The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal
Chapter Three
“Where the devil have you been, Dorothea?”
Thea sighed. Just her luck—the moment she crept in through the back door, her brother happened to be in the kitchen.
He moved toward her, his body seeming to fill the space in the room—a tactic he used on employees to intimidate them. But it wouldn’t work on her, no matter how much he considered her a subordinate.
Not when she’d seen a man to whom her brother couldn’t compare, even if he was a knight of the realm.
How would he fare against the Mighty Oak?
“Have you nothing better to do than follow me around, Dexter?” she asked.
“It’s past nine o’clock.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” She shed her cloak, approached the fireplace, and inspected the contents of the pot suspended over the dying embers.
“You missed dinner,” Dexter said.
“I can cook my own supper,” she retorted.
“It’s not the done thing, Dorothea, and you know it.”
Dorothea?He only used full names when cross or when admonishing his children.
But this wasn’t the time to fight, and she didn’t want him knowing where she’d been. If she kept her cool, he’d eventually tire of bullying her and retire, and tomorrow it would be forgotten. A night in his wife’s arms always soothed his temper.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” she suggested. “You shouldn’t keep Meggie waiting.”
His expression softened, as it always did, at the mention of his wife.
“Meggie’s with the children,” he said. “You were supposed to tend to them tonight. You’d promised to read them a story.”
“I’ll apologize to them tomorrow.”
“You’re their aunt, for heaven’s sake!” he snapped.
“And you’re their father!” she cried, unable to keep her temper. “I love my nieces and nephews, but am I not permitted a life of my own?”
“Not if it means parading around, unchaperoned, at night,” he growled. “We’ve our reputation to think of.”
“And with that, you’ve lost the right to speak to me,” she said. “Your knighthood has gone to your head. Must I address you as Sir Dexter now?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“Leave me alone, Dex,” she said. “I’m tired.”
“Where were you, Dorothea?”
“Why persist when I shan’t tell you?”
“Because you came in by the back door as if you had something to hide,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happened to you lately. You’ve always been so mindful of decorum. But this past fortnight…” He hesitated. “Do you have a lover?”
She let out a snort.
If only that were true! But the only lover was the Herculean warrior who visited her dreams. If Dexter knew about him, he’d laugh at her foolishness.
His expression darkened. “Well? Do you?”
“Of course not,” she retorted. “You’ve said, countless times, I’m too old to attract a man.”
He flinched. Having engaged his efforts to find a titled spouse for their younger sister, and then for himself, Dexter had passed Thea by, declaring her the least favorable prospect for securing a titled match. And now she was the only unmarried sibling, he considered her too old for marriage. For, as he said on countless occasions, to himself, to her—and, most likely to anyone who cared to listen at Whites—Dorothea Hart was far too old to secure a respectable marriage without appearing desperate.
“Go and see the children,” he said, his voice softening. “You know now much they love you.”
Curse him! He knew how to erode her defenses. She abandoned the pot, retrieved her cloak, and made her way to the door. He caught her sleeve as she passed.
“Don’t forget tomorrow night,” he said. “I don’t want you running off when we have guests. I’m depending on you.”
“Meggie’s an excellent hostess,” she replied.
“You know how uncomfortable she is with large parties,” he said, “especially strangers. You’re much better at talking to them.”
“Wooing your clients and their wives, you mean?”
He frowned.
“I’ll not let you down,” she continued. “Not when I’ve spent the past two days in this very kitchen with Mrs. Green.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I’ve tasted the shortbread.”
He’d always had a weakness for shortbread—ever since they were children.
“Is there any left?” she asked. “Mrs. Green won’t be pleased if we need to make a new batch for your guests because you’ve eaten them all.”
“Mrs. Green’s already admonished me,” he said. “I assure you, there’s plenty left for tomorrow.”
“Good,” she replied. “I wouldn’t want to have to make more, though I would if Meggie asked me to.”
“You’re a great help to Meggie,” he said. “She loves you.”
He averted his gaze, as he always did when voicing emotion. A shrewd businessman he may be, capable of dominating a boardroom—but when it came to matters of the heart, he stumbled like a child and avoided the issue. He only ever showed true affection toward his wife, the once-timid creature he’d married unwillingly but who’d captured his soul.
“I love…” he hesitated. “I’m fond of you also, Thea. I don’t want you doing anything to jeopardize your happiness.”
Before she could respond, he gave her arm a gentle squeeze, then turned away.
“If you go now, the children will still be awake,” he said, the gruffness in his voice not completely disguising his feelings. “They’ve been waiting up for you. Apparently, you were going to read a story about an ogre who finds love with a gentle maiden.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “Which sounds like the story of how their mama and papa met.”
“You’re not an ogre, Dex,” she said.
He patted her arm. “You’ve not lost your diplomacy, Thea.”
She exited the kitchen, leaving her brother with these thoughts—and, doubtless, the opportunity to steal another slice of shortbread.
She wanted to hate her brother, but she couldn’t. He’d worked hard to elevate them from poverty, and, in his own way, he thought he was doing what was best for her. He gave her a respectable existence, living in his home, tending to his children—a place in society where she could be treated with respect as the sister of the prominent banker and knight Sir Dexter Hart. In time, she’d become a chaperone for her nieces. But for now, she had to settle with being the prim, spinster aunt, who helped run the home and played the hostess when he entertained his business associates.
And next week, he’d planned a party to celebrate her birthday.
But what woman wanted to be reminded that she was turning thirty—that she was destined to be a spinster and would never find love?