Chapter 30
“Hell and damnation, there has to be a way to revoke this accursed decree!” Leo smacked his hands down on the wide mahogany table, sending legal tomes and piles of parchment sliding onto the library floor.
Lawrence looked up from where he sat at the other end of the long table in front of his own huge stack of books and documents. “I’m sorry, Leo. We’ve looked at this from every possible angle and I can’t see any way to break it. I know the barrister who drafted it. Unfortunately for you and Lady Thalia, he’s damned good at his job. Too good. I took the liberty of asking him, discreetly, of course, if it could be challenged, but the bloody thing is airtight. I’ve looked it over myself, again and again, and I think you’re going to have to face the fact that it’s inviolable. Lady Thalia cannot remarry.”
Leo dropped back down into his chair, his spirits as haggard as he knew he must look.
In the month since he’d slammed his way out of Thalia’s town house on that dreadful, cold, wet afternoon, he’d spent his time combing through every law text and legal precedent he could lay his hands on.
When he’d had no luck on his own, he’d written to Lawrence for his help. Without asking questions, his twin had traveled back early from Braebourne to lend his aid. But to Leo’s fury and frustration, even Lawrence’s brilliant legal mind could not find a solution.
“And Ned’s had no luck either?” Lawrence said quietly.
Leo shook his head. “He made a couple inquiries in the Lords about a private bill. He even briefly chatted up the prime minister. But it can’t be done. Apparently Kemp has too much influence. He would stop any attempts to change the decree, even if the law was on our side.”
“Which it is not.”
He struck his fist against the table again, causing another couple of pages to slide to the floor. “I wish to God I hadn’t promised Thalia not to kill that miserable bastard. What I wouldn’t give to get my hands around his neck again. This time I wouldn’t stop squeezing until he’d taken his last breath.”
And though he hadn’t confided in anyone, not even his twin, he’d seriously considered driving to Kemp’s estate to confront him about his vile abuse of Thalia. Demand that Kemp somehow free her from the terms of their divorce. But the man would just laugh and turn him away. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name.
What had stopped him—the only thing really—was his fear that he might actually kill Kemp. He was angry enough, frustrated and outraged enough, that it would be easy given the right set of circumstances.
Lawrence sent him a wry smile. “It would solve your problem if Kemp went to an early grave. But Lady Thalia is right. Killing him wouldn’t end with you and her living happily ever after. Not if you’re hanging from the end of a noose on Tyburn for the murder of her former husband.”
Leo grunted, then turned to stare blankly out the window. A long silence followed.
“She sent Athena back last week,” Leo said dolefully.
“Who is Athena?”
“A horse. A mare I gave her before Christmas. She was training her for Esme to ride this Season.”
“Esme has a horse. And every other breed of animal known to man, come to that.”
“It was just an excuse to get her to accept my gift. I bought the mare for Thalia because she fell in love with her at Tattersall’s. I thought once the horse was installed in her stables, she wouldn’t have the heart to return her.”
He’d hoped she wouldn’t return any of his others gifts as well. But more than two weeks ago, a package had arrived by messenger.
It was the pearls.
He’d drunk himself into a stupor that night.
“She won’t see me either. I’ve called, but Fletcher won’t let me through the door. I could barge in, of course, but he’s an old man. I don’t want to hurt him.”
He drew a ragged breath.
“When was the last time you slept?” Lawrence asked.
Leo shrugged. “Don’t know. I can sleep later.”
“You should sleep now. You’re dead on your feet. I haven’t said before, but you look like hell, Leo. Worse than hell actually.”
“That about sums it up.”
Because he was in hell.
Hell without her.
“Go upstairs to your room.” Lawrence gave him a look as if he understood exactly what he was feeling.
And maybe he did. They were twins, after all. Identical in more ways than just the cut of their faces.
“I will. I just want to look all this over one more time.”
“Leo, you know it’s not going to do any good.”
“I’m going to look it over one more time,” he repeated through clenched teeth.
For a moment, Lawrence looked as if he was going to argue. But he nodded instead. “All right. Let’s look. One more time.”
* * *
“So what do you say, Thalia?”
As if from a great distance, Thalia heard her name. She blinked and looked up, startled out of her reverie. “What?”
Quietly, Mathilda set her cup onto the tea table between them. “I asked what you thought. Would you like to go shopping tomorrow in Bond Street? We’ll go to all the stores like we used to and you can buy anything you fancy.”
Thalia focused on her friend, realizing the tea in her cup had gone cold. She too set her cup aside. “You know that I am no longer in the position to buy anything that I fancy. But I’m happy to accompany you and lend my opinion on your purchases.”
“It won’t be any fun if I’m the only one buying,” Mathilda said with a little pout. “Let me treat you to something. It will be my pleasure.”
Thalia sent her friend a brief smile. “You are all kindness, but you know I cannot accept.”
“At least a hat. Or some gloves? Surely you cannot complain about either of those?”
“No, really. I do quite well on my own.”
Mathilda raised an elegantly coiffed brow.
