The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Eight

Thea breathed a sigh of relief as she entered the breakfast room.

Her brother wasn’t there.

When she’d woken up, she thought last night had been a dream—a humiliating dream. But as she climbed out of bed, the pain in her ankle was a sharp reminder that everything that happened was real.

To think she’d been foolish enough to believe he’d wanted to court her!

As she’d spent the past thirty years learning—dreams were far from reality.

At least they were for her.

The clock struck seven, and the footman standing by the buffet straightened his stance as she spooned eggs onto her plate. As soon as she took her seat at the center of the table, he approached, brandishing a pot of tea, and poured her a cup. Two-thirds full, to enable her to top it up with cold water.

Just as she liked. Every morning—exactly the same.

“Thank you, Charles.”

She reached for the jug of water, then hesitated.

Was she that predictable? Safe, reliable—and every conceivable word that was a synonym for deadly dull?

Well today, she’d be different. Pushing the jug aside, she picked up the sugar bowl, then dropped two spoonfuls into her tea. The footman’s eyes widened, but he made no comment. Then she took a sip.

Disgusting! Perhaps she should have tried brandy instead. It would give her courage to face whatever admonishments her brother intended to throw at her. She couldn’t disappoint him any more than she had already, so she might as well enjoy herself.

But she needed to clear her head. The cocoa Meggie brought to her chamber last night had the familiar bitter aftertaste of laudanum. Meggie must have laced the drink to calm Thea’s nerves—and to ensure she escaped Dex’s wrath by virtue of being unconscious.

The door opened to reveal her brother.

The moment she’d dreaded had arrived.

“Good morning, Dexter,” she said, keeping her voice even.

He gestured to Charles, who scuttled over with the tea, while he took his place at the head of the table. Then, with a flick of his hand, he dismissed the footman and leveled his blue gaze at Thea.

“It remains to be seen whether it’s a good morning, Dorothea.”

“What do you mean? Are we expecting rain, perhaps?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said. “After your little spectacle last night, you’re ruined. Be thankful I’ve been able to repair the damage and persuade Mr. Oake to marry you.”

Marry her? She tempered the small pulse of longing.

“Why should I be forced to marry just to suit you?”

“Don’t you care about your reputation—the impact ruination would have on your life?”

“I fail to see how my life will change,” she said. “I’m already an object of ridicule and pity—the dependable spinster aunt, beholden to her family—Dorothea the Dull. A reputation as a fallen woman can’t be any worse. At least they’ll no longer think me dull. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful!” he exclaimed. “I could lose accounts over this! Some of the older families took a great deal of persuasion to bank with me—families who value respectability.”

“And their idea of respect outweighs my wish to be happy? Am I to be the sacrificial lamb on the altar of your profits?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” he said. “It’s a sad fact—but a fact nonetheless—that a lady’s reputation will impact on her family. I’m thinking of all of us—the people I love most in the world, Meggie, the children, you…”

He broke off and looked away. When he spoke again, the undercurrent of emotion had gone, evident only in the slight shake of his hand as he picked up his teacup.

“Mr. Oake isn’t what I would have wanted for you, Thea, but he’s not a bad man. Your life with him will be little different to the life you lead now.”

“Really?”

He smiled, a glimmer of shame in his eyes. “You’ll be subject to the whims of one adult, not two,” he said, “and you’ll be mistress of your own home. Wouldn’t you like that? Rather than believe you’re a burden?”

Tears stung behind her eyes. “You think me a burden?”

“Of course not,” he said, “but I’m not your brother for nothing. The Hart pride may be more prevalent in me, but you have a little of it yourself. If you marry, you’ll be free.”

“I’ll never be free,” she said. “Marriage is merely an exchange of ownership.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he asked, his voice rising. “You think you’ll get a better offer? At your age?”

“Dexter!” a voice cried.

Meggie stood in the doorway.

Dexter rose to his feet. “Meggie, my love, I was just saying…”

“I heard,” Meggie said. “Mr. Oake may be a brute, but he has nothing on you! I suggest you go and take your breakfast elsewhere—your study, perhaps.”

