The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Twenty-Five

Give him achance…

Meggie’s whispered words echoed in Thea’s ears as she dipped the cloth into her washbasin. Now her sister-in-law had left, the house was quiet again. Who’d have thought the timid little woman Dexter married would be capable of bringing such life to Sandiford Manor? But Meggie’s sheer joy in her existence rubbed off on the people around her. Rowena had seemed more relaxed, and even Griffin had laughed.

Griffin…

The sounds of the evening filtered through the open window—the cows lowing in the nearby field and the distant church bell ringing out nine times.

A dull, continual thud reverberated around the air.

Griffin was chopping wood again.

He’d be alone—Will had gone to help Mrs. Morris in the kitchen, and Rowena had retired to bed with a headache and a cup of cocoa.

Thea’s chance had come.

She stripped to the waist, until she wore nothing but her petticoat, and ran the cloth over her body, watching in the mirror as the water beaded on her skin and trickled down her body, following the contours of her breasts.

She placed a hand over a breast. Meggie said she liked it when Dexter touched her breasts, and… Thea blushed as she lowered her gaze…when he touched her down there.

As she ran her thumb over her nipple, it hardened into a bud, and Thea flushed at the image of her husband touching it, or even suckling it.

Then she shook her head. She couldn’t act in such a wanton manner. She simply couldn’t!

But what if the reward surpassed the fear? If what Meggie said was true, unimaginable pleasure awaited her—if she were brave enough to take the first step.

She looked out of the window.

Her husband was in the yard, holding an axe. In a smooth, fluid movement, he swung it over his head. His shirt was open to the waist, and the movement revealed his chest—the solid muscles she’d caressed in her dreams. Then he brought the axe down on a log, splitting it in two.

Her mind returned to the first time she’d seen him, flexing his muscles as he paraded round the ring to the deafening chant of the crowd.

The Mighty Oak…

The man every woman in that inn wanted that night—including her.

And, now, he was hers for the taking—if she had courage.

She reached for the whisky bottle and poured a glass. Wrinkling her nose at the sharp, smoky aroma, she tipped it up and swallowed. The liquid burned her throat, and she coughed and spluttered. But the warm sensation increased. Not unpleasant—it spread through her bones and fueled her courage.

She poured a second glass and drank it, wiping her mouth when, in her eagerness, a little spilled onto her chin. Then she covered herself with a shawl and exited her chamber.

Tonight, she’d finally learn why everyone made such a fuss about the act of love.

As she descended the stairs, she heard Will scratching about in the dining room, and she tiptoed across the floor. It wouldn’t do to be caught seducing her husband. She’d never survive the shame.

She let out a giggle at the thought of Will’s face if he caught her naked in Griffin’s arms…

Those strong, muscular arms…

Her body jerked as she hiccoughed, and she slipped on the bottom step.

“Oops!”

Whisky might be the cure for fear, but it wreaked havoc on her sense of balance.

She slipped through the doors and made her way across the yard. The sounds of wood splitting had ceased, and, as she rounded a corner, she saw why.

Griffin stood by the water pump, his back to her. The muscles on his back rippled as he pumped the handle up and down while liquid spilled into the trough. He dipped his hands in and splashed water over his chest, then he ran his hands through his hair, the shaggy, untamed mane which, now unrestrained by ties, gave him a primal air.

A small whimper escaped Thea’s lips, and her skin tightened at the sight of his hard, muscular frame, glistening with sweat and water. How could any woman resist such glorious temptation?

The ache which had been coursing through her veins, now centered deep within her body, and she squeezed her thighs together to ease it.

She moved closer, and he tensed. He reached for a cloth hanging from the pump handle, wiped his hands, then turned to face her.

Her cheeks warmed at the intensity of his scrutiny. But the whisky fueled her courage, and she moved closer until she caught his scent—sweat and wood—the earthy, musky scent of man.

“Why are you here, Dorothea?”

She loosened the shawl, then let it fall to the ground, exposing her body. Her skin tightened as the air brushed across her breasts.

