The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Four

“Oh, the table looks lovely—well done!” Thea’s sister-in-law gestured toward the dining table set for twenty, a stack of place-cards in her hand.

“Most of this was down to you, Meggie,” Thea said. “And I must applaud your penmanship—those cards are excellent.”

“My handwriting is poor compared to yours,” Meggie said. “I still haven’t mastered the letter ‘f’.” She held a card up. “This man—Griffin—whoever he is—will struggle to decipher his name.”

“He’ll have more to concern himself with than his place card,” Thea said. “You’ve placed the unfortunate man next to Mrs. Lewis.”

“Have I done wrong?” Concern flickered across Meggie’s expression.

Thea laughed. “No, Meggie—any man would be unfortunate to sit next to her. I see you’ve done her husband a service by placing him at the opposite end.”

“Why must husbands and wives be split at dinner parties?”

“Because most husbands and wives prefer to spend the evening with others,” Thea replied. “Imagine if a domestic argument were to spill over to a dinner party! Of course, you and Dexter are so blissfully happy together, you cannot conceive the notion of marital discord.”

“I’d rather remain by Dexter’s side,” Meggie said. “The thought of having to talk to strangers still sends shivers down my spine.”

“Why would it do that?” Thea asked.

Meggie’s smile disappeared, and the familiar expression of inadequacy appeared in her eyes. “I never know whether they’ll accept me, given my lineage.”

“Nonsense!” Thea said. “It may be a flaw of a patriarchy, as Delilah would say, but when a woman marries, she assumes her husband’s status.”

Meggie laughed. “So a woman in society is respected, as long as she’s married? I should be thankful Dexter was tricked into marrying me before I grew too old…” She gasped. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“It’s not your fault I’m too old for marriage,” Thea said.

“Nonsense!” Meggie replied, her voice a little too bright. “It’s merely a case of finding the right man. A wider acquaintance can only be to your benefit. I’m sure that’s why Dexter insisted you join the party tonight.”

Thea snorted. “He wants me to tend to the children so that you might play the hostess.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, though Billy and Lillian do love you as if you were their mother.”

Thea bit her lip to stem the pain, but the tears forming in her eyes spilled onto her cheeks.

A small hand slipped into hers and squeezed it.

“Forgive me,” Meggie said. “You hide your need well.”

“My need?”

“Your need for a child. Believe it or not, I understand it.”

“You do?”

Meggie nodded. “It’s like there’s an enormous void in your heart, and you ache with the need to fill it. But nothing will do. So you learn to live with the pain.”

Thea blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “How can you understand?”

“I spent eight years grieving for Billy,” Meggie said, “thinking he’d died and resigning myself to never having another child. When Dexter brought my lost son home to me—only then did I realize how broken I’d been. Sometimes you only understand the pain you suffer when it has eased.”

She squeezed Thea’s hand. “I’d do anything in the world to ease your pain.”

Thea sighed. “I had always imagined I’d have a boy and a girl, just like you have,” she said. “I’d even been foolish enough to give them names. Marcus—for the boy. And Helena for the girl.” She shook her head. “I thought I’d pushed such fanciful notions to the back of my mind. But lately…”

“Lately, the need has returned?”

Thea crossed the dining room floor, making a show of inspecting the table decorations, but her sister-in-law was not to be deterred.

“Does it have something to do with your evening excursions?” Meggie asked. “Dexter said something about you venturing out—and we missed you at dinner last night.”

“Does my brother seek to control me?” Thea asked.

“He worries about you. He thinks you’re unhappy here with us.”

“I’m happy enough,” Thea said, “but sometimes I wonder whether my life would have taken a different turn had I been younger when we first came to London. Sometimes I wish I were not the sensible, dependable, respectable spinster aunt.” She sighed. “Sometimes I want to just live—if even for a little while. Is that so bad?”

Meggie took her hand.

“My dear sister—you need new acquaintances to lift your spirits. Perhaps you’ll find one among tonight’s set of stuffy merchants all vying to do business with Dexter.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Then I’ll make it my mission,” Meggie said. “It’s time the family stopped using you to help them—and helped you instead.”

She pulled Thea into an embrace. Most unladylike, but despite Meggie now holding the title of Lady Hart, she would never lose her affectionate side.

