The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The carriage drew to a halt, and Griffin looked out of the window.
“We’re here.”
His wife and daughter stirred but remained asleep. Rowe nestled against Dorothea with the instinctive gesture of one who understood from whom they can seek protection.
It warmed his heart to see it—even if Rowe still occasionally turned hostile eyes on him.
As for Dorothea…
She seemed to have forgiven his appalling behavior of the other night, particularly after the Gillinghams’ ball. But his rejection of her in the yard had created a wall between them. His only hope was that he could chip away at it, piece by piece.
“Dorothea?”
His wife opened her eyes and stretched. For a moment, he saw contentment in her expression then, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the familiar hunted look returned.
She placed a hand on Rowe’s arm.
“Rowena, my darling, we’ve arrived.”
Rowe opened her eyes, then glanced out of the window.
“This doesn’t look like an inn.”
“I’ve taken a townhouse for the month,” he said. “In Connaught Street. Your brother thought it a good location.”
“You’ve been writing to Dexter?”
“I have,” he said. “He negotiated the rent on my behalf and has offered to assist me with purchasing a townhouse in the future.”
“He’ll make a tidy profit if he offers you a loan.”
“I’d gladly see him make a profit out of me,” he said, “given that he gave me his greatest treasure.”
“Which was?”
“You.”
It was a crass compliment, but she took it with grace. Rowe, on the other hand, rolled her eyes and snorted.
A footman approached the carriage door and opened it. Griffin climbed out, then helped his wife. She looked up, taking in the building.
He found himself wanting her approval more than anything else.
“Do you like it?” he asked. “I wanted a house large enough so you could invite as many of your friends as you wish, and Sir Dexter said in his letter that it’s within walking distance of Grosvenor Street.”
“Near Devon’s house?” Her eyes sparkled.
“I thought you’d appreciate being close to your family,” he said. “I’ll confess a certain selfishness in wanting to further my acquaintance with your brother, who I see as a friend…”
He hesitated at the memory of Alex Ogilvie—the man he’d once called friend. “I’ve learned that good friends are rare—and should be cherished.”
She smiled at his praise of her brother, and he took her hand.
“I have also learned that good women are equally rare—if not more so.”
He lifted her hand to his lips, and to his relief, she did not resist.
“I trust I did well?” he asked, fearing her answer. “I know you had a right to be consulted—but I wanted it to be a surprise—for you.”
“For me?” She shook her head. “In my experience, surprises are usually unpleasant.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll find another house.”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “You misunderstand me, Griffin. I love it.”
“You do?”
“I love it because you chose it, and a lot of thought went into your choice.” She lowered her head and placed a soft kiss on the back of his hand.
“Thank you.” She held his hand against her cheek. The gentle, loving gesture touched his heart more than any declaration of love.
Then, she stiffened and released his hand.
The barrier between them still existed. What would it take to gain her trust?
Rowe climbed out of the carriage.
“Good heavens—it’s enormous!” she cried.
Dorothea slipped her arm through Rowe’s. “Shall we take a look inside?”
The main doors opened to reveal a row of servants dressed in a variety of uniforms.
Surely a London house didn’t need this many servants? What was he supposed to say to them all? Would they think him a savage if he did—or said—the wrong thing?
His wife gave him a smile of reassurance, then she addressed each servant, one by one, encouraging him to follow suit, until they reached the end of the line, where a gray-haired woman and equally gray-haired man stood, side-by-side.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bowes, at your service, ma’am,” the man said.
“Oh, you’re married!” Dorothea said. “How delightful.”
She handed her pelisse to one of the maidservants, then, after issuing Mrs. Bowes instructions to attend her an hour before supper, she dismissed them, and they trooped across the hallway and disappeared through a door beside the staircase.
Trust her to know exactly what to do!
She crossed the floor to a wide-rimmed porcelain bowl on a side table, then reached in and plucked out a handful of cards.
“Meggie’s already called,” she said. “Anne Pelham…Atalanta…” she tutted. “What’s she doing out so soon after her confinement—oh, I long to see them!”
“We must invite them all to dinner,” he said. “Perhaps next week? That is…if you could manage it.”
“Of course I can manage,” she huffed.
He smiled. He’d piqued her pride, and it warmed his heart to see her feistiness.
“Supper for four couples presents no challenge,” she said. “I take it we have a dining table which seats eight?”
“Nine,” he said, “including Rowena.”
“Rowena isn’t out yet, though I could make an exception for an informal supper.” She glanced at Rowe, who frowned.
“In which case,” Dorothea continued, “we must see to Rowena’s wardrobe. With your permission, I’d like to visit Madame Dupont as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” he said, “on one condition.”
Her face fell.
“You’ll like my condition,” he said. “At least, I hope you will.”
He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “You must commission a new wardrobe for yourself.”
“Must I?”
“Yes,” he said. “And none of this starched governess nonsense. You hide your beauty—when it should be admired.”
She frowned.
He’d done it again—insulted her when he’d intended to give her a compliment. Most women relished a man’s flattery. But she valued greater things than physical appearance.
It was a quality to be admired, but it meant that his attempt to show he cared had fallen flat on its arse.
“Starched governess?” She arched an eyebrow. “Is that how you see me?”
Oh, bloody hell.
He braced himself for the admonishment, then her lips curled in a smile.
Was she teasing him?
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll endure a few pretty gowns for your sake. And now—would you mind if I called on Atalanta this afternoon?”
“You don’t want to rest first?
“I rested during the journey,” she said. “I long to see baby Francine. She must have grown so much since I last saw her, and babies grow far too quickly…” she broke off. “Forgive me—if you prefer, I’ll stay here.”
He caught her hand. “There’s no need to ask my permission for anything. You’re a free woman, my love, and I hope you’ll come to learn that I’m not a monster.”
She curled her fingers round his hand.
“I already know that.”
The smile on her face was enough to melt his heart—then he realized what he’d called her.
My love.