“I do,” Thalia insisted. “Honestly, I want for nothing. Besides, I have little need for new finery, since I so rarely go out. I could show it off to Hera, but somehow I don’t think she’d be all that impressed.”
She forced a laugh, but Mathilda didn’t join her.
Instead, Mathilda frowned. “I should have had you to Lambton for the holidays—”
“You asked me. I said no.”
“Yes, but I ought to have insisted. I guess I was rather under the impression you were hoping a certain admirer would return to Town.”
Thalia looked away, the misery that was her constant companion these days snapping its jagged little teeth.
But she didn’t want to think of Leo. She spent the majority of each day trying very hard not to think of him. It was one of the reasons she had sent Athena and the pearls back to him. She couldn’t bear to see either one of them, couldn’t stand the memories of Leo that they roused within her empty, broken heart.
“I . . . well, perhaps at the time,” she said.
“And now?”
She curled her fingers into a fist beneath her edge of her skirt. “Now what?”
“Are you and he still . . .”
“No.” Her voice sounded sharp. Sharper than she’d intended.
She moderated her tone. “Lord Leopold and I are no longer seeing one another.”
“Ah.” Mathilda leaned over and reached for a lemon biscuit, nibbling the sweet cookie as was her habit when she was uncomfortable. “When did that happen? You didn’t say.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Thalia. Did he end it?”
“No. I did. It was time.”
“Really? But the two of you seemed so happy the last time I saw you together. I thought . . .”
Thalia forced herself to look into Mathilda’s eyes, careful not to let anything show in her own gaze. “What did you think?”
“You seemed different around him. And the way he looked at you. I thought perhaps the two of you were in love.”
“Whatever we were, nothing could come of it. You know I cannot remarry.”
“Marry? Were things so serious that you talked of marriage?”
She squeezed her hand tighter, her nails digging into the tender flesh of her palm. She welcomed the pain.
“Tilly, I know you mean well, but I do not wish to talk about it. About him. Tell me again how Tom is doing in school.”
Mathilda studied her for long seconds, then sighed. “Very well, I won’t pry further. But you know you may always come to me.”
“I do.”
She reached for her cup and dumped the cold tea into the silver waste receptacle, then poured herself a fresh cup. She raised the hot tea to her lips. It drove away a little of the cold inside her. A cold that had never really gone away, not since the day Leo left.
“Now, Tom,” she said again, striving for a lighter tone. “How is he doing?”
Chapter 31
April flowers blossomed in a vivid riot of color. Trees adorned themselves in new green finery like girls preening for a ball. Warmer air drove away the lingering cold. And all around, the city hummed with a renewed vitality that could mean only one thing—springtime had arrived.
But Leo noticed none of it as he strode along the crowded streets, his muscles tight with a frustration and despair that went bone deep.
His every effort to find a way out of Thalia’s divorce decree had met with failure. Every road he took led to yet another impasse, another new defeat. He wasn’t used to losing; it wasn’t a situation in which he often found himself. But finally, against even his own instincts, he’d had to accept the truth.
Thalia would never be able to remarry.
Not that she would have him, even if Kemp weren’t in the way.
He’d tried over the past couple of months to reason with her, to convince her that her inability to provide him with children didn’t matter. But she was sure it would—maybe not now, but someday.
She’d been hurt too much in the past to believe. He could not get through the wall she’d built around herself.
They’d seen each other again nearly six weeks ago when he’d gone to her town house. It galled him that he hadn’t been able to bring an engagement ring as he’d promised.
He’d expected Fletcher to refuse him entrance as he had so often before. But this time had been different. This time he had been invited inside and left to cool his heels in the drawing room.
She’d joined him a short time later, looking every bit as beautiful as ever, although she seemed a little thinner, and tired.
As tired perhaps as he was himself.
“You have to stop this, Leo,” she said in an emotionless voice. “Stop writing to me. Stop coming to my door. We have said all there is to say. I have made my wishes quite clear. We are done.”
“Do you love me?”
She’d shown no reaction, though she had refused to meet his eyes. “Whether I do or not no longer matters. This is the final time we will see one another. I will no longer accept your letters and if you call upon me—”
“Yes? If I call here again?”
Finally, she looked at him, her eyes hard as flint. “If you call once more, I will be forced to make sure you cannot ever do so again.”
“Really?” He crossed his arms. “And how do you propose to keep me away?”
“I won’t have to. I will sell the town house and leave London.”
“What?” His jaw had grown slack with shock. “But this is your home.”
“I will find another home. I will leave quietly and move very far away. There will be no chance of our ever crossing paths again.”
He hadn’t thought his heart could break any more than it had the day she’d ended their affair.
He had been wrong.
So he’d left, securing her promise that she would remain in her London house and giving his that he would not contact her again.
To his despair, he had kept his word, unwilling to take the risk of her disappearing forever. He needed to know he might catch a glimpse of her every now and again—even if only from a distance.
His family was in Town, the Season in full swing. Esme had been presented at court and had a spectacular coming-out ball. So far she seemed to be enjoying herself, eligible gentlemen eagerly lining up to dance attendance on her. Whether she truly wanted their attention—or any proposals of marriage—remained to be seen.
