The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Seven

Thea stood in the hallway, greeting the guests. They paid her every courtesy, but she saw the pity in their eyes.

Tonight marked her thirtieth birthday.

A widow in her thirties was always to be respected, for she’d weathered marriage and bereavement and, most likely, had the comfort of her children. And she had the experience to advise young ladies.

But a spinster was universally known to be undesirableand fated to live out her days being a burden to others.

She looked up as another guest arrived.

Oh no…

Her humiliation was complete. The object of her futile infatuation strode toward her.

She curled her mouth into the bland smile of the spinster aunt and held out her hand.

“Mr. Oake, I believe,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

Her hand was swallowed up in a huge paw, and thick, strong fingers enclosed it in a firm grip. She looked up, and her heart jolted.

From a distance, he’d been an impressive man, but at close quarters, he was a god. His whole body vibrated with power.

“Miss Hart,” he said, his deep voice reverberating in her chest. “We meet at last.”

Heat spread throughout her body, then settled in her stomach, forming an uncomfortable but thrilling ache. Her voice caught in her throat, and she responded with a nod and swallowed.

Devon came to her aid.

“Oake!” he cried. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I leave for Sussex the day after tomorrow.”

He fixed his gaze on Thea. For a moment, they stared at each other, and the noise around her seemed to fade until she could only hear her own breathing.

His mouth twitched into a smile, and she lowered her gaze to his lips.

What pleasures could be had from a mouth such as his?

“Dorothea, darling!” A familiar voice broke the spell, and she looked around to see Anne Pelham rushing toward her. The giant stepped aside to make room and, with a rush of silk, Anne drew Thea into an embrace.

“We’ve been so looking forward to seeing you tonight,” Anne said, “haven’t we, Harold?” The man beside her nodded and smiled. “Of course, my love,” he said. Then he glanced at the giant.

“Ah, Mr. Oake,” he said. “I hadn’t known you were a family friend. I’d been hoping to meet you again after Mr. Peyton introduced us. I believe we may be able to enter into an arrangement for our mutual benefit.”

“No business talk tonight, Harold,” Anne chided, tapping her husband’s arm with her fan. “We’re here for Thea, not for your profits.”

He looked suitability chastised, and the pair of them moved into the drawing room, followed by Mr. Oake.

“That’s the last of the guests,” Meggie said, appearing at Thea’s elbow. “Shall we wait until they’re settled in the drawing room, then make a grand entrance together? It’s your night, after all.”

Dear Meggie!She meant well, but sometimes she didn’t realize that the world was not always kind, even within the little circle of people Thea called friends. Their well-meaning words of kindness gave rise to more hurt than a direct insult could ever achieve.

But tonight was not the time for ingratitude. Her family loved her, and that was all that mattered. And if it was the only kind of love she could hope to experience, then it was better than nothing.

*

There was nodoubt about it—he was watching her.

Every time Thea looked up, she saw his green eyes trained on her. Even when he was talking to Devon, his gaze flicked over in her direction.

Why did he make her body melt and her knees weak?

“He’s rather impressive, isn’t he?” Meggie had arrived at her side again.

“Who?”

“The man you’ve been staring at half the night!”

“Hush!” Thea hissed.

“Nobody can hear us. And you cannot deny it—you’ve gone as red as Mr. Pelham’s burgundy wine. Why don’t you go and speak to him?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Devon’s with him,” Meggie said. “Go and talk to Devon, and the rest will happen naturally. It’s plain to see that you like Mr. Oake.”

“He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me,” Thea said.

“You give yourself too little credit,” Meggie replied. “You’re intelligent and a good conversationalist.”

“I’m sure Dexter would object if he saw me trotting after a married man.”

“What makes you think he’s married?”

“He has a daughter!”

“He’s a widower,” Meggie said. “He lost his wife over ten years ago, I believe, and has not remarried.”

“Poor man,” Thea said, fighting her guilt at the little nugget of hope.

Meggie offered Thea her glass. “Here—a little wine to fuel your courage.”

What did she have to lose? Thea drained the glass, then handed it back to Meggie.