He continued to stare at her, his eyes darkening. His nostrils flared, and his chest rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath.

“I came to ask you something,” she said.

“Y-you did?” His words came out in a hoarse rasp. He parted his lips, and his tongue flicked out. Hunger blazed in his eyes.

Meggie was right—it was working.

She moved closer, loosening her hips in an exaggerated gesture, then curled her mouth into a seductive smile.

“Do you want me, Griffin?”

He lowered his gaze to her breasts, which felt heavy and warm. Emboldened by the raw need in his expression, she took another step, until her nipples brushed against his chest. His body vibrated with need, but he made no move.

“Will you touch me?” she whispered.

He lifted his hand to her breast and brushed it with his knuckles. Need fizzed through her, and she let out a low mewl. She arched her back, pressing her breast into his palm, and tipped her face up, offering her lips.

He gripped her arms and pulled her against his chest. Then he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. She closed her eyes, savoring the sweet sensation and the anticipation of the bliss to come.

A rush of warmth flooded her body, and she became aware of her heartbeat in her ears—the rapid flutter of anticipation and apprehension.

Would it be as wonderful as Meggie had told her?

Then he tightened his grip, and he pushed her away.

“You’ve been drinking,” he said.

She opened her eyes. Lust still shimmered in his expression, but a new emotion had come to the fore.

Anger—and hatred.

“Griffin, you’re hurting me.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Griffin, I…”

“Don’t deny it, woman—I can smell it on you!”

His body vibrated with anger, and she squirmed in his grip.

“Let me go!”

“Not until I answer your question.”

“W-what question?” she stammered.

He bared his teeth. “You asked me whether I wanted you. Do you want my answer?”

“No! I want you to let me go!”

“You should have thought of that before you threw yourself at me,” he said. “No—I don’t want you. The very last thing I want,” he added, his voice rising, “is a drunken whore for a wife!”

He released her arms and shoved her back.

“Cover yourself up, for fuck’s sake,” he growled. She stumbled backward, then picked up the discarded shawl.

For a moment, regret flickered in his expression, then he curled his lip in disgust.

“Go.”

She clutched the shawl to her chest and fled. Her foot caught in a stone, and she fell forward onto her hands and knees.

He called out, but she scrambled to her feet and continued toward the house. Her humiliation couldn’t get any worse—she had to get away from him as quickly as possible.

Sobbing, she ran inside and dashed across the hallway, where she collided into a solid figure.

“Mrs. Oake? Is something the matter?”

Will stood before her. He glanced at her disheveled form, and his face flushed.

“Forgive me,” he stuttered, I-I…”

Not waiting for him to finish, she fled up the stairs and ran to her chamber, where she shut the door and locked it.

Sobbing, she tore at the shawl until it ripped into shreds.

How could she have been so foolish—thinking that she was even remotely desirable?

*

Griffin buttoned hisjacket and glanced out of the window. A thick morning mist shrouded the land in gray—to match his mood.

What had come over her last night? What had turned his staid little wife into a wanton?

Was it just the liquor—the root of so many evils? Louisa had always tried to seduce him when she’d drunk too much. Or, more often, after she’d spread her legs for another man. She’d sashay up to him, stinking of gin and the men she’d been with.

When he’d smelled the liquor on Dorothea’s breath, the memory of Louisa had been too strong to conquer. Within a year of their marriage, she’d fallen into the same pattern—bed another man, then offer herself to him in order to pass off any bastards as his. But near the end, she didn’t even bother to do that, laughing at him when he’d caught her in all manner of sordid positions with all manner of men—most notably, Alex Ogilvie.

He’d hoped Dorothea was different.

But he recalled the tales he’d heard in London of the Hart sister who’d ruined herself and borne another man’s child.

Perhaps, deep down, all women were harlots.

As he strode along the corridor toward the breakfast room, he stopped as he passed the door to his wife’s chamber.

On impulse, he pushed the door open. The room was empty.

