The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Thirty-Two

The familiar sight of the White Hart came into view from the carriage window. Every time Griffin returned to Sandiford, he couldn’t help looking out for the inn—his pride and joy.

Dorothea sat opposite, Rowe sleeping peacefully beside her, even though thunder had been rumbling in the distance. She met his gaze, and her lips curled into the slow, satisfied smile of a woman well pleasured.

They’d made love every night in London since their first time, the pleasure increasing each time as she writhed beneath him, crying out his name—and, yesterday in the drawing room, he’d hitched up her skirts and taught her how to ride him. All that passion had lain dormant—now he’d unleashed it, he struggled to keep his hands off her.

Could life be any more perfect? He had a loving wife and a daughter—and he didn’t care who’d sired Rowe—she was his. Rowe seemed happier than ever, with a loving stepmother and aunts and uncles who doted on her.

Louisa’s memory would fade over time to be replaced by new memories. Finally, Griffin could lay her ghost to rest. And—more importantly—Rowe never need know the truth, for it would destroy her.

A lone figure emerged from the inn and hailed the carriage, which drew to a halt. Griffin pulled the window down.

“Ned—what’s the matter?”

“I need to speak to you.”

“Can’t it wait?” Griffin asked. “We’ve just returned from London.”

Ned glanced toward Thea. “Forgive me, Mrs. Oake. It shouldn’t take long.”

“That’s all right,” Thea said. “Take as long as you need, Griffin. We’ll make sure supper’s ready for you at home.”

He leaned over and captured her mouth in a kiss.

“Until later,” he whispered. He climbed out of the carriage and followed Ned into the inn.

“What’s so important that I must abandon my wife?” he asked.

“Alex Ogilvie’s returned.”

Griffin’s stomach clenched at the mention of his old friend’s name. “Are you certain?”

“He was here yesterday. I said you were in London and sent him packing, but I doubt we’ve seen the last of him.”

Griffin shook his head. “Ogilvie’s too much of a coward to face me.”

“He might want revenge.”

“What for?” Griffin snorted. “I did nothing to him. You worry too much, Ned. Now—is there anything else you need, or may I return to my wife?”

Ned grinned. “I take it things have improved between you—I know the look of a man well-fed and a woman well bedded.” He gestured toward the courtyard. “I presume you won’t be attending the next fight if you’re hanging onto your wife’s apron strings.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Griffin said. “My wife prefers a real man, not a milksop.”

“That good, eh?” Ned laughed. “I knew there was a vixen beneath those prim little skirts.”

“That’s enough,” Griffin growled.

Ned laughed and slapped him on the back. “You’ve got it bad, my friend,” he said. “Go to her—if a good tupping improves your temper, then I salute your wife.”

A low rumble echoed in the distance.

“There’s a storm brewing,” Ned said.

In more ways than one—if Alex Ogilvie was abroad.

Griffin set off on foot to Sandiford Manor, inhaling the clean, Sussex air. The walk would ease the ache in his legs after being cooped up in the carriage.

As he neared the manor, he heard Rowe’s laughter, and he smiled to himself. Thea said something in her rich, warm tones, and the laughter resumed. A male voice joined in. That must be Will, or perhaps the new butler—Kerrigan was the name, if he recalled the agency’s letter properly.

The laughter came from the dining room. Through the half-open door, Griffin saw Rowe chatting animatedly, waving her fork in the air. She leaped to her feet when she spotted Griffin.

“Papa! We have a visitor! I remember him from when I was younger—I can’t think why I’d forgotten him before. Mama Thea says he can stay. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Griffin entered the dining room.

His wife sat at one end of the table. At the opposite end—in Griffin’s place—sat a man. Light blonde hair framed an angular face with full lips and pale blue eyes. He was as handsome as Griffin remembered.

He rose to his feet and offered his hand.

“Griff! My friend—you’ve no idea how wonderful it is to see you again.”

He fixed his gaze on Griffin, a smile on his lips.

Griffin stared at the outstretched hand as if by sheer force of will he could make him disappear.

But he was here. And he was real.

“Aren’t you going to greet your friend?” Dorothea asked.

Griffin took the hand, and lean, calloused fingers curled round his wrist, holding it in a firm grip. He increased the pressure, digging his nails into Griffin’s skin, meeting his gaze as if in challenge.

Ned had been right to warn him.

“I can’t say how delighted I am that your beautiful wife has invited me to stay.”

Alex Ogilvie blinked slowly, then smiled.

Alex Ogilvie—the man who Griffin had once called friend.

The man had set Louisa on the path to destruction, leading to Griffin being accused of her murder.

*

Thea glanced ather husband, who glowered in the doorway.

