s a forceful young woman,” she said, “but she always seemed afraid of Mrs. Ellis. Nothing obvious—you clearly missed it—but I noticed how she watched the woman as if constantly seeking to gauge her temper. When I saw the bruises…”

“What bruises?”

“The bruises on her arms.”

“Mrs. Ellis was beating her?”

“I caught her in the act this morning.”

Rowe—his child—being beaten in his home?

“How long have you suspected?” he asked.

“A week or so.”

“And you said nothing to me?” he asked, his voice rising.

“How could I? I wasn’t sure myself. Besides—you’re hardly here.”

“That’s no reason,” he retorted. “Just because I’m not in the house all day, because I have to earn my living, unlike a London fop—doesn’t mean you couldn’t have told me!”

“I wasn’t going to accuse someone until I was certain of their guilt!” she cried. “Rowena said her bruises came from falling out of a tree, and at first, that seemed a plausible explanation because most of them do. But today, when I caught Mrs. Ellis taking her cane to Rowena, I understood what’s been happening.”

“You should have accused Mrs. Ellis earlier!” he said. “It doesn’t matter whether she’s innocent or not.”

“It does matter!” she countered. “My brother was tried for a murder he didn’t commit! He was almost hanged because the authorities couldn’t be bothered to search for evidence. I’ll never—never—put anyone through a fraction of what he suffered!”

“But you…” he began, but she interrupted him.

“And what about you?” she asked. “You should have noticed! But you always think so highly of Mrs. Ellis. Is it any wonder your daughter couldn’t speak to you?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of her,” he said. “That’s why I married you. But instead of focusing on her, you see fit to henpeck me.”

She recoiled at his words “How dare you! You think I wanted this? Marriage to a man who, at best, views me as an inconvenience and who cannot see how unhappy his daughter is? I didn’t take you for a brainless knucklehead, but I was wrong. Your daughter’s been suffering for years because the two things she wants most in the world are denied her.”

“And what are they?” he asked.

“She wants to be loved. And she wants her mother.”

Bloody Louisa again! Why did she continue to plague him from beyond the grave?

“She is loved,” he said. He moved to go past her, and she caught his sleeve.

“The time has come to discuss her mother,” she said.

“I’ll not discuss my late wife!” he snapped. “I’ve asked you several times not to plague me on the subject.”

Guilt stabbed at him as hurt flashed in her eyes. Then she sighed, and her expression took on the steely determination of a woman, which never boded well when directed at a man.

“I merely wish to point out that Rowena’s pain, in all likelihood, stems from your inability to be completely truthful with her about her mother.”

“What female nonsense is that?” he exclaimed. “Rowena’s mother is none of your business.”

“But Rowena is my business,” she said. “She’s my child by marriage, even if…” her voice cracked, “…even if I’ll never have a child of my own.”

She blinked, and the despair in her eyes stabbed at his heart.

Rowena wasn’t the only one who was deeply unhappy.

A tear spilled onto her cheek, and she wiped it away with an angry gesture, but when she spoke, she’d forced her usual calmness into her voice.

“Rowena is your child,” she said. “She’s in the world because of you. She didn’t choose this life. Whereas I—I married you by choice, in full possession of my wits, and I must live with that choice, however much I may come to regret it.”

Her voice caught once more, and she drew in a shuddering breath before resuming, as if forcing her emotions to recede. “You profess to love your daughter. But she needs you to show her. And you must begin by telling her the truth. However distasteful that may be for you—if you truly love her, then you owe it to her, even if you don’t love…” she turned her head away, “…even if you have no wish to tell me the truth.”

The sorrow in her voice pierced his heart, all the more because she fought to conceal it.

“And now,” she said, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ve duties to attend to.”

She turned, and her foot slipped. With a cry, she tumbled down the stairs, and, for a moment, the memory of Louisa paralyzed him—the image of her body—lifeless and broken at the foot of the stairs.

“Dorothea!”

He raced after her, almost tripping in his desperation to reach her—but he was too late. She landed on a heap on the floor, her skirts round her waist.

She tried to stand.

“Don’t move!” he roared.

She froze, her eyes widening as he approached her. He offered his hand, and she took it, curling her fingers round his.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, helping her up.

She winced. “My ankle.”

“We must get you a doctor.”

She shook her head. “It’s just a sprain—and it doesn’t hurt that much. There’s no need to make a fuss.”

The expression in her eyes said otherwise.

“There’s every need,” he said, and he scooped her into his arms. “Hold onto me, and I’ll take you to your parlor and get Rosie to fetch you some tea.”

“No…” she protested.

“Please,” he said. “Let me take care of you like you’ve taken of me, and…” he hesitated, “like you’ve been taking care of Rowena.”

He looked into her eyes and uttered a silent plea—one he could not bring himself to voice, asking her to give him a chance.

The irritation in her expression melted, then she lifted her arms and wrapped them round his neck.

“Very well,” she said. “Just this once.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. “And, for what it’s worth, I’ll never have cause to regret our marriage.”

He dropped a swift kiss on her forehead, then carried her up the stairs and along the portrait gallery, toward her parlor.

Halfway along, he glanced up at one of the portraits.

The eighth Lady Gillingham if he recalled. A woman with sharp yellowing eyes, a gray pallor, and, on closer inspection, a huge black beard that had been stuck onto her chin.

Mrs. Ellis had always complained about Rowena—her adornments to the portraits and her disrespect for the esteemed Gillingham family. And what had the woman said about his wife?

She seems to think it as much of a joke as the brat.

He hadn’t thought that of any consequence until now.

He could have ended up with a wife like many other society ladies—sour-faced and only concerned about her social status—the kind of woman who cast a shadow on any merriment.

But Dorothea was not like any other. Beneath that exterior lay a wicked sense of humor to match Rowe’s. And, out of everyone, she understood how Rowe was feeling.

In short, she was the best woman Fate could have chosen for him, and he was very much in danger of falling in love with her.

But the last thing he wanted to do was risk his heart—not after Louisa had ripped it to shreds.

Louisa’s last words still haunted him, as if she’d cursed him from beyond the grave.

You’re a big ugly brute, who doesn’t deserve to be loved, Griffin. You don’t know what it is to love another, and you never will. The day you die, there will be nobody to mourn you.

Was he doomed to suffer the fate she had decreed?

If Dorothea, and Rowena, ever discovered the truth, then he probably was.