“My dear…”

She held her hand up to silence him. “Better still, why not take an early morning stroll before you leave for the bank?” She placed a hand on his arm and spoke more softly. Almost at once, the tension in his body disappeared.

“Remember what we said about the difference between belligerence and tenacity, Dexter, dear?”

Thea couldn’t help but smile to herself. Meggie spoke to Dexter as if he were her ten-year-old son, not her husband.

At length, he sighed.

“Forgive me, Dorothea,” he said. “It takes my wife to point out my poor behavior. I’ll leave you in her care, where you’ll be better looked after than by your bad-tempered old brother.”

“I thought I was the old one,” Thea said.

“I’m just bad-tempered then,” he replied, his mouth curling into a smile.

“I’ll not challenge you for that label, brother.”

He nodded, then dropped a kiss on Meggie’s cheek and exited the room. Meggie helped herself to eggs, then, defying tradition, ignored the place setting at her end of the table and took the seat opposite Thea.

“How are you this morning?”

“My head’s clear if that’s your concern,” Thea replied.

Meggie blushed. “I did what I thought was best. You weren’t in a fit state to do anything other than sleep.”

“I’m sure Dexter had a lot to say last night.”

“He said very little,” Meggie replied. “In fact, he spent a good deal of the evening listening.”

She gave Thea a sidelong glance, then ate a forkful of eggs.

“You astonish me, Meggie,” Thea said. “How you’ve managed to control Dexter, I cannot imagine.”

A slow smile curled on Meggie’s face. “Love does that to a man.”

“I struggle to believe Dexter capable of such an emotion.”

“He expresses it differently depending on the person,” Meggie said. “For example, where you’re concerned, he does it by insisting Mr. Oake does right by you.”

Perhaps it was best that Thea had dropped half the sugarbowl in her tea. The sweet taste offset the bitterness of her shame. Last night, she’d behaved like a lovesick adolescent.

“Do you like him?” Meggie asked.

“Dexter?”

Meggie laughed. “You know full well who I mean. Mr. Oake.”

Thea sighed. “There’s no denying that I find him—attractive. But that’s no reason to marry the man.”

“Ah,” Meggie said. “Is the head of Sensible Dorothea warring with the heart of Passionate Thea?”

“Perhaps.”

“Dexter thinks highly of him,” Meggie said. Then she grinned. “Well, he did, until he caught him last night! Mr. Oake took little persuasion to do the right thing by you—I think he likes you also.”

“That’s not what he said last night,” Thea said, shame warming her cheeks at the memory of his laughter.

“Pshah!” Meggie snorted. “Take no notice of what a man says. Instead, look at what he does.”

“Mr. Oake has done nothing.”

“That’s not what you said last night.” Meggie sipped her tea. “Of course, the laudanum affected your lucidity, but you said something about a kiss?”

She leaned forward. “A kiss which transported you to a world you had never experienced?”

Thea felt her cheeks flaming. The addictive dangers of laudanum were well known—but nobody had warned her that the drug would loosen her tongue and reveal her innermost feelings.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said, “when he—when he kissed me. It was…” she hesitated, then lowered her voice to a whisper, “…it was wonderful.”

“Then you do like him!” Meggie said.

“He was kind to Devon,” Thea said. “Few men can look at Dev in the face, on a second, or even a third meeting.”

“If you are to yield your freedom to a husband,” Meggie said, “who better than a man who’s already proven himself to be beyond the vanities of society—as well as being an excellent kisser? But, if you don’t want to marry him, you shouldn’t be forced.”

“But Dexter insists…”

“Dexter wants you to understand the consequences of refusing Mr. Oake,” Meggie said. “I want you to understand the consequences of accepting him if you are to make an informed decision.”

“And if it were you?” Thea asked.

