by Lily Maxton
“Fine,” she said, her jaw tense. “Will you let me pass?”
His arm slid off the shelf, and he stepped back. Eleanor didn’t look at him at all, and even her sister, who seemed fairly laidback, glanced at him with something like disapproval.
He went back home and spent some time looking through his financial accounts, trying to figure out how many horses he could buy at the next Grassmarket. But once that was done, instead of feeling satisfied, he only felt distracted and restless.
He should have been reminiscing about his first meeting with Lady Sarah. There was plenty to admire about her, after all, aside from wealth and a good family name—there was the easiness of her manners, the sweetness of her smile, the prettiness of her round face and soft lips. But those memories faded, and all he could really remember was Eleanor ignoring him, Eleanor frowning at him, Eleanor asking to be released from their agreement.
Damn that woman!
…
“You look like you want to hit something,” Stephen said, accompanied by his friends, as they went up to the saloon.
James was still vaguely irritated by his argument with Eleanor, no matter how much he tried to shake the emotion.
“Are you volunteering?”
“Only if you wear mufflers,” Stephen said, picking up a set of boxing gloves hanging from a hook on the wall.
James sighed. He’d told himself when he began this saloon that he’d slowly pull away from boxing—he would instruct from a distance, observe and correct without actually getting his hands dirty. Eventually he would hire other successful pugilists to teach and have no connection to the saloon other than owning it. And then maybe someday he would sell it completely, buy land, rent out to tenants. Do everything a gentleman was supposed to do. He could extricate himself as cleanly as possible from his early days as a desperate prizefighter.
He would have to, if this start with Lady Sarah went to a finish. If she and her family actually decided to overlook his background, he couldn’t throw it in their face by actively teaching the sport. He needed to distance himself from it.
Stephen lobbed the mufflers at him, trying to catch him off guard. But his reflexes were too quick for that. He snatched them out of the air and pulled them onto his hands.
They moved to the center of the room. All of his restless energy focused to a point. They circled each other, and James’s feet turned graceful on the practice floor. He was alert and sharp, honed in a way he never was outside of practice or the prize ring.
Here he didn’t have to apologize for his large size or too-energetic personality. Here, they weren’t detriments.
Stephen threw a punch. His form was good—he’d been listening—but James still easily dodged it.
“Damn.” Stephen grimaced.
“You’re doing better,” James said.
“You’re too fast.”
He grinned.
He danced away from a few more jabs, and then threw some in Stephen’s direction so he could practice blocking them. And get used to the shock of taking a hit. It was a bigger part of boxing than a lot of people realized. It was best to avoid getting hit, but it was also an inevitability that it would happen.
A good boxer just had to take the blow, absorb the shock, push aside the pain, move on. A good boxer couldn’t stop, he couldn’t be afraid. He had to keep moving. Keep looking forward.
When Stephen asked for some time to rest, James went around to the other men, watching them, correcting their technique, taking some time to spar with them himself.
James worked up a light sheen of sweat. His muscles felt gloriously warm and stretched. And the air he breathed in tasted like nectar.
He knew, objectively, that his body was alive, but when he fought, his body felt alive.
At the end of the sparring process, he went to the wall to hang up his gloves, but he was oddly reluctant to let go of them. He felt at home here, in this little space he’d built for himself.
Boxing was probably the only thing he’d ever been good at. It seemed a shame to give it up.
But resolve had never been his problem.
A fresh wave of it nearly bowled him over as he remembered peeking into shop windows, grimy hands pressed to the glass until the owners inevitably chased him away. He’d been so young, left alone as his mother worked, and he’d stared at all the fine things on display, all the things a boy like him couldn’t even touch, and he’d yearned. Even then, he’d wanted some small piece of beauty for himself, something he could hold and admire, something he wouldn’t just covet, but could own. He remembered, later, cold, hard eyes that looked at him like he was nothing and a cold, elegant voice to match. Why would I go anywhere with you?
And that yearning had changed, shifted, become an almost savage hunger.
James’s hand tightened to a fist. He would have everything. Everything he’d dreamed of. Everything he’d ached for.
And if he had to give up something he loved for something he needed, he would.
Chapter Twelve
“He’s here again,” Robert said the next day, sounding none too amused.
“Did he leave a calling card?” Eleanor asked.
Jeffries shook his head solemnly.