“Hurry,” Meggie said. “They’re moving toward the terrace. But don’t appear too eager. You don’t want him thinking you’re desperate.”

Why not?Given that she’d turned thirty, the whole room would view any attempt to speak with a man as an act of desperation. But she had no wish to dampen Meggie’s enthusiasm.

As Thea approached the two men, they stopped in the doorway leading to the terrace. Devon bowed and wandered off toward the Pelhams, and Mr. Oake continued outside.

Curse it!Thea looked about her. She’d been striding in such a purposeful manner that the party would think it odd if she veered off. Emboldened by the wine, she followed him outside.

He stood on the terrace, looking out at the garden, his face in profile. The light of the evening sun highlighted his strong nose and full lips. He filled his suit out to perfection, and her gaze followed the contours of his broad, muscular frame. Then he lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair, the act sending a bolt of need through her. What might it be like to feel his hands through her hair—or on her skin?

Her courage wavered, and she took a step back.

“Don’t leave on my account,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. He turned to face her, and his eyes glittered in the sunlight, which cast a warm, pink glow across his face.

Why did he have to be so beautiful?

“Why don’t you join me?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to be inside with the others?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. He frowned.

“I mean…” she hesitated, “I prefer to be out here.”

“Shall I go inside?”

“Please stay!”

He raised his eyebrows at her outburst, and she tore her gaze from him and looked out across the garden.

At length, he drew near. She swallowed and kept her gaze focused on the armillary sphere in the center of the garden.

“Your brother has a…” he hesitated, “…a very pleasant-looking garden. His gardener is to be commended.”

His voice wavered as if he wanted to say something else. Was he nervous?

“I tend to the garden,” Thea said. He turned to her, surprise in his expression.

“Not all of it, of course,” she continued. “The gardener works under my direction.”

“It’s very…” He waved his hand toward it as if searching for a word.

“Pleasant,” she prompted. “I believe that was the adjective. You’re too kind. Most people think it out of fashion, but I dislike formal gardens.”

“You do?”

“I see little point forcing Mother Nature to bend to the will of aesthetics.”

“Forgive me…aesthetics?”

“Trees and shrubs grow in accordance to how Nature wishes them to,” she continued. “While some degree of discipline is necessary in order to appreciate its form, a tree which is overly forced into a shape a man considers to be pleasing will not bend. It will break.”

“So what do you do, Miss Hart, when faced with a particularly obstinate tree?”

He was making fun of her.

“I seek to enhance its natural form.”

“Like you would a child?”

“You understand!” she cried. “It’s exactly like a child. I wonder if parents should be made to tend to a garden before they consider raising a family. Most parents spend the first part of their marriage eager for children, then when those children arrive, they palm them off onto nursemaids and governesses.”

“Perhaps the care of a child requires more than an understanding of gardens,” he said.

“Such as?”

“Natural ability.”

Whether it was the wine, or the heat from the evening sun—but a delicious warmth had begun to envelop her, fueled by the spark in his eyes.

“Miss Hart,” he said, “Forgive my forwardness. I must ask you something but have no wish to cause offense.”

“You wish to ask me something?”

He nodded. “I’m not sure if I should ask Sir Dexter, as the head of your family…”

“I’m my own person, Mr. Oake,” she said. “My brother doesn’t own me.”

“Then I’ll ask you.”

Her heart skittered as he moved closer. The scent of wood and smoke thickened in the air, along with another scent—not the expensive colognes that gentlemen adorned themselves with to make themselves appealing to the female sex, but something else—the primal scent of man—of work, toil, and sweat.

Her palms grew slick, and her breath caught. She closed her eyes, recalling the image of him at the water trough—dipping his head into the water, then flicking it back, sending beads of water flying behind him—his hands, those big, brutish hands, wiping his chest, following the contours of the muscles…

He lifted his hand and ran his forefinger along his lip, tracing the outline of his mouth, then he moved his hand toward her.

Driven by raw need, and emboldened by the wine, she took his hand. His eyes widened, and she curled her fingers around his hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb.

“What are you doing, Miss Hart?” he whispered, raising his eyebrows.

“I…” her voice caught in her throat as she gazed into his beautiful eyes.

