Left cross.
To no avail. She wasn’t there to for him touch and, bugger him, her knuckles grazed his side. Her follow-up was lightning. If there was anything to be said in praise of his performance, it was that she was breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion. He focused and deflected her next punch, a ribber. Her right connected with his belly.
He lifted his hands and stepped back. “What am I doing wrong?”
She dropped her hands and shook her head as she steadied her breathing. “It’s been too long. I’d not realized.”
“Mrs. Wilcott. You anticipate my every move. How?”
“Your body tells me.”
“Damn me. I have sparred with prizefighters who saw nothing of the sort from me. They couldn’t all have been allowing me to beat them at will.”
“You’re close to Devil’s size.”
He bloody knew that. “Your point?”
“I am used to sparring with a man your size.” And that man had been The Devil Himself. “You, however, are not used to a match with someone my size. You’re holding back too much.”
“I’ll not fight a woman. Not in earnest. You can’t expect for a moment that I would.”
Her smile reached her eyes, and she was transformed. The effect was…bracing to say the least. “Advantage, Mrs. Devil Wilcott.”
“There’s more. Tell me.”
She relented. “You’re faster than this.”
“I outweigh you by ten stone or more.” He extended an arm. “I’ve twice your reach.”
“Of that I am aware.” She moved in and touched his right shoulder. “You lead here. If you’d peeled off, I’d see more.” Her fingers traced down the side of his chest. She didn’t mean it as anything but an illustration of what she was telling him. He kept his lust to himself. “This tells me all. If you continue to spar with me at half or three-quarter speed, I’ll have all the time in the world to see where you mean to strike.”
“I won’t risk hurting you.”
“You insult me.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “How so?”
“You think I’ve not held back with you.”
“The devil you say.”
“I do.” She lifted her fists again. “Faster, my lord. See if you can make me scream.”
Enough, he thought. Enough. He’d had enough of her getting the better of him. “That will do, ma’am.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?”
“You bait me. Deliberately.”
“Am I succeeding?”
He lifted loose-fisted hands, and while he kept rein on himself, he gave her the credit she was due. This time while they sparred, that she was a woman ceased to matter. She had been holding back. She came inside his reach, and, before he could reset, she landed three crisp punches. Chest, stomach, ribs.
He took the blows. He’d had far, far worse. She came back to position, and he crossed with his left, fast enough to send a jolt of anxiety through him at the possibility that he would connect too hard. She evaded, but he touched her midsection, and then was obliged to slide away to avoid that fast right of hers. She still anticipated him.
Methodically, he tested her. How fast could she react, and how fast could he punch and jab and stay within the bounds of necessary control? This forced him to consider his technique, and then he understood the movements of his body that had conveyed to her his intentions. The dip of his shoulder. That his head tipped.
At last, she skipped back several feet, hands lifted, panting. “I’ve not the bottom for this.”
He strode to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “By God, you’ve taught me more in twenty minutes than I learned these past two years.”
She was breathing hard. So was he, and the room went away. They could have been at the Academy or out there by the river, or anywhere where there wasn’t another soul near. He wanted her. His blood was up, lusts aroused as he’d not been in some time. They were alone. He could take her in his arms and happily spend another twenty minutes dedicated to making her scream.
Once, not so long ago, she’d dared him, knowing the whispers about him, she’d invited him to do whatever he wanted. Anything. A sexual carte blanche. Tension zinged through him.
“You’re welcome, my lord.”
She had no such thoughts about him. He forced himself to release her and step back. He could do nothing when he was in this state. Should do nothing. He bowed. “I owe you a debt.”
“I owe you one, too.”
He retrieved the table he’d pushed to the side of the room and returned it to its place. Next, he fetched two of the chairs, carrying one in each hand. Mrs. Wilcott returned another, and he finished by putting on his coat and replacing the final chair. In the meantime, she’d unknotted his neckcloth from her waist and returned her clothes to order.
“Thank you.” He shoved the linen into his coat pocket. “Good night, Mrs. Wilcott.”
She curtsied. “My lord.”
When he reached his quarters, he found Niall waiting with one shoulder against the wall by the door. He had a grin on his face and an open bottle of brandy in his hand. “My lord Thrale. Had a good night, then?”
“I have, thank you.” He held out a hand, and Niall gave over the bottle.
CHAPTER 16
Lucy fished out her ledger and pencil and added twenty pounds eleven shillings to her two hundred and six pounds. The amount was still less than what she’d had previously, but this addition made back a portion of the hundred pounds she’d given her father. Her goal was four hundred pounds. Five hundred would be better, but with the smaller sum, she could live modestly on her own, as a widow must often do.
She looked down. “A fair penny, Roger.”
The dog thumped its tail on the floor.
A fair penny, yes. But not enough. Counting up her savings and finding the sum lower than it had been turned her stomach. What if she’d lost some, or even all, of her wagers this past week? Her strategy was to win more than she lost over time; this she had done. Nevertheless, each loss, every occasion on which she dipped into her savings put her planned removal that much farther off.
