The Bedding Proposal

by Tracy Anne Warren

  But then Kemp’s natural pride reasserted itself; he was obviously confident that no one could best him, especially Leo.

  Besides, Leo thought, they had an audience, one Kemp wouldn’t be able to win over to his side so easily this time. Kemp had played the mature pragmatist during their last confrontation. This time if he retreated, he would look scared, pure and simple.

  Kemp smirked again and held out his gloved hands so his servant could unfasten the ties.

  “At least let me wrap your knuckles, my lord,” Jackson’s man insisted. “And yours as well, Lord Kemp.”

  “Very well,” Leo agreed.

  It wouldn’t do him any good if he broke his hand on the bastard’s hard head with his first hit.

  A few minutes later, he squeezed his fingers open, then closed, testing the strength and flexibility of the cloth strips wound tightly around his hands. Across from him, Kemp did the same.

  Voices buzzed as bets were placed by the men who’d gathered to watch the coming action. In all the time he’d come to Jackson’s salon, Leo had never seen it so crowded.

  He brushed all that aside, concentrating on his plan, anticipation surging through his nerves and veins.

  Then Kemp stood before him, heavier than him by at least two stone and far nastier, likely looking to any casual observer as the more fearsome opponent.

  But Leo had the advantage; he had fury on his side.

  He had right.

  For each blow would be a blow of justice for Thalia.

  Each drop of blood spilled would be in honor of the losses she’d endured, the pain she’d suffered and been unable to take recompense for herself.

  He smiled and beckoned Kemp forward with a hand.

  Kemp glanced around, posturing for the crowd; then he struck, his fist connecting in a hard blow against Leo’s jaw.

  Leo’s head snapped back.

  Distantly, he heard laughter.

  But he barely felt the punch, ice-cold vengeance and molten hot rage burning too deeply inside him for the pain to take hold.

  With a gimlet stare, he turned his head and spit out a mouthful of blood onto the floor. Then he looked at Kemp and smiled again, his teeth slick and red with menace.

  The fight was on.

  Before Kemp even knew what was coming, Leo struck, pounding his fists into his exposed gut in a hard, fast volley of blows. The breath wheezed out of Kemp’s lungs, his face turning white, then red as he struggled for air.

  But even as he managed to draw in the next breath, Leo struck again, hitting him one-two in the face, then again in his side in the same tender spot where Kemp had earlier been pummeling his sparring partner.

  Kemp wavered, then held up his fists protectively, moving backward and away with several heavy, lumbering steps. He shook his head, trying to clear it so he could regain his equilibrium.

  Leo came at him again; this time Kemp got in a pair of punches, striking him in the face and the stomach.

  But rather than draw away, rather than take a moment to catch his own breath, Leo pursued. He hit, then hit again, striking whatever vulnerable parts of Kemp that he could reach. His muscles ached from the reverberation of the blows running up his arms, his hands turning slick with fresh blood.

  Again, he barely felt the pain, pressing his advantage, every strike a victory for Thalia. He wanted Kemp to know how she’d felt. He wanted him to cower and beg, in fear for his life as she’d been for hers.

  “Not like hitting a woman, is it, Kemp?” he said in a voice only the other man could hear. “I’m not so easy to beat and abuse, am I? How does it feel to be whipped like a beast? How do you like being the victim this time?”

  Kemp’s swollen eyes widened with understanding and fear. And hate.

  But no remorse.

  Leo saw that as clearly as he saw the bruises spreading over Kemp’s flushed skin.

  Leo really let loose then, raining Kemp with blows that the other man could not avoid or have any hope of returning. Kemp made one last feeble attempt to hit back; then he went down, sprawling at Leo’s feet in a miserable, moaning heap.

  Leo nearly followed, wanting to hit him again and again and again until there was nothing left that was worth striking anymore.

  But Thalia’s voice rang out in his head, reminding him of his promise. His vow that he would not give in to the basest parts of his nature.