Their inquiring expression changed into one of surprise, then finally mirth.

“Miss Hart—do you think I want to seduce you?”

An uncomfortable heat bloomed in her cheeks. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firm.

“Good grief, woman!” he laughed. “I have enough women eager to spread for me without having to seek one out—and I wouldn’t want to rut a woman like you!”

Stunned into silence, she could do nothing but stare back, shame and anger coursing through her.

“I’m looking for someone to teach my daughter how to behave,” he said. “I’m not in search of a doxy.”

“I’m no doxy!” she snapped.

He let out a laugh—a bellow, which seemed to echo round the garden.

“Then you thought I wanted to court you?” He shook his head. “I’m not a man to waste his time in such a pointless activity. I’ll never understand women of your class. You interpret a smile as an offer of matrimony, which is not a state I intend to shackle myself to again. I couldn’t imagine anything worse!”

She withdrew her hand and, with full force, slapped him across the cheek. Though her palm stung, it made a satisfying crack.

He jerked back, rubbing his cheek.

“How dare you!” she cried. “You’re nothing but a crude, uncouth…” She gestured toward him.

He caught her wrist and pulled her hard against him.

“You get the first blow for free, woman,” he said, “but be prepared to pay the price if you strike me again.”

“What price?”

He crushed his mouth against hers, and her body tightened at the determined, confident gesture of a man who knew how to claim a woman.

Then he slipped his tongue inside her mouth—sweeping through as if he wanted to devour every inch of her. At first, she felt his arrogance, as if he were proving a point, then he slowed the rhythm. Despite his huge frame, his kiss was tender—as if he treasured her.

She clung to him, savoring his domination. Tentatively, she touched his tongue with hers. He rumbled his approval, and she curled her tongue round his as if they were engaging in a slow dance of seduction. A low whimper escaped her lips—a whimper of needs unmet, as if her body understood and yearned for the pleasures she’d been denied all her life.

His hands claimed her body. One hand grasped her hair, tipping her head back as he deepened the kiss, while the other…

Dear Lord!His other hand clasped her derriere. Then he squeezed, and her body fizzed with need.

Muffled laughter came from inside the house, and she broke free. What the devil was she doing, acting like a harlot for a man who saw her as nothing—and had proudly declared as much?

What was she thinking? This man had addled her senses, and she needed to get away. But not inside—to a room full of happy couples.

“Miss Hart…” he began, but she held up her hand.

“No!” she cried. “You’ve insulted me enough, sir. Leave me be.”

“But, I…”

She turned and ran across the terrace toward the stairs leading to the main garden. He might be a brute, but with his big, lumbering gait, he’d never be able to outrun her.

She descended the steps, two at a time.

“Miss Hart!” he cried. “Wait, please. I’m sorry!”

She glanced back and turned her ankle. Her feet lost their purchase, and she tumbled down the steps and landed on her back on the lawn. She tried to move but let out a cry at a sharp pain in her ankle.

She lay back, mortified, wanting the ground to swallow her up.

A tall frame appeared at the top of the steps. “Miss Hart? Are you all right?”

“What the devil does it look like!” she cried. “Go back inside and leave me be. You’ve done enough damage to my dignity.”

She’d made a fool of herself, letting her attraction be known, and he’d rejected her.

And now, she lay at his feet, her hair in a mess, and her skirts around her waist.

Things couldn’t get any worse.

“I can’t leave you there,” he said, crossing his arms, “though you’re a delectable enough sight.”

How dare he!

Her eyes stung with tears, and she willed him to leave her alone, but he descended the stairs until he stood beside her crumpled, disheveled form. He crouched beside her and offered his hand.

“Forgive me, Miss Hart,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “I’ve behaved appallingly—my lack of upbringing, I’m afraid. Perhaps now you understand why I’m in need of a gentlewoman to educate my daughter, for I’ve no wish for her to turn out like her father.”

“I’m not taking your hand,” she said.

“I’ll do nothing untoward, I promise.”

“How can I trust you?” she cried. “I’m sure a beast such as yourself prefers your women to—what was it, spread?—for you out of doors.”

