Angel's Guardian

by Scottie Barrett

  Stanbury shrugged. “Constance can be very persuasive.”

  “And how the devil am I to house two unmarried females under my roof?”

  Obviously, sensing a chink in his opponent’s armor, Stanbury relaxed back in his chair.

  “She is your ward after all. It will be assumed by all that you will handle yourself with paternal rectitude. Constance though will need protection. That doddering sister of Silas’s who lodges in the dowager house can chaperone.”

  Nicholas shook himself mentally. His thoughts about the girl were anything but fatherly. Another good reason to get her married off quickly.

  Stanbury handed him a piece of foolscap and pen and ink. “Write a note to your aunt and I will send a messenger. She can get settled before you arrive and the servants will surely pass it about the town. It’ll put a stop to any salacious talk.”

  Nicholas quickly scratched out a note. “The only thing I am agreeing to is providing the girl with Constance’s guidance.”

  Stanbury splashed a healthy amount of whiskey in his glass. “You’d be wasting your time putting my prize on the marriage mart. Your uncle realized that giving her a season would be folly. Christ, even inveterate gossips think twice before repeating those tales about her parents. She won’t get a better offer and you know it. Now don’t come charging at me when I say this.” He held up his empty hand in a gesture of surrender. “But I have my doubts that your dear ward is still an innocent. I have it on good authority that Withers ran a very lax household. Always taking to her bed for some ailment or another. Leaving the girl unsupervised with suitors—hoping in her own scheming way to encourage intimacy. More a brothel madam than a matchmaker, if you ask me.”

  Nicholas decided he’d heard enough. “Stanbury, if you give voice to these unfounded suspicions again I will forget any shared history.”

  “And to whom would I repeat it? I want her more able to move in society, not less.”

  “Merely giving you fair warning.”

  “Then it’s pistols at dawn and all that?” Stanbury tried for an insouciant attitude but sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  “And all that,” Nicholas confirmed.

  “War has certainly turned you into an almighty bastard, Draxford.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas agreed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Angeline returned to her room and shut the door with a heaving sigh. Her restful garden experience had so quickly soured. Drawing could often consume her and make her oblivious to her surroundings. As she sketched, she managed to forget the men hovering in the vicinity waiting to catch another glimpse of her provocatively displayed breasts in the scandalous gown. But when she’d glanced up to the window to find Draxford staring down at her, his stance rigid and darkly threatening, that she could not ignore. She could swear she’d felt the anger emanating from him through the glass.

  With a cry of frustration, she swept the half-packed valise to the floor and threw herself across the bed. There was a light scratch at the door. Feeling too listless to rouse herself from her prone position, she simply bid the maid to enter.

  From her horizontal vantage point, Angeline watched as the maid who’d laced her into the corset stepped cautiously into the room.

  “Mrs. Withers has gone home. She won’t be returning,” Angeline said.

  The maid offered a tentative smile then set a note atop the bedside table. Angeline waited until the girl had exited before reaching for it.

  Angeline’s name was written in a bold hand and she knew before unfolding the paper who had sent it. The message was short and pointed. He wanted her to pack because she would be leaving with him this very evening, and she was to clothe herself in something appropriate. The word “appropriate” had been underscored several times. He added in the same dictatorial manner, that she was not under any circumstances to leave her room until summoned.

  She’d wanted him in her life, yet she was already chafing at his restrictions. Angeline considered defying him for the merest moment. With a groan she got up then began digging through the clothes strewn on the floor. She pulled out the gray bombazine dress. It was one of the transition gowns she’d worn after shedding the black mourning. Attributing it to her contrarian spirit, Angeline had crammed the somber dress in amongst the gaudy wardrobe selected by Mrs. Withers.

  ***

  Long since packed and feeling quite virtuous in her drab gown, Angeline glanced out the window to the courtyard below. The servants were setting up seating and lighting the torches along the drive. Excited chatter drifted to her as the guests gathered. She twitched the curtain back in place, the thought of watching the masculine display overwhelmed her good sense. She snatched up her black woolen cloak with the hood and tied it on as she hurried down the stairs. The front door stood open to a rain-fresh night.