“Dexter and I met for the first time on the day of our wedding,” Meggie said, “and neither of us wanted the match. Love can find a home in the most unlikely of places. And, unlike me, you wouldn’t be relinquishing all your independence.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dexter’s love often manifests itself in decisions involving money. He employed his negotiation skills to great effect last night with the marriage contract.”

“Dex made it abundantly clear last night that he viewed me as a commodity,” Thea said.

“You know that’s not true,” Meggie replied, “but you must admit that where it comes to the distasteful act of negotiating the terms of a marriage contract, an older brother with a reputation for ferocity has its advantages. Mr. Oake has agreed to relinquishing control over half your dowry.”

“I didn’t realize that was negotiable.”

“Everything’s negotiable when both parties are eager for the transaction to proceed.”

Footsteps approached outside, and Meggie clicked her tongue in annoyance.

“I told Dexter to leave us in peace!” She rose and approached the window, then her frown morphed into a smile.

“The man himself! Come and see.”

Mr. Oake stood on the pavement, staring at the house.

“Why doesn’t he come in?” Thea whispered.

“He’s summoning courage,” Meggie said. “Maybe he thinks Dexter awaits him with a sword. But I can see he comes a-courting, so his head is safe.”

He was dressed in an elegant suit, the deep green jacket accentuating the color of his eyes. His hair shone in the sunlight, with golden highlights, as if he glowed from within. In his hands, he held a posy of flowers, the delicate blooms only serving to emphasize his huge hands.

He was like a bear—a giant bear.

A very male bear.

The posy was a mixture of flowers and grasses. Not the elegant blooms to be found in hothouses—they’d been snatched from the park or hedgerow—or perhaps even stolen from a nearby garden. Thea could swear she spotted one of Lady Stainton’s roses—their distinctive yellow color was not to be found everywhere in London.

He smoothed the blooms, then lifted the posy to his face as if to check their scent. A smile crept across his lips, and he nodded as if in approval. The care with which he tended to them made her heart twitch with hope. Was he capable of tenderness? Perhaps, even love?

The memory of his kiss—and her body’s instinctive but scandalous reaction—warmed her blood. The sharp tingling sensation in her breasts had been an unexpected—shameful, yet pleasurable sensation. As she watched him, that sensation fizzled deep inside her body, just out of reach.

He’s magnificent…

“You like what you see?” Meggie whispered.

Sweet Lord!Had she just said that out loud?

He disappeared from view, and a few minutes later, the footman entered the breakfast room, brandishing a card.

“Mr. Oake for Miss Hart,” he said. “I took the liberty of placing him in the morning room.”

“Then I’ll leave you,” Meggie said.

Thea caught her hand. “Don’t go—I’ll need a chaperone.”

Meggie laughed. “My dear sister, I doubt the meeting he seeks is one where a chaperone is needed.”

“But…”

“If you cannot attend him alone, Thea, he’s not the man for you.”

Meggie was right, as usual. Thea needed to face him and conquer the attraction which rendered her body weak in his presence.

But, deep inside, a wicked thrill coursed through her at the prospect of seeing him again.

Her body and her heart yearned for him. Now, she only needed to persuade her head.

*

The door opened,and Miss Hart entered. She focused her gaze on Griffin with a boldness that belied her trembling frame.

He rose to his feet and bowed.

He found himself nervous—as if he were a young buck courting a girl under the watchful eye of her disapproving parents.

In essence, that’s exactly what he was doing. Her brother had made it abundantly clear that he’d slice Griffin’s balls off and serve them to Lady Hart’s pug if Griffin did anything to upset his sister.

So the bastard had a heart, though he hid it well.

She sat beside the window, then gestured to a chair at the opposite end of the room.

“Please sit, Mr. Oake.”

He held out the flowers, and she arched a dark brow and stared at them.

Was this another faux pas? A lady was supposed to appreciate flowers from a suitor. At least, that’s what Major Hart had whispered to Griffin last night.

Perhaps they weren’t to her taste. They were, after all, the spoils of theft—mostly from a nearby park, but the prettiest blooms had been procured from a neighboring garden, snatched on impulse as he’d approached the Harts’ townhouse, an act which had earned him two scratches to his palm. Perhaps Mother Nature recognized the need to protect roses with thorns. Much as Miss Hart was protected by her brother.