“It’s not as late as it was last time,” Georgina noted, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
“Are you certain there’s no way to get rid of him?” Robert peered down at her. “I don’t like him. I don’t like that he knows of your”—he cast a sidelong glance at Jeffries—“adventure,” he finished. “And I don’t like the way he’s using you.” He ran his hands through his hair roughly. “I’m not protecting you as I should be.”
“Short of murder, no, I can’t think of any way to get rid of him.”
Robert looked contemplative.
“Robert!” she exclaimed.
“It’s not that,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But…do you think we should write Theo?”
Georgina and Eleanor glanced at each other uneasily. “No.”
“Are you—”
“Theo won’t be able to help any more than you will,” Georgina noted. “And it will only make him angry.”
Eleanor nodded. “I think the best way to deal with this is quietly.”
“Are you speaking about me? My ears are burning,” James MacGregor said, appearing behind Jeffries in the doorway of the drawing room.
The butler spun around with a squawk of dismay. “Sir!”
“Leave him, Jeffries,” Robert said wearily. “He’ll only return when we least expect it. He’s like mold.”
Jeffries stalked from the room—and thus, James MacGregor succeeded in ruffling the most unruffle-able of feathers.
“You’re going to give our butler an apoplexy,” Robert said.
“Jeffries? He likes me,” MacGregor said.
“If by like you mean he wants to strangle you, then yes, I suppose.”
MacGregor bowed to Georgina and Eleanor. Then, as though he was just one more part of the family, he sat down on the striped settee next to Eleanor. The spindly rosewood legs groaned under his weight.
He was too close to her. She could almost feel the heat from that restless body. She could smell him—she’d thought he might smell like sweat from the time he spent at his saloon, but he only smelled of soap. Whatever kind he used, it was scented with something crisp and earthy, like rosemary. She stared at his cravat. Blue dots this time. Against red. Annoyance pricked at her chest. “You look like you had an accident with a paint set.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” he said, his grin in place. She didn’t know if he’d forgotten their argument from the day before, or if he was pretending it hadn’t happened. He hadn’t been smiling then.
She noticed he’d brought his walking stick with him and frowned. “You should have left that with Jeffries.”
“This?” He straightened. “This is a thing of beauty. I forgot to show it to you the other day.”
And as she watched, he twist
ed up on the handle and revealed a thin, gleaming sword. He stared at the contraption almost lovingly.
Any incredulity she might have once found within herself was only a faint tinge. James MacGregor was beyond incredulity.
“Put that away. You cannot just go about wielding weapons in a drawing room.”
“But Eleanor,” he insisted. “Usually, the ladies love my stick.”
It took her a moment to grasp the double meaning, as she was so unused to such coarseness from a morning caller—well, from anyone, for that matter—and then her face flamed. “Was that your idea of a pun?”
He grinned winningly and without shame. “Yes.”
To her horror, she felt her own mouth twitch and quickly covered it with her hand. Good Lord, she wasn’t starting to find him amusing, was she? But even if she was, her brother obviously wasn’t. Robert had turned toward them, face tense, as though he was a second away from bodily removing the other man.
“Why are you here?” she asked quickly.
James sheathed his sword and set the walking stick gently to the side. “Dancing.”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“Whether you host a dinner, or a ball, or an informal gathering, there will be dancing, I expect?”
“It’s always a possibility.”
“I don’t know how,” he said, with no trace of self-consciousness.
She stared at him.
“I need you to teach me. Honestly, Cecil, I thought you were quicker than this.”
Teach him to dance? But dancing meant touching. Dancing meant proximity. Dancing meant staring at each other and trying to think of things to say.
She didn’t even really enjoy dancing.
She knew he’d refuse, but she had to try anyway. “A dancing master would be a better option. I’m passable but not perfect.”
“We’re in this together,” he said. “You’re not turning your back on me now, are you?”
“I can’t turn my back on you,” she pointed out. “You won’t let me.”
“Then shall we begin?”
She could have railed at him for turning her life all crooked, she could have railed at him for sneaking in here unannounced, she could have railed at him for assuming she had nothing better to do than teach him to dance the instant he demanded it. She could have railed at him for any number of things.
But it wouldn’t do any good.
And, if she was perfectly honest, some tiny—very tiny—part of herself had been feeling restless before he’d arrived. If there was ever a cure for boredom, it was James MacGregor. One just had to get used to the shock of having him around first.