The bed had been made—there wasn’t a crease in sight on the cover—and an array of bottles and jars formed a neat pattern on the dressing table. Beside the window was a table with a washbowl and jug and a vase of wild grasses and flowers.

The only evidence of the room’s occupation was a discarded piece of cloth on the floor beside the fireplace. He picked it up.

It was a silk shawl—the one she’d worn last night—embroidered with tiny pink and purple flowers in an intricate pattern. A large rent ran through the body of the shawl, the silk threads fraying at the edges. A name had been embroidered in one corner, using the same thread as the flowers, in an elegant script.

Dorothea Hart 1815

She must have made it when she was a young woman.

He traced the letters with his fingertip, imagining the love with which she’d made every stitch…

…and the heartbreak she must have felt when she ripped it in two.

He exited the chamber, stopping to drop the shawl in his study, and encountered Will halfway down the stairs.

“You have a letter, sir. Shall I take it to your study?”

“No, give it here.”

“The mistress is in the breakfast room,” Will continued. “She…forgive me…she seems a little out of sorts.”

“Out of sorts?”

“I encountered her last night.” Will blushed and averted his gaze. “She was very distressed. I-I sent Rosie to tend to her, but her door was locked. I hope I did right to tell you.”

“Is my daughter with her?”

“Miss Rowena’s still in her chamber. Her health is delicate this morning.”

Griffin dismissed Will with a wave. He had no wish to be subjected to any more detail about his daughter’s monthly state of health.

He couldn’t imagine anything worse than two females suffering from a delicate state of nerves.

He tore open the envelope, pulled out a card, and read the inscription.

Shit.

That was the last thing he needed. A dance—with the bloody Gillinghams.

He rammed the invitation into his pocket, then entered the breakfast room and braced himself.

His wife was sitting at the table, spooning sugar into her tea. Most unlike her—she usually took her tea plain.

Her eyes widened as she saw him. Her hand shook, and she set the spoon down.

“Good morning, husband.”

Her voice might be calm, but he wasn’t so blind that he didn’t notice how her hand trembled—or the dark circles under her eyes.

In the cold light of day, the fog of his anger had dissipated, and he saw his wife for what she was. An unhappy woman who, in her awkward way, had reached out to him, using liquor to fuel her courage and feed her hope.

And he’d crushed her hope underfoot.

He wasn’t just a savage. He was an unfeeling boor who’d humiliated the woman who worked tirelessly to turn his house into a home—the woman who had brought light and life back into his daughter’s heart.

He took his place at the table, and the envelope fell out of his pocket and onto the floor. He picked it up and placed it on the table, aware that pair of pale blue eyes watched his every move.

Then she sighed and resumed her attention on the plate in front of her—pushing the food around without attempting to eat it.

“Dorothea. We need to talk.”

She looked up, and he caught a flicker of pain before the neutral expression returned.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “We do.”

“If I hurt you, in any way, I…” he began, but she interrupted him.

“There’s much to discuss regarding the appointments of the various positions in the household,” she said. “I consider myself capable of selecting the right individuals, but if you wish me to defer to your judgment, I’d be obliged if you could voice your opinion.”

“That’s not what I wish to speak of,” he said.

“Nevertheless, it’s what must be discussed,” she replied. “As I have already said, we must begin with the housekeeper and butler. If you have no wish to concern yourself with such matters, I can make the decision myself—perhaps with Rowena’s help. I understand enough of the duties attached to both positions to be able to make an informed choice.”

“Dorothea, I…”

“There’s no need to concern yourself with the expense. The fruit from the pinery will generate sufficient income and, in future years, it may yield a sizeable profit.”

He opened his mouth to speak, and she continued, increasing the pitch of her voice. “The fruit is highly sought after in London. My brother has several contacts, and…” her voice wavered, then she continued, fixing her gaze on her plate, “…it may even be possible to send one to the royal household. As a gift, of course, but it would be a great honor for us, and while I set little store by such things, I must concede that it would help greatly with Rowena’s come-out if she wishes to have a season in London.”