He glanced at the blooms—the uneven stems, crushed under his ungainly hands, petals ragged and browning at the edges.

Maybe Miss Hart would prefer something from a hothouse, wrapped up in a ribbon. Something which confirmed to…what was the word?

Aesthetics.

He glanced across the room.

She was still trembling! The poor woman most likely envisaged a life living in the dirt, in some hovel. In that respect, at least, he could allay her concerns.

“You must know why I’m here,” he said, his apprehension rendering his voice overly rough.

She narrowed her eyes, then nodded.

“My offer still stands,” he continued. “I want someone to turn my daughter into a lady, and while I hadn’t intended to marry again, a wife is better suited to that role than a governess.”

She cocked her head to one side but said nothing.

“I won’t require you to live with me,” he blurted. “I understand if you find the prospect distasteful.”

Her eyes widened, and she set her mouth into a firm line. Had he unwittingly insulted her? Again?

“Of course, I’d require you to be near in order for you to instruct the child, but I can find you a home nearby.”

She continued to stare at him, her expression unreadable. Was he making progress? The least she could do was give him an indication before he made a complete donkey of himself.

“Miss Hart?” he prompted.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You’re rejecting my offer?”

“As it stands, yes,” she said. “If I must proceed with this marriage, then I wish to live as a wife in your home, and not…” she bit her lip, then continued, “…and not as a spinster aunt tucked away out of sight.”

“Then when we marry…” he began, but she lifted her hand to silence him.

“I haven’t agreed yet,” she said. “I take it that your sole reason, other than my brother’s threats, is the need to turn your daughter into a lady. How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“And she needs a little polish? Tuition on how to behave in society?”

“In truth, she needs a damned sight more than that,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with her. Her governess says she’s too wild to handle. I thought about sending her away to school, but what if that makes her worse? What if it’s too late? She needs instruction, discipline. But most of all, she needs…”

He broke off, fingering the posy of flowers, then flinched when a thorn pricked his thumb.

She needed a mother.

His little Rowe needed the love that only a mother could give—a love she’d been denied her whole life. The once bright, vibrant little girl had turned into a resentful young woman. Acts of kindness she exploited and acts of discipline she rebelled against. But worse of all, she loathed him—and he didn’t know what to do about it. She needed someone to love her—but she had nobody to love.

“Mr. Oake? Is something wrong?”

He blinked, and moisture stung his eyes. Then he looked down and saw that he was crushing the bouquet with his hands.

His huge, uncouth, dirty hands.

“What chance does my daughter have in life,” he whispered, “with me as her father?”

*

Were there tearsin his eyes?

Mr. Oake clutched the posy, the delicate stems crushing in his hands. Cracked and calloused, they were not the hands of a gentleman. Thea rose to her feet, and he followed suit. Then she crossed the floor and sat next to him.

“Are those flowers for me?” she asked. “I can put them in a vase.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “They’re not much.”

“Nevertheless, if you picked them for me, I’d like to have them. Or do you forget what I said last night?”

“I remember everything you said last night.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I meant what I’d said about the garden—that I prefer natural beauty to artifice.” She nodded toward the bouquet. “They’re very pretty—and I never thought Lady Stainton appreciated her roses enough to deserve them.”

Now it was his turn to blush.

She placed her hand over his, running her fingertips over the calloused knuckles, reddened skin, and cracked fingernails. “Are your hands not terribly sore?”

“I’ve never considered it.”

“I have a liniment which would ease the discomfort,” she said. “My sister-in-law gave it to me.”

“Lady Hart?”

“No—my brother Devon’s wife, Lady Atalanta. She made it up for my hands. It’s particularly useful in the winter when my hands get overly dry, especially on laundry day.”

“Laundry day?” he asked. “Does your brother make you do the housework?”

“I choose to do it, Mr. Oake.”

