The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Thirty

Aclock struck seven times in the distance. Griffin pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. Perfect timing. And it ought to be—it cost enough. He turned it over and ran his thumb over the inscription on the back.

John Arnold, London.

Such elegant craftsmanship! It looked fragile against his large, calloused hand. But he could appreciate it as much as any titled gentleman—probably more because he understood the merits of hard work.

It was one of the few indulgences he’d permitted himself in London—the other being the wardrobes for his wife and daughter. Madame Dupont’s account hadn’t been as eye-watering as he’d expected, but he hoped it had been money well spent.

He turned at the sound of a light footstep and let out a gasp.

A young woman stood at the turn of the staircase. Her hair—piled on her head in an intricate style, layered with curls, and studded with pearls—emphasized her height. Her gown, a pale shade of lilac, shimmered as she descended the stairs.

“Rowe…”

She approached him, an eager smile on her face.

“What do you think, Papa?”

“You look very well.”

“Isn’t it the prettiest gown? I wasn’t sure about the color, but Mama Thea assured me it was perfect.”

Mama Thea?Was Rowe, at last, warming to his wife?

“We’ll make a debutante of you yet,” he said.

Her smile disappeared.

Before he could ask her what was wrong, she let out a cry.

“Oh! You look wonderful!”

Standing on the stairs, a shy smile on her face, was his wife.

Her gown left little to the imagination. Pale blue silk folds outlined the shape of her legs and flare of her hips. He caressed her body with his gaze, following every contour—lines and forms which he could only imagine lay beneath her skirts. His gaze lingered at the top of her gown, where the swell of her breasts promised a paradise beneath the delicate lace trim.

And—if he were not mistaken—just below her neckline, he could discern two little peaks.

His mouth watered at the prospect of tasting them.

Madame Dupont’s account most definitely had been money well spent.

What a sin it had been to hide such a body beneath those spinsterish gowns! He made a mental note to ask the butler to have each and every one of her old dresses destroyed.

As she moved toward him, he caught the unmistakable scent of woman—the honeyed spice of female desire.

Or was that his imagination? Whether it was real or not, its effect was almost paralyzing. His skin tightened and boiled with desire, and he curled his hands into fists to detract from the rush of heat which flooded his body and settled in his groin.

He held out his hand, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and claim those lips. But before he could touch her, he heard voices outside.

Their guests had arrived.

*

Griffin needn’t haveworried about tonight’s dinner. Though he struggled to understand the requirements of a host, his wife always seemed to know what to do, issuing quiet directions as the footmen served and cleared each dish and nodding encouragement to Griffin as he worked through each course. At one point, he struggled to identify the right cutlery, then he recalled her words from earlier in the day.

You start on the outside, Griffin, then work your way in.

As for the dessert course—he’d never tasted the like! How was it that the unappetizing-looking spiky objects from his hothouse could taste so exotic? Sharp, yet sweet. No wonder his wife had insisted on bringing one to London.

Now, he leaned back in a chair in the drawing room, his stomach straining against his breeches, while his wife circulated around the room with Rowe, tending to their guests.

“My sister scrubs up well, doesn’t she?” a voice said.

Devon Hart took the seat next to Griffin. “You not having coffee?”

Griffin shook his head. “I couldn’t fit anything else in.”

“The trick to surviving an elaborate meal is to eat half of what’s on your plate. I daresay you’ll work off the meal soon enough if you indulge in a bout or two while you’re in London.”

Subtlety wasn’t Hart’s strong point.

“I’ve not forgotten my promise to teach you an uppercut,” Griffin said. “That is, of course, if Lady Atalanta has no objection.”

“My wife would thank you a thousand times over,” Hart said. “If you batter my face, there’s little chance of it lessening my looks—it’ll probably be an improvement.”

“Devon!” a voice admonished. The lady in question stood before them.

“Forgive my husband, Mr. Oake,” she said. “Too often he speaks negatively of himself. I often wonder if it’s his way of fishing for compliments.”

“Your husband seems too intelligent to be susceptible to flattery,” Griffin said. He nodded to the empty glass in her hand. “Would you like another brandy?”

“No, thank you.” She took a seat. “I came over to ask my husband for assistance. Devon, darling—we’re trying to persuade Dorothea to sing.”

“I’m not sure I can help,” Hart said.

“We both know she’ll do anything you ask of her.”