“What are you doing here, Ogilvie?” he asked.

“I’m come to visit,” Mr. Ogilvie said. “I’ve missed my friend—and my favorite girl, of course.”

At first, Thea had been apprehensive when she’d seen the stranger waiting beside the main doors of Sandiford Manor. Still, Rowena recognized him and, with a cry of delight, had run into his outstretched arms before eagerly introducing Thea to her Uncle Alex.

Mr. Ogilvie’s charming manner and open praise of Griffin had instantly won her trust—not to mention how he’d lifted Rowena by the waist and twirled her round.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Papa?” Rowena cried. “Uncle Alex has been telling me all about Mama.”

Griffin glanced at her. “Is this true?”

“There’s no harm in it, surely?” Thea said. “Rowena has a right to know about her mother. I’ve no objection—and neither should you.”

“Some things are best left buried.”

“Come, come, my friend!” Mr. Ogilvie said cheerfully. “Secrets always have a way of revealing themselves.”

“In my experience,” Griffin replied, “secrets are often revealed by those who wish to cause mischief.”

“An innocent man has nothing to hide.”

“I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s truly innocent,” Griffin said, “no matter how charming they appear to be.”

“Griffin!” Thea cried.

He frowned at her, his expression darkening.

Mr. Ogilvie interceded. “I’m the one who’s given offense. Forgive me, Griff. If I’m unwelcome, I can leave. You are master here.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Thea said. Griffin might be master of Sandiford Manor, but she was its mistress, and it piqued her to have to defer to him, particularly when Rowena glowed with such happiness. Surely Griffin wouldn’t deny his daughter the pleasure?

“Perhaps I should let you discuss the matter with your wife,” Mr. Ogilvie said. “I saw your manservant chopping wood in the yard—I’m sure he’d appreciate some assistance, while you’d appreciate a little privacy.”

Before Thea could protest, he slipped out of the dining room.

“He seems pleasant enough,” Thea said. “Rowe remembers him. Where’s the harm in letting him stay for a day or two? We’ve a guest room already made up.”

“So, his foot’s already established under my door!” Griffin exclaimed. “Woman—you should have waited for my approval.”

Woman?

“What’s he done to make you dislike him?” she asked.

He glanced at Rowena, then shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

A loud rumble echoed overhead, and shortly after, rain spattered at the windowpanes.

The door opened, and Mr. Ogilvie returned, shaking water droplets off his collar.

“It’s begun to rain,” he said. “But I don’t think the storm’s coming toward us.”

As if to contradict him, another rumble sounded, and Rowena let out a gasp. Mr. Ogilvie slid across to her and placed his arm around her shoulders.

“Poor little Rowe-ling. You always were terrified of storms, weren’t you?”

Another rumble echoed overhead, and Rowena shivered in Mr. Ogilvie’s arms.

“Your dear mother died during a storm,” he continued. “Such a tragic loss for you. Doubly so—for you were there at the time.”

“I was?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“That’s enough!” Griffin roared. “Can’t you see it’s upsetting her?”

“You’re upsetting me, Papa!” Rowena cried.

“Perhaps your father’s right, little Rowe,” Mr. Ogilvie said. “If I left now, I can rent a room at the White Hart.” He glanced out of the window. “I don’t mind the rain.”

“Don’t go!” Rowena cried. “Mama Thea, he can stay, can’t he?”

“Oh, spare me the nonsense!” Griffin exclaimed. “Ogilvie, you can stay the night. We’ll discuss the matter in the morning without the women present.”

The women?

Thea pushed her plate aside. “Rowena dear, shall we retire and leave the men to conclude their discussion?”

Rowena glanced at Griffin. “You won’t turn him out, will you?”

Griffin sighed. “I promise.”

“With your leave, I’ll retire also,” Mr. Ogilvie said.

Griffin shook his head, oh what he’d like to do to the man…

Ogilvie took Thea’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “May I thank you for your hospitality ma’am,” he said. “Such kindness is seldom to be found among friends—let alone strangers.”

Ignoring her husband’s scowl, Thea smiled back, then she led Rowena out of the dining room.

An hour later, she lay in her bed, listening to the sounds of the household retiring, the clatter of the pots in the kitchen, the distant footsteps of the servants—set against the backdrop of the receding storm. But the one pair of footsteps she waited for didn’t come.

She had wondered whether she should wait for Griffin in his bedchamber. In London, they’d abandoned tradition and slept together every night in his chamber, where the larger bed lent itself better to their enthusiastic and vigorous lovemaking.

But, at Sandiford, Griffin’s room had been his realm for several years before she’d entered the household. She needed an invitation.

But the invitation never came.