“I’d have thought you’d…” he trailed off and averted his gaze.

“You thought I’d spend my time ordering others about while not lifting a finger?”

“Isn’t that what housekeepers do?”

She let out a laugh. “You know nothing about running a home if that’s what you think. I’ll have much to teach you, as well as your daughter—if I accept your proposal.”

He placed his hand over hers and brushed his thumb against the back of her skin. A gentle, delicate gesture, but her skin tightened in response. She met his gaze, and a secret thrill pulsed within her as his eyes darkened with the same need she’d seen last night, just before he’d kissed her.

Would he kiss her on their wedding night? Before he made her his? She closed her eyes, recalling the dreams she’d had—dreams where he’d taken her in his arms, and they’d cried together in ecstasy…

Then he withdrew his hand and stood.

“You needn’t fear that I’ll force myself onto you, Miss Hart,” he said. “I’m not looking for love. I will, of course, abide by my vows as I expect you to abide by yours, but as to the more—intimate—matters associated with marriage, I promise I’ll leave you be.”

“Then, you won’t…” Thea’s voice trailed off as a flame of embarrassment engulfed her.

“No.”

“But don’t you…” she hesitated, “…I mean, you’re a man, and…” She gestured toward him, unwilling to say the words.

“A man has needs,” he said, “but those needs can be curtailed.”

“What of a woman’s needs?” she asked, making her voice bolder than she felt.

His expression hardened. “Do you have a lover, Miss Hart?”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed.

“Good. Then we can add a vow of celibacy.”

“Why not enter the priesthood?” she snapped.

“I’d make a poor priest.”

“You could always confess your sins and give yourself absolution.”

“What of your sins, Miss Hart?”

She looked away. Did he know she lusted after him? She’d felt nothing but lust from the moment she’d seen him, striding across that courtyard—shirtless, muscles rippling as he flexed his arms to demonstrate his raw, male power…

Lust was a sin. And she was sinning this very moment—imagining all the things he could do to her with his body.

His hard, very male, body.

“Perhaps it’s best if neither of us mention our sins again,” she said.

“I agree,” he replied. “We’re both of an age where we understand that the first flush of love is an illusion. It would be best if neither of us asks about the other’s…sins.”

He handed her the bouquet. “If you’re prepared to accept me on those terms, I’ll do everything I can to ensure you have no cause to regret your decision.”

Hardly the most romantic of proposals. But what could she expect?

“Then, I accept,” she said.

He lifted her hand to his lips, then dropped it almost instantly. Hiding her hurt, she moved her hand behind her back.

“Once I’ve finalized the details of the marriage contract with your brother, I must return to Sussex,” he said. “I trust you’ll forgive me for not calling again. I see no need for a public courtship.”

“You don’t?”

“The matter’s settled, isn’t it? And I must make sure your new home is ready for when you take up your position.”

Her position?

Did he view her as a servant?

“I’ll return for the wedding,” he said. Then he bowed and took his leave as if he couldn’t wait to be free of her.

Almost as soon as he’d gone, Meggie appeared at the top of the stairs. She descended, then took Thea’s hands.

“Am I to congratulate you?”

“We’re betrothed, if that’s what you mean,” Thea said.

Meggie drew Thea into her arms and kissed her. “He’ll make you very happy. I know it.”

“He doesn’t want me.”

“Of course he does!” Meggie exclaimed. “Dexter told me he needed little persuasion.”

“No, I mean, he doesn’t want me. He made it clear he’s not marrying for love.”

“There’s still hope,” Meggie said. “Love takes time. When your brother and I married, we didn’t even know each other. But we worked together to overcome the difficulties of our situation, and love blossomed.”

“Do you think I can find love in a marriage where my prospective husband has declared he’ll never love me?”

Meggie smiled. “Love will come when it’s least expected. Trust me—in a few months, you’ll look back on today and wonder at your pessimism.”

Perhaps Meggie was right, but a voice inside Thea’s mind whispered that she was about to take the first step on the path to heartbreak.