  Trying to appear inconspicuous she walked toward the torchlight. A ring of rope cordoned off the area to be used for fighting. Draxford’s opponent was easy to spot. His splashy appearance made him stick out among the party goers. He wore a brightly striped waistcoat, a heavy fob chain strung with glittering charms, and a rakishly tilted slouch hat. He stood alone near the ring, puffing on a big cigar, surveying the crowd with a smirk. The male guests took no pains to disguise the fact that they were sizing him up.

  “Look at the reach on him,” Lord Wetherby marveled.

  “Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley,” Mr. Grey said.

  The fighter was a few inches shorter than Draxford. Barrel-chested with arms that definitely seemed longer than an average man’s.

  Servants carried a damask upholstered chaise lounge from the house and set it ringside. Mr. Stanbury’s cousin and her friends quickly settled themselves atop it. Emily Smithfield and the woman with the short curls huddled close to Constance. She was clearly the woman of the hour because of her connection to Draxford.

  As Angeline approached, Constance caught sight of her and her brow furrowed disapprovingly.

  “Come, Miss Kent, have a seat,” she said without graciousness.

  “Thank you,” Angeline said, grateful not to be ordered back into the house. She perched herself at the end of the lounge at a slight remove from the other women.

  Emily Smithfield shot a glance in her direction, then deciding she was insignificant continued with her conversation. “How long will you make the man suffer?” she asked.

  Constance fixed the line of her glove. “He’s only just come into his inheritance. He’s too fresh from the army. A couple months of a gentleman’s life will hopefully temper his dangerous tendencies.”

  “I expect we will see some of those tendencies on fine display tonight,” Emily said with a tittering laugh.

  “Don’t you worry he will grow tired of waiting?” the other woman asked.

  Constance smiled with assurance, as though he was a deadly panther she could make purr at the snap of her fingers.

  “I do believe, his desire for Constance is inextinguishable,” Emily said.

  The curly haired woman grinned. “Will you look at her blush. I think the poor dear’s worried about the marriage bed.”

  “He is a bit fearsome.” Constance said in a whisper that carried.

  “He’s built rather like an ox,” Emily said.

  “We really mustn’t say more. That’s his ward you know.”

  Angeline glanced in the women’s direction to find Emily staring slyly at her from the corner of her eye. She flicked her fan open and began whispering behind it. The other women leaned in close to hear what she was saying and then laughed behind their gloved hands.

  Angeline quickly looked away to find Mr. Stanbury collecting wagers, then tucking the banknotes in his pocket. Sensing her notice his gaze swept over her. Though buttoned to the neck in the gray spinsterish dress, his leer made her feel exposed. She wrap
ped her cloak tighter around her.

  The females in the audience oohed in appreciation when Draxford made his appearance. The woman with the curly hair actually clapped her gloved hands. Draxford had divested himself of his jacket and neckcloth. The slight evening breeze molded the fine fabric of his shirt to his massive chest and arms. Emily Smithfield adjusted her shawl to better display her décolletage, while Constance preened, smoothing back a tendril of hair that had escaped her coiffure. And Angeline adjusted the hood to better hide her face. But Draxford’s attention was focused on the ring. He ducked under the ropes and surveyed the area.

  “We need another light there,” he said pointing to the far side of the circle.

  A torchlight was brought almost immediately.

  He swept the sole of his boot over the ground, as if to determine the traction he’d have on its surface.

  His opponent entered the ring and extended a hand, but Draxford refused it with a contemptuous tilt of his mouth. Turley left it hanging for a moment before dropping it with an embarrassed chuckle.

  “Not very sporting of you, Major,” Turley said as he untied his cravat.

  Draxford turned his back on the man.