She touched her lockbox. Granger and Clancy would meet, that was certain. All but the date and location were settled. If ever she was going to leave here, she would do so by boldness. Therefore, bold she would be. If the match came about, she intended to make a significant wager on that battle.
Her father would never reform. He would always spend more money than he had. She would always be his target for ready cash and miraculous economies or imagined tearful appeals to Aldreth or the duke. She would always feel obligated to use her own money to make ends meet or pay bills her father did not. She replaced her ledger and pencil and turned the key in the lockbox just as the door opened.
“Lucy, my dear.”
She jumped, and that was a mistake, for there stood her father, his attention fixed on the box in her hands. She willed herself to have no reaction. “Yes, Papa?”
“Emily asks when you are coming downstairs.”
“Momentarily.”
“Not a bad tactic, my girl, to keep them waiting. All eyes on you.”
She drew on her calm. “Thank you, Papa.”
“Captain Niall tells me he finds you charming.”
“Oh?”
He examined one of the buttons on his coat. “Young Glynn has a bigger fortune, and he’s a neighbor. I’d have you close by when you leave us.”
“Papa.”
“It’s right that you’d want to.” He broke out of his melancholy. “So, I advise you, it’s Thrale you ought to smile at more often, for he has a larger fortune yet, and a title.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“You may find the captain more dashing, I daresay most women do, but it’s Glynn or Thrale will make you a better husband.”
What was she to say to that?
“Your mother would be easy knowing a man like Thrale had her daughter to w
ife. She’d want the best for you. She wanted the best for all you girls.”
“I know.” Marriage would not be the means of her leaving here. No man of rank would have her, not Harry Glynn. Not Captain Niall, and certainly not Lord Thrale. More than anything, she wanted a solitary life, as befit a widow with time to read all the poetry and novels she could buy or borrow. She wanted her own garden with roses and daisies and lavender. She wanted free of the silence that bound her here.
“Thrale it is, then.” He nodded as if his deciding the matter made it inevitable.
She did not move until he was gone. He’d seen her lockbox and the open drawer. Her desk was no longer a safe place to keep it, but where could she hide it from him? She looked around her room, considering and then discarding several alternatives. She settled on the back of her wardrobe.
“Lucy?” This time it was Emily who’d come to her door. “Did Papa not find you?”
“He did.” She would see Emily removed from here, too. Leaving Emily behind was unthinkable. Her sister could live with Aldreth and Mary, or Cynssyr and Anne. Papa could not object to that. If Lucy was nearby The Cooperage, then all the better.
“Everyone’s waiting.”
She stood and smoothed her skirts. This morning’s walking dress kept her reputation for fashion intact, as it must. She took her mantle from the chair where she’d left it. Every ensemble a new disguise. For this morning’s outing, an apple-green muslin underskirt, pale jade tunic with pearl fastenings to her knees, a darker green hat with ribbons around the brim, and a yellow mantle lined with swan’s down. Her boots matched the mantle, her parasol matched her tunic. Yellow kid gloves and a yellow-and-green reticule made her tout ensemble.
“How do I look?”
Emily swung her reticule. “You are stunning, as always. I wish I had dark hair like you.”
“I wish I had golden hair like you.”
“I don’t know why. Have you tied your laces?”
She lifted the hem of her gown to show her boot laces tied and double-knotted. “No one will trip.”
“Excellent.” Emily clapped her hands. “Hurry now.”
They were engaged to call on Clara Glynn’s married sister, who’d wed last year. She and her husband lived on the other side of Little Merton, the next village over, on a property renowned for its view of the valley. They had a cook who, Emily swore, served an incomparable tea. On her way out, Lucy bent to take Roger’s head in her hands. “You must stay here, old man.”
Roger whined.
“It’s too far, my darling boy. You must rest. When I am back, I shall take you for a walk, just the two of us.” She rose and remembered, at the last moment, to pluck her reticule from the dresser. “We’re off, then. Be a good boy, Roger.”
Emily led the way downstairs, chatting the entire way about their engagement in Little Merton. “I own, their cook is almost as talented as Cynssyr’s.”
“We are in for a delightful repast if that’s true.” At the bottom stair, Lucy readjusted her mantle and avoided the pier glass on the opposite wall. Captain Niall stood beside Clara Glynn. There wasn’t another gentleman in the whole of England whose smile made others so cheerful. There, as well, was Harry Glynn whom she now thought might be enamored of Emily, not that it mattered, for Emily did not seem to be in love with anyone.
In the shadows of the entrance to what they had always called the butler’s pantry—though there had never been a butler at The Cooperage—Lord Thrale held his hat in one hand. Such a serious expression. Dark corduroy breeches, a tan greatcoat, and boots suitable for a country walk. He nodded, and she curtsied.
“Mrs. Wilcott.” Harry Glynn pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against. “Enchanting to see you after so long.”
“Likewise, Mr. Glynn.” They’d been such friends when they were young. She did regret the loss of that acquaintance.