  He spit again, on Kemp this time, as a sign of his utter contempt.

  Then he turned away.

  Chapter 32

  “Lady Frost to see you, milady,” Fletcher announced in low, dignified tones.

  Thalia looked up from her sewing, then hurriedly secured her needle in her embroidery and got to her feet. “Jane! What a wonderful surprise. I didn’t know you planned to drop by today.”

  Jane Frost walked into the room on a whisper of lavender silk, her glossy brown curls artfully arranged beneath her chip-straw bonnet decorated with silk flowers that had been dyed to match her gown.

  Five children and fifteen years had thickened her a bit through the middle. Even so, she still managed to look as bright and lively as the girl Thalia had first known the year they’d made their come-out together.

  Jane hugged Thalia, Jane’s gardenia-scented perfume drifting sweetly in the air. She looked and smelled like springtime.

  “I was thinking about you this morning, so I decided to pay you a call,” Jane said, moving to take a seat.

  “Tea, Fletcher, if it wouldn’t be any trouble,” Thalia told him.

  “No trouble at all, milady.”

  She waited until Fletcher had departed before resuming her own seat. “So, what news have you come to share?”

  “What makes you think I have news?”

  Thalia lifted a knowing brow.

  “Oh, pooh, there’s no hiding anything from you. You can always read me like a book.”

  “Good thing the story is always so entertaining. Well, out with it.”

  Jane straightened the lines of her skirt. “Maybe we should wait for the tea to arrive first?”

  “No, now. It’s not bad news, I trust?”

  “No, quite the opposite. At least I assume you’ll feel that way once you hear.”

  “You have my complete attention.” Thalia laced her fingers together in her lap and waited for Jane to begin.

  “Well, apparently there was quite a row at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon yesterday afternoon. The whole town is abuzz. Jeremy filled me in on the details over breakfast this morning. Or at least everything he heard last night at his club.”

  Jeremy was Jane’s husband. He was one of those men who claimed to disdain gossip but who always knew all the latest on-dits.

  Thalia frowned. “Oh? And why would I be interested in a fight at Jackson’s boxing salon?”

  Jane leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Because it involved Lord Kemp.”

  Thalia stiffened. “Did it?”

  “Don’t fly up in the boughs. I know you hate even hearing his name mentioned and with good reason, but you’re going to like this. He was challenged to a bare-knuckles match, then literally beaten senseless.”

  “What!”

  Gordon had always taken great pride in his pugilistic skills, boasting of his prowess on many occasions. He cowed other men and he liked it. Just as he’d once cowed her.

  “Indeed. The fight was a brutal affair and despite Lord Kemp getting in a few good blows, he lost badly. They say the other man is nearly as good as Mr. Jackson himself. He beat Kemp right down to the ground, then spat on him when he walked away.”

  Thalia stared, unable to say a word.

  “Jeremy told me that Kemp had to be carried home insensible,” Jane continued. “Reports from the doctor say he suffered three broken ribs, a fractured jaw, a loose tooth and two black eyes. Oh, and a dreadful headache, although that seems to be improving, more’s the pity. About time that dreadful bounder got his comeuppance.”

  Some man had beaten Gordon? Beaten him so badly
he’d been unable to walk out on his own?

  An odd tremor rose in her stomach. “Jane, what is the name of the man who fought him?”

  “Why? Are you thinking of sending him a thank-you note?”

  “His name?” she repeated.

  “It’s Byron. Lord Leopold Byron.” Jane studied her for a long moment, then cocked her head to one side. “You have the most peculiar look on your face.”

  “Do I?”

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you haven’t told me?”

  Thalia sighed. “I meant to, but then I didn’t because it’s over.”

  “What is over?”

  “The affair I had last winter.”

  “You had an affair?” Jane’s eyes turned round.

  Thalia nodded. “Yes. With Lord Leopold Byron.”

  * * *

  Thalia sat staring out the window of her study for a long while after Jane left.