For her sake, he was doing his duty as older brother by attending the usual dinners and parties and other obligatory entertainments. But for the first time in his life, he couldn’t drum up any of his old boisterous enthusiasm. Even the nights he spent making rounds with his friends were falling flat. How could they not when half his mind was always in another part of the city, wondering how Thalia was? Wondering what she was doing and with whom she might be doing it.
His boots beat out a hard rhythm against the pavement, his hands clenching and unclenching as he strode along. He was in a foul humor and judging by the wide berth he was receiving, his fellow passersby knew it.
Christ, he wanted to hit something.
Badly.
Which must be why his footsteps had taken him to Gentleman Jackson’s without his even being fully aware of his destination. He stared at the front entrance for a few minutes, then went inside.
He was well-known here at Jackson’s—just as Lawrence was—and had no difficulty securing a sparring partner in spite of his unanticipated visit.
Yet two rounds and twenty minutes later he was no closer to working off his anger than he had been when he’d arrived.
He smacked his sparring mufflers together, wondering if he would take more satisfaction fighting bare-knuckled. But Jackson frowned on his patrons’ not taking appropriate safety measures and even more on those patrons’ bruising and bloodying his staff—and themselves.
He was about to start another round when he heard a voice that froze every muscle in his body. Blood seemed to boil in his veins, hatred washing over him like a blast from a furnace.
Pivoting on his toes, he fixed his eyes on Lord Kemp.
Then he smiled.
It would appear fortune was favoring him today after all.
He strode away from his boxing partner, the other man giving him a worried look, as if he didn’t like the expression on Leo’s face.
But Leo had forgotten him already, his entire focus centered on Kemp.
Ever the bully, Kemp was alternately punching and taunting the man who’d been assigned to spar with him. Jackson didn’t employ lightweights and his men knew how to fight. But they kept a sporting attitude and were instructed not to lose their tempers even when confronted by hotheaded clients. Kemp was taking advantage of that, getting in shots that were far from gentlemanly.
Then again, as Leo well knew, even though Kemp might hold a title, he was no gentleman.
He watched for a minute as Jackson’s man got in a fine uppercut to Kemp’s jaw. But moments later he took a pair of jabs to his stomach and another to an area in his side that was already beginning to bruise.
The man shuddered and moved back, gloves up as he tried to shake off the pain.
“That the best you can do?” Kemp jeered. “My mother could provide better sport with one hand tied behind her back. Tell Jackson to get me someone else. Someone who’ll give me a challenge rather than wasting my time.”
“I wouldn’t bother Jackson with this,” Leo said, planting his gloved fists on his hips. “His men fight hard and fair, but none of them are going to give you what you want.”
Kemp swung his head around, a pugnacious sneer on his face. He stared at Leo for a minute before recognition set in.
“Well, if it isn’t Thalia’s brash young cub. Byron, is it not?”
“That’s right.”
Kemp smirked. “How is my wife these days? Still amusing herself by robbing the cradle?”
“More lik
e continuing to congratulate herself for getting away from you.”
Kemp’s expression darkened, Leo’s verbal jab clearly striking home. “So? Have you come to learn from your betters, Byron?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be interested in fighting you.”
“Fight me?” Kemp puffed out his large chest, then laughed. “You are amusing, if nothing else. But you are wasting my time. I need a real man to fight.”
“Still hiding behind excuses so you don’t have to face me? How’s the throat by the way?”
Kemp’s chin jutted forward, all humor wiped away. He glared malevolently. “You want a beating, whelp?” He jerked his head toward the sparring area. “Then come and get one.”
“What do you say we make this more interesting?”
Kemp paused. “Interesting how?”
“A bare-knuckles match. No gloves. Just you and me. I did hear you say Jackson’s men weren’t giving you enough of a challenge.”
A few of those men and several patrons had gathered round, listening with undisguised interest to him and Kemp. Leo’s earlier sparring partner stepped forward, his heavy brows knotted with concern.
“My lord,” he said in a low voice, “I would advise you not to embark on such a course. Jackson doesn’t hold with bare-knuckle matches, not for his clients. There is far too great a risk of serious injury. If you wish to spar, use the mufflers.”
“That’s right, Byron,” Kemp advised, his upper lip curled with derision. “Listen to the man. You’re going to get hurt.”
But as far as Leo was concerned, he wasn’t the one in danger of getting hurt. Kemp was a cruel, arrogant brute and he was going to relish wiping the smug grin off his face.
“Advice noted,” he said to Jackson’s man. “But I believe I’ll take my chances.” Bringing one of the gloves up to his mouth, he loosened the strings with his teeth and pulled it off. He worked the second free with his hand.
“So, Kemp? Game for a real man’s fight, as you call it? Or are you afraid it’ll be too rough for you?”
For a fraction of an instant, Kemp hesitated; Leo could read the uncertainty in his eyes. Kemp was a bully, and bullies liked to be sure they had the upper hand.
The Bedding Proposal Page 28