And if Thea could not have a family of her own, she had a sister-in-law who loved her. Perhaps the secret of true happiness was not in wishing for more but in being content with what she had.

*

Griffin wrinkled hisnose in distaste as he surveyed the room.

Bloody hell—did the men of society think their ridiculous attire gave them the appearance of masculinity?

The other guests were strutting peacocks. One man even wore a pink waistcoat—pink! He’d be ripped to shreds if he entered the Queen’s Head—or the White Hart—dressed like that.

Pink Waistcoat had looked down his nose at Griffin, looking pointedly at his fingernails, which, no matter how hard Griffin scrubbed, still bore traces of dirt.

Mrs. Pink Waistcoat was even worse. She’d wrinkled her pretty little nose in a sneer, but as soon as she thought Griffin wasn’t watching, she’d ogled him, the all-too-familiar lust in her expression. Pink Waistcoat clearly lacked any male prowess. His wife might despise Griffin’s origins—but deep down, every woman, even the prim ones, yearned to spread her legs for a real man.

Their host approached him. Though Griffin topped him by a few inches, Sir Dexter possessed an air of dominance—arising from a sharp intelligence and strength of will rather than physical strength. The man filled out his suit well enough, his muscles toned rather than powerful—like a racehorse bred to stay the distance. He was evidently a man who took pride in his body and looked after it. Perhaps he exercised nightly by riding his wife.

“Mr. Oake, I presume.”

Mouth set in a stern line, brow furrowed into a frown, clear blue eyes focused on him—Sir Dexter was not a man to cross.

Griffin took the proffered hand. Long, lean fingers curled round his in a gesture of dominance. He responded by squeezing back, and Hart increased the pressure again. Any moment the man would drop his trousers and insist they compare the size of their cocks.

At length, Hart released his hold.

“Welcome,” he said. “My partner, Mr. Peyton, spoke highly of you.”

“I suspect he spoke even more highly of the size of my account,” Griffin replied. “Do you invite all your new accounts to dinner, or just those with the largest funds?”

“You seem a dangerously frank man, Mr. Oake.”

“I speak as I find,” Griffin said. “I’m not in the business of pleasing others.”

“Quite,” came the reply. “From what I hear, you’re in the business of flattening them with your fists.”

“Only those who deserve to be flattened,” Griffin said. “There’s more honesty in a man who uses his fists—rather than his wits—to best his opponents.”

The corners of Hart’s mouth twitched, and a faint sparkle gleamed in his eyes, then the frown reappeared.

Bloody hell—he was, most certainly, not a man to play cards against. But Griffin didn’t need the man to like him—just take care of his money.

“Ah, Peyton!” Hart exclaimed, relief in his tone. “I have you to thank for persuading Mr. Oake to join us this evening.”

A man approached them with a smile, and Griffin recognized the blonde-haired man who’d discussed his account at the offices of the Hart Bank last week.

“I’m so glad you could come, Mr. Oake,” he said. “Sir Dexter considers his bank a family business and prefers to adopt the personal approach when meeting new clients.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sir Dexter said, “I see Lord and Lady Cholmondeley have arrived.”

Hardly the personal approach—the man couldn’t wait to get away from him.

“I’m glad you chose to bank with us,” Peyton said. “Our loan rates are very competitive.”

“And profitable for you, I suppose,” Griffin replied. “I’ve no interest in taking out a loan. I’d rather pay for something when I have the funds. I dislike the notion of being in debt to another.”

“Businessmen have speculated for years.”

“I’m content with what I have,” Griffin said. “I’ll leave the speculation to you. Isn’t that the purpose of a bank? To persuade businessmen to invest their savings so that you might do a little prospecting yourself, on the back of another’s wealth?”

“You understand much of investment,” Peyton said, “considering…” he colored and looked away.

“Considering I’m a knucklehead?”

Peyton had the grace to blush, but before he could respond, he was interrupted by a soft, feminine voice.

“Mr. Peyton, you seem discomposed.”

A woman appeared at Peyton’s side. With her slight frame—soft brown hair styled in a simple fashion, loose curls framing a delicately-featured face—she looked a little out of place in a society party.

“Your interruption is timed to perfection,” Peyton said. “You’ve prevented me from committing a grave insult. May I introduce Mr. Oake?” He turned to Griffin. “Our hostess, Lady Hart.”

Lady Hart?

