The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal
Chapter Five
Sweet Lord, it was him!
He must be a figment of her imagination—made vivid by her desires.
Last night he’d visited her dreams again—bodies locked in a passionate embrace, crying each other’s names… She’d woken, flushed and hot—even Dex noticed and had asked, during breakfast, if she was coming down with a chill.
Her brother was right—she was coming down with something. An affliction—a shameful, girlish affliction.
Lovesickness.
Thea blinked and shook her head. But when she opened her eyes again, he was still there—as large as life—talking to Dexter and Meggie.
She fought the urge to return to the nursery.
At that moment, Devon approached him, and Thea waited for the inevitable reaction to her younger brother’s disfigurement. But, instead, she saw her brother greeted warmly by a stranger, who shook his hand, smiled, and looked him straight in the eyes.
Not only was he the epitome of virility and masculinity, he was capable of looking beyond Devon’s scar, to the man inside.
Why did he have to be so perfect?
Why did her heart flutter at the mere sight of him?
As she watched, Devon grew more at ease. When the two men threw back their heads with laughter, her heart was lost.
Thea stepped into the room, and Meggie announced dinner was served, then led the way into the dining room on Dexter’s arm.
Devon appeared at Thea’s elbow. “I believe I’m your dinner companion tonight, sister,” he said.
“You seem in good spirits, brother.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” he replied. “I’ve a beautiful wife at home, about to furnish me with my second child, and I have my beloved sister for company tonight. Shall we?”
She took her brother’s elbow and let him lead her into dinner.
*
Meggie had outdoneherself tonight. The meal was excellent, and none of the guests had reason to complain—not even Mrs. Lewis.
Thea had reason to curse Mrs. Lewis. Not only was she sat beside—him—but for most of the time, she obscured him from view. Each time the woman leaned forward, giving a clear sight of him, Thea stole a glimpse. He didn’t eat with ease—she observed his hands as they curled round the handles of the cutlery and watched him lift a wineglass to his lips, licking her own lips as her gaze slid across the curve of his mouth.
What the devil was a prizefighter doing at Dexter’s party? Had he unexpectedly inherited a title? Or a fortune? His jacket was tailored to fit his frame—the mark of the best establishments in Savile Row. And his necktie and waistcoat, though not made from the flamboyant silks favored by men such as Mr. Lewis, were clearly cut from the finest material.
But he looked uncomfortable. He had money—but didn’t know what to do with it.
At that moment, Mrs. Lewis leaned to one side to call across to her husband and brought the object of Thea’s obsession into full view.
“Thea?”
She turned to see Devon staring at her.
“What is it?” she snapped.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve already asked you three times—what you think of the sorbet?”
“Oh—it’s pleasant enough.”
He glanced across the table. “You seem preoccupied. Has one of our guests discomposed you?”
“I was merely wondering…” she hesitated.
“Ah! I knew it. Do continue.”
“I-I happened to notice you were getting on very well with that man over there.” She lowered her voice. “The one next to Mrs. Lewis.”
“Mr. Oake?” Devon picked up his glass. “He was famous in his day, you know.”
“What for?”
“Can’t you guess? You only have to look at him. He’s a prizefighter. He made his name—and a fortune, I’ll wager—fighting in the inns around Sussex. But he really came into prominence when he won a major fight in London, about ten years ago, which I was fortunate enough to witness firsthand.”
“Does he fight now?” she asked.
“Not so much. He owns a number of inns around the country, including one in London. All bought with his winnings, can you credit that? Just think how many men he’d have to have felled. But you only have to look at him to realize the futility of resisting a body like that.”
“Indeed…” she breathed.
“Why, sister dearest, I believe you’re blushing!” he laughed. “Has the Mighty Oak captured your interest?”
“Keep your voice down!” she hissed.
“He’s a fine choice. Shall I wish you joy?”
Why must he tease her? Thea loved seeing her brother’s playful attitude return after years of bitterness—but not at her expense.
“He liked you well enough,” she replied. “Not many can look you in the eyes without flinching.”
“You give as good as you get,” he said. “Have I touched a nerve?”
The object of Thea’s interest ceased talking to Mrs. Lewis and was looking straight at her.
She shrank back. “Devon, that’s enough,” she whispered.
“Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a virginal maiden getting her first flush of passion?” Devon chuckled. “I didn’t have you down for a late developer—a very late developer, to have fanciful flutterings at your age!”
“Devon—please!” she cried. The company grew silent.
“Dorothea, what’s the matter?” Dexter’s voice boomed from the top end of the table.
“Nothing,” she said, fixing her gaze on her plate, painfully aware that a pair of green eyes were trained on her. “Our brother likes to tease.”
Meggie spoke up. “I fear that since Devon left the army, he’s been looking for someone to fight with. Of course, the dining room is no place for a sword—and while his sword may have been honed to sharpness, he’s yet to wield his tongue with any degree of expertise.”
A ripple of laughter threaded through the company. Thea smiled at Meggie, acknowledging her sister-in-law’s intervention with a nod.
Thank you.
The conversation resumed. She reached for her glass, and a hand caught her sleeve.
“Forgive me,” Devon said. “Evidently, I’m still unused to polite society that I know not how to tease without causing offense. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Thea. I, of all people, should know what it’s like to be ridiculed for one’s appearance.”
“You insulted my age, not my appearance,” Thea said, tartly, “unless you also find fault with how I look.”
“Of course not. You’re a handsome woman—any man worth his salt would notice that.”
He released her sleeve. “Why don’t I invite Mr. Oake to your birthday party next week? To make up for being an arse.”
“Wouldn’t it seem odd?” she asked. “A small party for friends when you barely know him?”
“Nonsense!” Devon said. “The quality of a friendship doesn’t always depend on the duration of the acquaintance. He’s promised to teach me the rudiments of pugilism, and I consider that the mark of a friend. I’d like to know him better—and what better circumstance to further a friendship than a family party?”
“He won’t come.”
“Then there’s no harm in asking.”
Thea sighed. There was no stopping Devon when he was determined. And at least, if he were the one to issue the invitation, she’d be spared the pain of witnessing Mr. Oake’s rejection.