  She’d told Jane about Leo, but not everything. Even now it was hard to speak of him. His absence was a painful void in her life, a hollow emptiness that nothing and no one else could fill. The weeks they’d spent together seemed like a happy dream, brief brilliant moments that outshone all the rest.

  He’d fought Gordon for her—and won.

  Part of her was grateful.

  Another part was afraid.

  He shouldn’t have done it, whatever the outcome.

  Gordon would not soon forget.

  She wished she could run to Leo, wrap him in her arms and tell him how much she loved him. How much she missed him. Warn him to be careful and not to fight any more battles on her behalf.

  Maybe she should write him a letter?

  But no, it would only open up the barely healed-over wounds again. If there was any hope of letting him move on, of convincing him to let her go once and for all, then she needed to stay away, even if it killed her.

  Maybe she should leave, as she’d once threatened she might. Sell the town house and go deep into the countryside.

  Derbyshire.

  Or even Wales.

  Somewhere distant. Somewhere he wouldn’t think to look.

  If she really wanted to separate them, she could always go to the Continent. But the thought of being that far away from him, of not even being in the same country any longer—why the very idea had the power to drive her to her knees, to rob her of what little strength she had left.

  Simply put, she feared such a permanent parting would destroy her.

  No, she would say nothing. Leo had proved his mettle against Gordon. He was a grown man, who was clearly more than capable of looking after himself.

  She would not worry.

  She would let him live his life. And for his sake, she would live hers—alone.

  * * *

  “Oh, don’t say you won’t join us, Byron,” said one of his friends nearly two weeks later. “Pritchett’s is the best new gaming club in London. The play is unparalleled and the women just as sweet. You’ve got to come. The night won’t be the same without you.”

  The rest of his five friends all made noises of agreement and urged him to join them on their continued revels. Lawrence was not among them, having gone off with a cadre of his legal associates who had wanted an evening of their own out on the town.

  Leo knew he ought to carry on making merry with his cronies, but it was late and he’d had enough of pretending to enjoy himself for yet another night. He had no appetite for gambling and even less interest in fending off the overly perfumed advances of the club’s doxies who offered their bodies for sale—no matter how “sweet” they might appear.

  There was only one woman he desired and she was out of his reach.

  Inwardly, he scowled.

  Outwardly, he forced a smile. “Sounds tempting, lads,” he lied, “but I shall have to postpone that particular pleasure for another time. Right now, I’m off for home.”

  “Home? Surely not?” another one of the group complained. “It’s barely one o’clock. The best part of the night is just beginning.”

  “True. But unfortunately I am promised quite early tomorrow at a breakfast fete with my mother and sister. I don’t fancy showing up bleary-eyed and nursing an aching head from too little sleep and too much drink. No, you fellows have fun and I’ll join you another time.”

  They made a couple more halfhearted attempts to change his mind, then finally gave up, waving him off down the street to locate a hackney. He didn’t have his carriage. He’d ridden to dinner earlier with three of his friends; then they’d all continued on to a party afterward.

  They were right, though. He had turned into a sad dullard of late. Rather than carry on with his usual routine, all he really wanted to do was sit and wallow in his misery. Thalia had told him he would get over her. That he would forget her and find another woman to love.

  But she was wrong.

  Other women no longer interested him.

  As for forgetting, he could as soon forget to breathe as he could ever rid himself of her memory.

  He swallowed the bitter thought and kept walking, letting a passing hackney drive by. He would catch the next one. Or the one after that.

  Despite the late hour, the streets still teemed with people, bursts of talk and laughter filling the air while the scents of summer drifted lazily past.

  He was crossing from one street to another, an alley immediately to his left, when a pair of men emerged suddenly out of the darkness and blocked his way. He moved to go around them, but they prevented him again, crowding him deeper into the mouth of the alley.

  They were big, rough-looking sorts. The kind more generally suited to the wharves than here farther in the heart of the city.