Was this soft-voiced little thing Sir Dexter’s wife? Griffin couldn’t imagine a more diverse match, other than, perhaps, one between a mouse and a lion.

He made no move, and a look of hurt flickered across her eyes. The more he stared, he noticed the slight tremor in her body. Almost indistinguishable—but a lifetime of observing human behavior—all the better to pummel them in the ring—taught him to recognize apprehension.

And fear.

He held out his hand, palm upward, and she took it. Then he clicked his heels together and bowed, brushing his lips against the skin of her hand.

He wasn’t going to let Sir Dexter, Mr. Peyton—or Mr. bloody Pink Waistcoat—think he lacked manners.

“A pleasure, Lady Hart,” he said. “I was so glad to receive your invitation. Forgive me, you were not what I was expecting.”

The look of hurt returned, and Peyton visibly stiffened.

“What were you expecting, Mr. Oake?” she asked.

“Someone distinctly less appealing,” he replied. “From what I’ve seen of the people in London so far, the men strut around like peacocks, and the woman turn their noses up at anyone without a title. You seem friendly enough, which is just as well, for I wasn’t looking forward to this evening at all.”

Her mouth curved into a smile—and he understood the attraction. Warm brown eyes, like liquid chocolate, shone with kindness.

“I’m so pleased to hear you say that, Mr. Oake!” she said, laughing. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I confess, I wasn’t anticipating a pleasurable evening myself, either. I struggle to warm to strangers.”

“Then I hope that after tonight, Lady Hart, you’ll no longer consider me a stranger.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Sir Dexter moving about, his attention fixed firmly on his wife. There was possession in his gaze—as to be expected—but something else.

Protectiveness.

Sir Dexter might be a businessman, but the tender look he bestowed on his wife belied his stern demeanor. They exchanged a smile, Hart raised his eyebrows, and she inclined her head in a slight nod. Then he glanced at Griffin and scowled.

So—Sir Dexter loved his wife, to the point of jealousy. And from the expression in her eyes, she loved him back.

Lucky bastard. A well-pleasured, faithful wife was a rarity indeed. No wonder Hart glared at him. If she belonged to Griffin, he’d keep her under lock and key and pummel any man he caught sniffing round her.

He released her hand and placed his own hand behind his back, in the manner he’d seen gentleman adopt. A signal to Hart that he had no designs on his wife.

But Lady Hart didn’t look the type of woman to respond to the advances of another man. How different from Louisa—who was willing to spread for as many men as possible.

Sir Dexter approached them and stood beside his wife, touching her arm affectionately. “I see you’ve met my newest client,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Is that my prompt to tell him how fortunate he is to bank with you, Dexter?”

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to say,” he replied. “But I regret I must curtail your discussion with Oake. We’ve several new arrivals who’ve yet to be graced by your presence.”

Good Lord—had the man turned into a milksop? Were it not for the fact that their love for each other was evidently very real and very deep, Griffin might have retched at such sweetness. But in Lady Hart, it seemed just right.

She was a perfect little thing. Perhaps she might be the one to assist him in finding a chaperone for Rowena.

“Where’s Dorothea?” Sir Dexter asked. Lady Hart shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps she’s with the children.”

“That’s all I need,” he huffed. “The most reliable member of the household playing truant when guests need looking after.”

He’d said reliable as if it were an insult.

Who the devil was Dorothea? A nursemaid?

“Dexter!” Lady Hart admonished, a flash of anger in her eyes. Whoever this Dorothea was, she had a champion.

“At least my brother knows his duty,” Hart continued, “even if my sister doesn’t.”

Ah—a sister.How strange that Hart referred to her as a member of the household—almost as if he thought her a servant. Perhaps there was something wrong with her.

Sir Dexter gestured toward a man at the far end of the room. He stood, alone, silhouetted against the window, his features obscured in shadow. “Devon, come and meet the bank’s newest account.”

The man hesitated, then moved into the light.

Griffin stifled a gasp.

His face was a mess—the left side looked like it had been ripped in two. A jagged scar ran from just below the eye to the corner of his mouth. Griffin had sustained many blows to the face over the years—but nothing compared to what this man must have endured.

He approached Griffin, a look of challenge in his eyes. No doubt he’d had to face ridicule, revulsion, and—the worst of all emotions—pity.