  Turley stripped to the waist and draped his clothing over the rope then balanced his hat atop the pile. With an eye to the women on the chaise, he thrust his chest out by sucking in his stomach as he smoothed his bushy side whiskers.

  Suddenly Mr. Stanbury was shouting something unintelligible. Heads swiveled to watch Benjamin wrench out of his brother’s grasp. He staggered forward and leaned on the rope barrier. It dipped under his weight, and Draxford righted him before he toppled headfirst into the ring.

  “This is my fight, goddamn it,” Benjamin said. The veins in his neck protruded.

  A muffled shriek came from behind her and Angeline turned her head to find Olivia Mayhew pressing a fist to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.

  Benjamin swayed and Draxford took hold of his arm to keep him steady.

  “Ah, let him go, Major. Let me warm up on the bugger,” Turley said with a loud laugh.

  Benjamin tried to shake off Draxford’s grip, but he held him firm.

  “Enough,” Mr. Stanbury said to his brother as he approached. “You are making a bloody fool of yourself.” He’d dropped his voice to a loud whisper that carried to the nearby onlookers. The sibilant tones hissed with anger.

  “Benjamin has the right of it. He’s owed a go at the bastard,” Draxford stated. “But so am I, and since I’m sober, I go first.”

  He released Benjamin. “Get some coffee in you.”

  Benjamin nodded his assent and knuckled Draxford in the arm before making his unsteady way back to the house.

  Angeline’s heart was near to bursting. This was the man she remembered. The man she’d come to admire. He’d diffused the situation and given Benjamin back his dignity after his brother had torn it to shreds.

  Draxford yanked off his shirt and tossed it over the rope. In unison the women seated on the chaise leaned forward to get a better look, Angeline included.

  Daring herself to inspect him further, her gaze dropped to his buckskins and she took the measure of the man. She had only the footman Harold, who had a similar muscular build, to compare him to.

  On two notorious occasions, she’d seen the footman’s shaft flaccid as well as erect. She still remembered the shock of seeing his equipment for the first time, when, with all his usual cockiness, he’d left the stable door as well as the stall door wide open.

  Angeline had been returning her horse after her daily ride just as the widow, who was their closest neighbor, shoved Harold’s breeches from his waist. Angeline remembered how her heart beat frantically as she watched. The woman had dropped to her knees and coaxed his shaft until it jutted out proudly. Then she had attempted to swallow the entirety of it. Judging by the bulge in Draxford’s breeches Angeline surmised the widow would be lucky if she could get half of him into her mouth. Curious, she thought, her use of the word lucky. As his ward she should really stop taking note of his virility.

  One of the men clashed two pots together startling Angeline from her wanton reverie.

  The men circled each other at first, each landing punches. Though the evening was chill, sweat soon dripped down Draxford’s torso following the muscled planes of his chest soaking into the waistband of his buckskins. Turley’s fists were like slabs of meat. He plowed one into the major’s ribs. Draxford grunted. Constance covered her eyes. Angeline refused to act like one of those wilting females. She rose from the chaise and moved closer to the rope. Draxford glanced suddenly in her direction. Turley taking advantage, struck him in the face. Instantly, blood spurted from his eyebrow. He squinted to keep it from getting into his eye. Angeline felt the color leave her face and gripped one of the posts supporting the rope fence to prevent herself from folding.

  He refocused his visual attention on his opponent, while managing to bark orders at her. “Dammit, Angeline, get inside.”

  Angeline stood transfixed watching in horror as blood dripped down his face. Draxford swiped it away with the back of his arm.

  Behind her, the normally placid Constance was beginning to get hysterical. “Hugh, you must put an end to it. That beast will break his nose.”

  Stanbury guffawed. “Drax has probably lost count of the number of times he’s had it rearranged.”

  Angeline had never seen Draxford looking so barbaric. Dust covered his tall, black Hessians, and sweat traveled over his massively-built body making his muscles glisten.