“Very well.” Hart rose and crossed the floor to the pianoforte where Mrs. Pelham was picking through song sheets. Lady Hart stood beside the instrument, arm-in-arm with Dorothea, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Sir Dexter stood some distance away, a smile of amusement on his lips—he had the good sense to steer clear of an argument between women.

But Devon Hart had no such qualms. He took Dorothea’s hand and whispered in her ear. She glanced toward Griffin, then shook her head, but he persisted.

Eventually, she nodded, and her companions moved away like a receding tide, leaving her standing beside the pianoforte, her body stiff with tension. She closed her eyes, and her chest rose and fell.

Mrs. Pelham began to play, and a soft melody filled the room. Lady Atalanta leaned toward Griffin.

“Il desiderio del mio cuore,” she whispered.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“My Heart’s Desire. Few of my acquaintance can sing it successfully, given the vocal range, but it’s perfect for Dorothea. I always find a contralto voice infinitely preferable to a soprano, don’t you?”

“What the devil is…”

“Hush!” she whispered. “She’s about to begin.”

Dorothea opened her eyes, then began to sing. Her voice sounded strained at first, but after a few bars, she relaxed, and the tone grew in richness—a warm, sweet voice, which filled the room and soothed his heart.

Lord only knew what she was singing—Griffin couldn’t even identify the language—but the emotion in her voice conveyed the meaning of the words.

She was singing about love—the deepest desires of a woman in love.

As the song continued, her eyes glistened, and he felt tears prick at his eyelids. He glanced to his left and saw Lady Atalanta dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

Once again, he was reminded of the raw passion which burned deep within her. And tonight, as she stood in the center of the drawing room, resplendent in her gown, singing the most beautiful love song he’d ever heard, his heart swelled until it almost burst.

Not to mention the heat which surged in his groin.

She finished the song on a long note, and their eyes met across the room. Then he placed his hand over his heart, and her lips curled into a soft smile.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other—twin souls connecting across a chasm. The room faded to gray, with his wife the bright splash of color, shining like a beacon in a storm.

A ripple of applause threaded through the room and broke the spell.

“Mama Thea, that was beautiful!” Rowe cried.

Major Hart approached her and squeezed her hand, and Griffin caught his whispered congratulation.

“Bravo.”

Then Hart made a great show of checking his pocket watch.

“Atalanta, my love, I think it’s time we left. It’s the longest we’ve left Francine. Dorothea, do you mind?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. I’m only grateful that you came.”

“I’m a little tired,” Mrs. Pelham said.

“And we should retire also,” Lady Hart said. “Dexter?”

Sir Dexter leaped to his feet, and Griffin suppressed a smile.

In less than ten minutes, Griffin stood in the front hall, alone with his wife.

Their guests had departed, and Rowe had retired after embracing her stepmother with a ferocity that warmed his heart.

“What a wonderful evening,” he said. “Thank you, Thea. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it.”

“A family supper is always preferable to a formal party,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”

He caught her hand. “You have a beautiful singing voice,” he said. “I had no idea.”

She gave a shy smile. “Thank you. I sang all the time when I was growing up. Then…” she sighed, “…I had little reason to sing after we arrived in London. Delilah had lessons, but she took so little pleasure out of it that Dex gave up on her.”

“Didn’t you take lessons?”

She shook her head. “The opportunity never arose. Dex wanted to school Lilah in the ways of a lady. She was our best chance of elevating our status—and she did, in the end, when she married a duke. She’s young and handsome. Whereas I…” She broke off and averted her gaze.

Griffin silently cursed Sir Dexter. The man had tossed Dorothea aside, thinking her worthless, merely because she was considered too old to attract a husband. No wonder she dressed and behaved like a spinster aunt—her brother had treated her like one for years.

What a damned waste! All that passion—all that love, suppressed by stays and a domineering brother. It was all the more tragic because Sir Dexter had believed he was doing what was best for her.

Griffin lifted his wife’s hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against her skin.

“I may not have a title,” he said, “but I value you more than any duke would. And now I’ve had the immense pleasure of hearing you sing, I hope you’ll do so again—just for me.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. “You value me?”

“Very much,” he said. “You have a heart as big as an ocean—you’re beautiful and accomplished—and you’ve been undervalued your whole life.”

He leaned toward her and captured her lips in a kiss.

“But not anymore.”