Since his youth, Harry had grown from a gangly boy to a solid man with broad shoulders and a wide chest. Not a little handsome, either, with his dark hair and eyes. His mother had sent him away the summer she turned seventeen. She was married not long afterward and far gone from Bartley Green. He’d been away when she’d returned after her husband’s death and was only recently come home. They had studiously avoided each other at church or the Bartley Green assemblies. Given the accusations laid at her feet in respect of him, that seemed a wise course for them both.
Captain Niall looked her up and down, and she pretended not to notice, but in truth, his attention unsettled her.
Emily held out a hand. “Do come, Lucy.”
Clara smiled, too, so genuinely that Lucy was reminded of happier days when they had tramped through the fields and had adventures and when they returned home it was to no care greater than whether they would like the dinner put before them.
“Clara.” She must be circumspect, even among past friends. “I’m looking forward to seeing your sister after so long.”
“I as well,” Harry said. “It’s been an age since I saw her.”
“Hah.” Clara jabbed her brother in the side, and he feigned injury, as he had done when they were children. A pang of regret went through her for the days when they met to make up lovely, fey games to be played indoors or out. “You’re looking forward to tea at Nan’s is all.”
“No more than you, little brat.”
Clara laughed. “The first true thing I’ve heard from you since you came home.”
“Are we ready, then?” Captain Niall put on his hat. “My lord?”
“Indeed, Captain.” Thrale nodded. “These last long minutes.”
“Three beautiful women.” Captain Niall grinned at Clara, Emily, and her. “My lord, Mr. Harry Glynn, I challenge us to think of a happier predicament than ours.”
Emily gave her arm to Harry, interesting that, and Clara to Lord Thrale—there was an excellent pairing, Clara and Thrale. Captain Niall put a hand to his chest. “Mrs. Wilcott?”
She did not move, despite that the others were already outside. He was a guest here. He was Lord Thrale’s friend. She could not fail to warn him. “You have an acquaintance with Mr. Arthur Marsey.”
“I do.” A wary expression came into his eyes.
“Have you known him long?” She used her drawing room smile, and his eyes widened. She recognized in his reaction a comforting dismissal of her as anything but a woman whose appearance he admired. She embraced the safety of that.
“A most excellent man, I assure you. One of the Wessex Marseys.”
“I don’t wish to speak ill of anyone.”
“You do not approve of him. You made that plain.” His smile sent dread coursing through her. “Never fear, Mrs. Wilcott. He explained your situation to me.”
“Did he?” She was too late, then.
“That there was once a…friendship between you. Gone awry as such friendships sometimes do.”
The pit of her stomach knotted. “We were never friends. He did my husband a great wrong, and I think, sir, that you should be cautious.”
He held her gaze. “In the time I have known him, he has never been anything but a gentleman.” He gave the word gentleman a subtle emphasis.
“No, of course not.” Marsey had told him about Devil. Captain Niall would never see her as anything but a woman who had compromised herself without hope of redemption. He was not wrong. “If you wish to avoid ruin, have no financial dealings with the man.”
“Thank you,” he said without sounding at all thankful for her warning.
There was nothing more she could do. She headed for the door and was halfway down the front stairs before he caught up.
“They’ll not leave us behind, Mrs. Wilcott.” He took her hand and placed it on his crooked arm with a firm pat as if their unpleasant exchange had never happened. “If they did, why, I daresay we would enjoy a private promenade.”
She pulled away from him. “They have not got far.”
On the path ahead, Harry waved his hat at them and called out, “We were
about to leave you to catch us up on your own.”
They set out, heading in the general direction of Rosefeld, though they would pass only a corner of Aldreth’s property before they turned toward Little Merton. Captain Niall and Harry were soon conversing as if they’d been friends their entire lives. They’d been to the same college at Oxford, albeit a few years apart.
As they walked, Harry elicited a few comments from Captain Niall about his military service, and when it was clear there were memories Captain Niall had rather not relive, Harry adroitly changed the subject. Well done of him. From there, conversation turned to matters agricultural. Soon all three men were debating methods of farming.
Lucy walked ahead with Emily and Clara, and allowed her conversation with Captain Niall to fall away. Her sister was right. It was a lovely day to be out and about. Only a few clouds floated in the sky, though one felt the promise of rain in the air.
The path went from well trod to narrower as they veered toward the hill that would give them a panorama view of Bartley Green, the very hill that she had sent Lord Thrale to ascend that morning when he’d appeared on the path and reminded her of Devil.
CHAPTER 17
As they walked, Lucy raised her face to the sun. She didn’t care that it would ruin her complexion. The warmth felt good. Her father and The Cooperage were in another world. Arthur Marsey was nowhere near. If Captain Niall now thought the less of her, well, then he did. There was beauty and friendship here, and she wanted always to remember this carefree afternoon.
“This hill,” Thrale said as they began the climb. They were all of them now walking together. “This blasted hill. I broke my lungs here.”
“I deduce, my lord,” Harry said with a look over his shoulder at Thrale, “that the illustrious owner of the Academy praised this hill to you.”
“He has.”
“He must think you’re worth something, for he would not otherwise advise you to take that training.”
Captain Niall clapped a hand over his heart. “He’s not given me that advice, and I am no slacker, I promise you.”
“Johnson wasn’t the first to tell me,” Thrale replied.
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