He stared at his wife. Most women filled the silence with an overabundance of speech as if they believed their worth was in proportion to the number of words they uttered. But Dorothea was not one of them. She usually spoke only when she had something meaningful to say. But this morning, she seemed anxious to speak as much as possible, as if she wished to fill the silence with inanities to prevent him from speaking.

“And,” she continued, “there’s also the matter of your valet.”

“A valet?”

“You’ll need assistance in selecting a suitable candidate,” she continued. “Given how—personal—such a service is, I cannot help with your choice. I can ask Dexter—by all accounts, his valet is an excellent man.”

“Then I’ll ask his advice when we see him in London.”

“You still wish to go?”

“Of course,” he said. “Why would you think I’d changed my mind?”

She colored and shook her head. “No reason.” She resumed her attention on the plate in front of her but made no attempt to eat.

“If you continue to push those eggs around the plate, they’ll become dizzy.”

She frowned at his weak attempt at humor, then she set her fork down and pushed her plate to one side.

“Dorothea,” he said. “About last night…”

She slid her chair back. “I should see to Rowena. She’s still unwell today and might appreciate some sweet tea. Please excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, she moved toward the door. As she passed, he caught her hand.

“May I at least be given the opportunity to apologize for my behavior last night?” he asked.

“There’s no need,” she said. “I will ensure that I don’t place you in such an unfortunate position again.”

Such an unfortunate position? The cold manner of delivery belied the pain in her eyes. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he only squeezed it tighter.

“Unhand me, please.”

For a heartbeat, he fought the urge to pull her into his arms, but she curled her lip in distaste, and he released her. She wiped her hand on her skirt.

What had he expected? Trickery? Cajoling?

It had never bothered him before. The harlots he’d rejected over the years had played games to punish him for rejecting their advances. But Dorothea wasn’t trying to punish him. She was withdrawing from him. He’d rejected her and, rather than use stratagems to secure his affection, she’d simply surrendered, as if she didn’t care whether he wanted her or not.

But she did care. He’d seen it in her eyes last night. Perhaps she withdrew from him not to punish him—but to protect herself.

“It’s Louisa!” he cried. “Last night—what I did—what I said…it’s because of her.”

She froze, her back to him, then she turned to face him.

“Your late wife,” she said. “I thought as much. Was she often drunk?”

How did she work that out? Were all women that perceptive—or just his wife?

“She…” he hesitated, afraid to disclose any more in case Rowena came upon them. Then he shook his head. “I don’t want to speak of her.”

“As you wish.”

He picked up the envelope. “We’ve been invited to a ball,” he said. “At the Crown Inn—at the other end of the village.”

She eyed the invitation, arching her eyebrow. “Have we?”

“By Lady Gillingham.”

“Do you wish me to write with our apologies or shall you?” she asked.

“I thought we should go,” he said, “provided you have no objection.”

She sighed. “I have no objection.”

Ye gods—she sounded bored!

“Lady Gillingham has arranged it in our honor,” he said. “If we’re to move among society in London, I must learn how to behave. I’ve not been to many parties, as I’m sure was apparent by the way I behaved at your party in London.”

She blushed but said nothing.

“At least if I make an arse of myself in Sandiford,” he said, “you can point out my faults before I make an arse of myself in London.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t smile. How could he make her smile?

“I want to go,” he said. “I could show my beautiful wife off. You’ll outshine Lady Gillingham and her friends, and I’ll be the envy of all the men.”

She rolled her eyes, and once again, he was acutely aware of his gaucheness.

“As you wish,” she said, “but I cannot dance.”

“I thought all women knew how to dance.”

“Dexter never felt the need to teach me,” she said. “I have no wish to embarrass myself by attempting to learn now. I really must see to Rowena.” She exited the breakfast room, closing the door behind her.

His clumsy attempt at flattery to make up for his appalling behavior last night had failed.