  The dynamics of the fight suddenly shifted. Draxford’s movements became crisper. He began hammering the other man, all the while weaving and dodging Turley’s enormous fists. After Draxford landed a succession of blows, which snapped the man’s head back and forth on its thick neck, Turley appeared to tire. Draxford landed a solid punch to the man’s jaw, sending the man to the dirt. His chest heaving, Turley hauled himself off the ground. He threw himself at Draxford, locking his arms around him, sucking in deep breaths.

  “The bastard’s stalling,” a man shouted from the crowd.

  Draxford cursed and shook off his opponent. It was clear Draxford was powered by more than the will to win. Anger or some other strong emotion was barely leashed. Angeline imagined if that emotion were given free rein it would be lethal. There was a savagery to the fight that shocked her. Somehow she’d expected a more civilized match.

  Out of the corner of her eye Angeline saw someone crumple to the ground. Emily Smithfield lay half on half off the chaise, her hair trailing in the dirt, her face as white as her dress. Two men grumbling about it not being a damned tea party came to her aid. One of the men, clearly agitated about missing a moment of the fight, administered none too gentle slaps to her cheeks. Emily batted her rescuer’s hands away and struggled to her feet. The widow refused an escort and staggered back to the house alone.

  Angeline turned her attention back to the fight just as Turley struck Draxford in the forehead again. Blood sprayed, dotting Angeline’s gloves. The right side of Draxford’s face was awash in red. The coppery smell of spent blood made Angeline’s stomach flip. Draxford cast a sidelong glance in her direction and she backed away until she was outside the circle of light. She shut her eyes and began praying silently. The repeated sounds of grunts and flesh clubbing flesh made her dizzy with fear. Finally there were shouts of congratulations and Angeline opened her eyes to find Turley laying face down in the dirt.

  “Dunk the bastard’s head in water so he’s ready for Benjamin.” Draxford ducked under the rope.

  A couple of women offered their handkerchiefs to him. Instead of using one of those lacey confections he snatched up his shirt from the fence post and sponged the blood from his face. Draxford slicked his sweat-drenched hair back from his face fully revealing the tattoo which she’d glimpse
d beneath his collar.

  “An upside down fleur-de-lis,” a man beside her whispered harshly.

  “Surely, a gift from his French captors. Napoleon perverted the royal symbol by turning it on its head.”

  “Why the devil did he not scrape it off? A scar would be better than that detestable brand.”

  “Who would have the ballocks to question Draxford’s allegiance?”

  If Draxford heard the whispers he appeared indifferent, instead his gray glare found Angeline in the crowd. He scowled at her. “Christ, Stanbury, why the hell was that child allowed to watch?” His angry tone carried across the courtyard. It was a devastating hit—straight to her pride.

  Ignoring the congratulations of those who had clearly profited from his win, he stalked toward her.

  Constance picked up her skirts and followed at his heels. “Nicholas, let me see to that wound.”

  His scowl softened some and he slowed his stride to allow Constance to catch up with him. Perhaps Constance had not overestimated her effect on him. It seemed she did have the power to domesticate him.

  Angeline’s nerve deserted her, and she turned on her heels and beat a hasty retreat.

  “Do run, brat, and collect your things. We are leaving the instant Benjamin finishes here.” His hard tone cut through the murmurings of the crowd.

  Tears pricked her eyes. This is what she’d longed for? To be reunited with a man who treated her thusly.

  Clearly nothing had changed. For him she would always be the same immature nuisance.

  ***

  Nicholas stepped out of the frigid bath he’d ordered to ease the bruising and dried himself off. He dressed quickly. He was not interested in attending any more of Stanbury’s festivities. The seams of the shirt borrowed from his host strained as he combed his fingers through his damp hair. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror as he snatched up his greatcoat. The ointment which Constance had insisted on applying gave the gash bisecting his eyebrow an oily sheen. His jaw was swelling some and there was bruising around his left eye. A bit battered, but he’d certainly looked worse.