  “If it’s money you’re after, I’m afraid I only have a couple of pounds,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for a fight, so it’s yours if you’ll go on your way.”

  Rather than reply, they hurried forward and seized his arms, then dragged him farther into the alley—or tried to at least.

  He elbowed the first and shook the second off with a kick to the shin, freeing himself. But when he turned to escape, he found the way blocked by two more toughs, each of them larger than the last. A glance behind him revealed two more who strolled up from the alley itself.

  He fisted his hands, realizing he was surrounded. “Why do I get the feeling this is no ordinary robbery?”

  Before he could let out a shout in hopes of attracting attention from helpful passersby, they were on him, shoving him forcefully into the depths of the alley before unleashing a storm of fists.

  He did his best to defend himself, punching and kicking any of them he could reach. He got in some good hits, sending one of them crashing down onto the rough cobbles. But there were too many to battle all at once and the blows rained down like hammers.

  Pain exploded in his head and face, chest and back and stomach. He fell to the ground, curling into a tight ball to protect whatever he could. Blood dripped down his face, pooled in his mouth, his ears ringing. Hazily, he wondered if he was going to die.

  Then finally, after what seemed forever, the beating stopped. He thought they would leave.

  Instead, one of them leaned down, his mouth near Leo’s ear. “Lord Kemp sends his regards.”

  He heard their laughter as they walked from the alley. Then he heard nothing more at all.

  Chapter 33

  Thalia was eating breakfast in a sunny spot in the dining room three days later, enjoying a dish of newly picked strawberries and fresh cream, when a quiet knock came at the door.

  It was Fletcher.

  “Pardon the interruption, milady, but you have a caller.”

  Her brows arched. “At this hour?”

  It was eight o’clock, far too early for any ordinary visit. She couldn’t imagine anyone who would come to the house at this time of day unless . . .

  She laid down her fork, her pulse suddenly racing. “It isn’t Lord Leopold, is it?”

  A faintly peculiar look came i
nto Fletcher’s eyes. “No, ma’am. It is his brother, Lord Lawrence Byron.”

  Lord Lawrence? Why would he of all people want to see her?

  She puzzled briefly, then gave a nod. “Show him in, please.”

  Even though she had met Lord Lawrence before, seeing him came as something of a shock when he walked into the room. He looked so precisely like Leo that for a second she found herself wondering if it was Leo after all. But on closer inspection, she saw the subtle difference between them again, the slight variation in the coloring of his and his brother’s eyes.

  He bowed, then straightened to the same impressive height as his twin. “Lady Thalia, good morning. My pardon for intruding upon you at such an early hour.”

  “That is quite all right. Fletcher, another place setting, if you would be so good. Please, sit and take some breakfast, Lord Lawrence.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Tea, then, at least.”

  He inclined his head. “All right. If you insist.”

  Lawrence eased into the chair on her left while Fletcher laid fresh china.

  The servant withdrew.

  Taking up the teapot, Thalia poured, then passed him the cup and saucer.

  He took a single sip and set it aside.

  “So, Lord Lawrence, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  His golden brown eyebrows drew tight, his mouth unsmiling. “This is not a social call, I am afraid. I have come to speak with you about my brother.”

  “Oh?” Her heart gave several more hard beats.

  Had he come to warn her off, concerned she might be thinking about resuming her relationship with Leo? Well, he need not worry on that score. She had relinquished any hold she may have had on Leo and had no plans to resume it.

  She looked at Lawrence’s expression again and felt her heart stutter for a different reason entirely. “What is it? Has something happened?”

  His face grew sterner. “Leo was set upon by a gang of ruffians three nights ago and beaten quite severely. He was left in an alley and not discovered until several hours afterward.”

  She gasped, her blood turning to ice. “Oh, my God! He isn’t—”

  “No, he’s alive. But he is gravely ill. He has been asking for you. I have come to take you to him if you will accompany me?”