“At least let me help you up, Miss Hart,” he said. “You’ve injured your ankle and, rest assured, I have no wish to rut you in your brother’s garden.”

“I should bloody well hope not!” a voice roared. “What the devil do you think you’re doing with my sister?”

Dexter stood on the top of the steps, silhouetted against the light from the drawing room.

Dorothea had been wrong. Things could get worse—a lot worse.

And they just had.

*

This was bad.Very bad.

Even Griffin, with his limited understanding of society, knew that it wasn’t the done thing to be caught in his host’s garden, with the man’s sister spread-eagled at his feet, as if they’d just been engaging in a coupling.

“Did you hear me, Oake? I said, what are you doing with my sister!”

A small party gathered beside Sir Dexter.

“Dex?” Griffin recognized Major Hart’s voice. “Good Lord—Thea! What are you doing?”

“I’d have thought that was bloody obvious,” Sir Dexter growled.

A smaller form joined them.

Shit—that’s all Griffin needed—the gentle Lady Hart witnessing Miss Hart’s humiliation at his hands.

He shifted position to shield Miss Hart from view. But they’d already seen her. Without waiting for permission, he grasped her hand and pulled her upright. She squealed in pain, lost her footing, and fell against him, and he caught her in his arms.

“Dorothea!” Sir Dexter roared.

Her body trembled, and Griffin’s gut twisted with guilt. He’d insulted her, laughed at her, and now—on top of humiliating her in private, he’d publicly compromised her.

“I demand you make reparation, Mr. Oake,” Sir Dexter said, his voice dangerously low. Griffin didn’t know which was worse—the man’s anger or the icy control he displayed now.

“Reparation?”

“You’ve compromised my sister, Mr. Oake. You must therefore choose.”

“Choose?”

“Either meet me at dawn and settle the matter or restore my sister’s honor.”

“Dexter, there’s no need for that,” Miss Hart pleaded. “We’re among friends—nobody need know what happened tonight.”

“Be quiet!” Sir Dexter snapped. “It doesn’t matter whether it was just me, a few friends, or the whole of bloody London—you’ve been caught with your skirts about your waist like a common whore!”

She flinched, and Griffin placed a protective arm around her.

“There’s no need to insult your sister, Sir Dexter,” Griffin said. “I think…”

“It’s plain to see, Mr. Oake, that you struggle with the act of thinking,” Sir Dexter said coldly. “Do you view women like my sister as easy prey?”

Miss Hart had no need of Griffin to humiliate her. Her brother was doing an excellent job of that on his own.

“I had no designs on your sister,” Griffin said, “at least not in the manner you refer to. I wanted to engage her as a companion for my daughter.”

“It’s true, Dex,” Miss Hart said. “He told me…”

“Dorothea, I told you not to speak!” Sir Dexter approached the top of the steps and folded his arms. “Mr. Oake, am I to believe that you considered employing my sister as a servant? I should shoot you, here and now!”

“Steady on, Dex!” Major Hart interrupted. “I’m sure we can settle this amicably.”

“That’s for Oake to decide,” Sir Dexter said, his voice laced with threat, “and I expect you to be my second, Devon. I’ll not have our family name laughed at because of our sister’s indiscretions.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Major Hart cried. “Is that all you care about—the family name? Thea’s not a commodity to be traded in one of your business deals.”

“I’m afraid that’s exactly what she is now, and she only has herself to blame. If she cannot behave properly, then I must decide what’s best for her.” Sir Dexter began to descend the steps.

“No!” Miss Hart cried. She freed herself from Griffin’s grip and limped up the stairs. Sir Dexter caught her arm.

“Leave me alone!” she cried. “Haven’t you insulted me enough? It was an accident—and I wish it had never happened!”

“So do I,” Sir Dexter said. “No man wants his sister to behave like a slut the day she turns thirty!”

“Dexter!” Lady Hart cried. “Release Thea, and let me take her inside.” Her voice seemed to calm her husband as if he were unable to raise his voice to her, no matter how much he shouted at everyone else.

“Meggie, my love…”

“You may settle your differences with Mr. Oake in any manner you choose,” she interrupted, “but this is no place for Thea. She’s distressed, and, however deplorably this man…” she looked at Griffin, her lip curled into a sneer, “…has behaved, her welfare should be utmost in your mind. Let me take her inside.”