“Mr. Oake, allow me to introduce my younger brother,” Sir Dexter said. “Major Devon Hart.”

“Major Hart?” Griffin asked. “What regiment are you in?”

“The Thirteenth. But I’m no longer in the militia.”

Griffin gestured toward the scar. “Were you injured in battle? That doesn’t look like the mark of a sword.”

“You’re offended?”

“Merely curious,” Griffin replied. “My apologies. I trust you’re not offended by my curiosity.” He raised his hands, displaying the callouses and scars on his knuckles. “My weapons are my fists, which administer as much damage as a blade.”

“Actually, it was a gin bottle,” the major said.

“That must have hurt,” Griffin said. “The militia must be in a sorry state if their soldiers have to resort to gin bottles. I trust you gave as good as you got.”

“After a fashion.”

“I prefer to get close to my opponent,” Griffin said, “to look him in the eye—feel every blow.”

Recognition dawned on the major’s face. “Griffin Oake!” he exclaimed. “I should have known—you’re the Mighty Oak, aren’t you?”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“For good reason.” The major turned to his brother. “You never said your newest client was famous, Dex.”

Sir Dexter looked none the wiser, and his brother nudged him. “I must have told you about the Mighty Oak—the man who flattens his opponents at the first blow.”

You’ve seen me fight?” Griffin asked.

“You won me two guineas.” The major’s grin broadened, showing even white teeth. “It should have been twenty, but I couldn’t get better odds. I’ve never seen a man felled so quickly.” He turned to his brother. “It was marvelous, Dex—ten years ago, but I remember as if it were yesterday. You rarely see a fighter who combined skill and brute strength—most rely on one or the other—but this fellow here possessed both qualities.” He resumed his attention on Griffin, eagerness in his eyes. “Do you still fight?”

“On occasion,” Griffin said. “I was at the Queen’s Head last night.”

“I’m sorry I missed it. The proprietor must have appreciated the trade—you’d have attracted a crowd.”

“I’m the proprietor.”

“You own an inn?”

Griffin smiled. “I own several, hence my association with Sir Dexter.”

The major rolled his eyes. “Sir Dexter—I’ll never get used to that.” He winked at Griffin. “Mind you continue calling him ‘Sir,’ or he’ll foreclose on your loans. As for me, I can call him Dex, for I’m no longer beholden to him—though I prefer to call him an arse.”

A giggle to the left indicated that Lady Hart was within earshot. Sir Dexter, however, made no move to admonish his brother. He merely rolled his eyes, took his wife’s arm, then excused himself to go and speak to Pink Waistcoat.

“Who the devil’s that?” Griffin asked.

“The man with the flamboyant taste in waistcoats?” Major Hart laughed. “He’s a silk merchant—Mr. Lewis. Shall I introduce you?”

“That explains a lot,” Griffin said. “And no, thank you.”

The major laughed. “I hear his wife insists upon him wearing it. According to Dex, he has a waistcoat to match every one of her gowns, as well as her lapdog’s coats. It’s an extraordinary sight when they’re in Hyde Park together. I believe he considers it a form of advertising.”

“Advertising what?” Griffin asked. “His business, or the fact that he’s ruled by his wife?”

“Whatever he is, I believe Dex intends to make a pretty penny out of him. Bankers don’t lend money out of kindness. Don’t let the sumptuousness of tonight’s dinner fool you. The clients Dex woos will pay him back a thousandfold in interest.”

“I’m investing rather than borrowing,” Griffin said. “I don’t intend to take risks when I know what it’s like to have nothing. My fighting days are over, save the occasional bout. At six and thirty, I must make way for the next generation. And I’ve been more fortunate than most.”

“A pity,” the major said. “I’d have liked to see you fight again.”

“I could show you if you like,” Griffin said. “Tach you a few techniques?”

The major’s face lit up into a smile. “Rest assured, Mr. Oake, I’ll hold you to that. My wife wouldn’t object to your marking my face if we indulged in a bout.”

“Is she here tonight?” Griffin asked.

“Sadly not. She’s nearing her confinement.” The major smiled, and his expression took on that familiar faraway look.

The look of the besotted.

Hell’s teeth!Was he to be surrounded by an array of happy couples? The entire Hart family seemed to be blessed with fruitful and blissful unions.

Why did Griffin have to be so damned unlucky as to have wed himself to a harlot?