Sir Dexter released her, and Lady Hart took her hand.

“Come along, Thea, dear,” she said. “We’ll send the guests away, then make you some hot chocolate.”

Miss Hart looked close to tears, but she nodded, took Lady Hart’s arm, and let herself be led back inside.

Major Hart joined his brother. A formidable pair they were. A man on his own could only do so much against the world. A faithful friend or loyal brother who had his back gave him invincibility. But Griffin knew, to his cost, that even the best of friends couldn’t be trusted. Particularly when there was a woman involved.

“So, Mr. Oake,” Sir Dexter said. “I believe the time has come to discuss business.”

“Is the garden the proper place to broker a deal?” Griffin asked.

“You should have thought of that before you ruined my sister,” Sir Dexter said. “Setting aside the insult regarding your offer of employment, I presume you intended to pay my sister for taking care of your daughter?”

Griffin nodded. “I was—and still am—prepared to pay handsomely.”

“Then the commodity you require is still for sale, Mr. Oake. Though I trust you’ll not object if we draw up a contract to prevent either party from changing their mind.”

“As you wish.”

“I believe we have a deal,” Sir Dexter said. “It only remains to settle on a price.”

“A price?”

“Of course. But, unlike most business deals, I’m afraid the price is nonnegotiable. Rather than paying in coin, I require your hand in marriage.”

“My what?”

“Come, come,” Sir Dexter tutted, “surely even a man of your background must understand the consequences of your behavior. My sister’s reputation is ruined. And though her prospects for matrimony are severely diminished due to her age, she still—until tonight—had her respectability. The only satisfactory outcome which doesn’t end with your lying in Hyde Park with a bullet in your head at dawn is marriage to my sister. I know it—and so does she.”

Which, presumably, explained why she’d bolted inside.

“Forgive me, Sir Dexter,” Griffin said, “but though you may be able to persuade me to agree to this, I doubt you’d want to place a gun to your sister’s head.”

“My sister will do what I tell her—she knows her duty. I only seek satisfaction from you tonight.”

Bloody hell—he’d come here tonight in search of a companion for Rowena and was now under threat of matrimony.

But would it be that bad? Miss Hart was loyal and dependable—and he’d chosen her for Rowe because she was good with children. If she could keep house for him as well, then perhaps the notion of marriage wasn’t so unpalatable—particularly as there’d be no need to pay her a wage.

As for her—he’d be a damned sight kinder to her than her brother. And she needn’t worry about him bothering her in bed, either. Those days were gone, however much he’d relished holding her in his arms.

However soft her lips had been…

Or those little noises she’d made, those mewls of pleasure which had sent a fireball into his groin…

“I’m waiting, Mr. Oake.”

Hell—he was standing at the foot of the stairs, having compromised Miss Hart, with her brother threatening a duel and a cockstand straining against his breeches. No wonder they thought him a savage.

He shifted position to hide his erection.

“Sir Dexter,” he said, “if you wish it, I’ll marry your sister.”

“Good,” came the reply. “I’ll have the marriage contract drafted, then make arrangements to have the banns read.”

“Shouldn’t you secure a special license?” Major Hart asked. “What if he bolts?”

Shame pricked at Griffin’s conscience. He’d hoped to call Major Hart a friend—and the man didn’t trust him.

But had he given him any reason to?

“I’ll not have Thea’s reputation tarnished by the need for haste,” Sir Dexter said. “We’ll do this properly.” He turned to Griffin. “Mr. Oake, I’m sure you need to make arrangements in Sussex to receive my sister, in which case, you have my permission to leave town. But if you don’t return at the appointed date, I shall hunt you down and tear you apart.”

“Understood.”

Sir Dexter held out his hand.

“What’s this?” Griffin asked. “Brotherly affection?”

“It’s a gentleman’s way of sealing the deal.”

Griffin took the proffered hand, then returned inside, flanked on either side by the brothers as if he were under guard.

As courtships went, it wasn’t the most romantic. But his first marriage taught him that romance only led to betrayal.

And death.