“I could teach you the cotillion,” she said reluctantly. “That’s always fashionable.”
“That might be a little difficult at first,” Georgina pointed out. “Perhaps something more sedate?”
Eleanor thought about it. “Hole in the wall?”
“Yes, that sounds like a good option for a beginner.”
“It will probably be best if you and Robert dance as well, so he can see his position against other dancers.”
“I knew I’d get dragged into this somehow,” Robert muttered.
Eleanor turned to MacGregor and said curtly, “Never ask a lady to dance unless you’ve been introduced. Always take the lady back to her chaperone after you’re done. Never dance more than twice with the same woman. Never interrupt a dance.”
His eyebrows lifted in amusement. “I love how you make all of these rules seem so dire. It’s like you’re attacking me with them.”
Maybe she was. It was one of the few things she knew made him chafe—learning at once all of the strict rules that she’d simply acquired naturally through the years. MacGregor was a man who broke rules instead of following them. And she might have made them sound more dire than they actually were to scare him.
Yes, these guidelines were expected to be followed, but people bent them, and even, occasionally, broke them, without much consequence other than a little gossip.
Of course, with his background, it was also true that if he wanted Lady Sarah’s and her family’s admiration in the midst of all the other well-bred gentlemen vying for it, he’d have to be very nearly perfect.
Eleanor was curious how long he would last before he cracked.
Robert dragged the settee and the armchairs to the side of the room, and they took up position in the center. Georgina and Eleanor stood next to each other. Eleanor was opposite MacGregor, and Georgina was opposite Robert.
Georgina started to hum a slow tune. Robert snorted, sounding amused.
“You can’t dance without music,” she said archly, before taking up her humming again.
Eleanor had to admit that it did help. “We start with a bow and a curtsey,” she said. “And then walk behind the other dancer next to you, but first, a slow spin in the opposite direction.” She demonstrated, and then stepped back into the starting position, so he could do the motion with her.
He was stiff the first time he tried it. “I feel ridiculous,” he said. “Why do I have to hold my arm out like this?”
“It’s supposed to look elegant and relaxed, a gentle sweeping motion. The dance floor is the only time you can get away with a little flourish.”
The next time he tried was better. The third was very good. For all of his grumbling, James MacGregor was aware of his body in the way that only an athletic man could be. He was oddly graceful for his size, and he was excellent at mimicking. He would probably be able to master even the more difficult dances with only a few practice sessions.
Eleanor fought a surge of jealousy. She and Georgina had practiced together for weeks when they’d lived with their aunt and uncle, and she’d never moved beyond average.
But it was fitting that this troublesome man who came along and chafed at the rules and called dancing ridiculous would do it with ease.
“Now use your other arm, and take my hand,” she said. She reached her arm out, realized she hadn’t put on gloves, and started to withdraw.
But he was too quick for that. Before she could move, her slender hand was in his large one. The shock of his skin was startling. He was warm—too warm—and rough, padded calluses scratched at her smoother flesh. They were the hands of a man who’d only known labor, who’d been born far, far from wealth and luxury and ease.
A shiver traced along her spine.
He held her gently, as though he was afraid to break her. She wanted to snap at him that she wasn’t that delicate, but the words stuck in her throat.
Warmth. Warmth and roughness and sweet, clean rosemary. It was flooding her. Permeating. Insidious.
She needed it to stop.
“And we walk past the other dancers,” she said, her voice shrill, “and separate.” She lunged forward so quickly at separate that she twisted on her ankle and staggered into Georgina, who pushed her upright with a frown.
She tried not to make eye contact with MacGregor, but her gaze darted toward his face anyway. His mouth was pinched in a bemused expression as he stared at her. She’d expected laughter, or at least, amusement. But he wasn’t really doing anything other than watching her.
She was glad she didn’t know what he was thinking.
She cleared her throat. “And then around again, but this time with the dancer diagonal to you. And you will step close and turn in a circle.”
Georgina and MacGregor circled each other, only their palms connecting. Her sister was completely at ease, completely unworried, though she was hand to hand with an unrelated and uncouth male. Eleanor fought another surge of jealousy. But she didn’t know if it was because they were touching or because Georgina was so much more contained. If Georgina was overly aware of MacGregor, she certainly wasn’t stumbling around and shrieking like Eleanor.
“And now the four of us will join hands and turn.” She braced herself for that sweet, unwanted shock again. She’d expected it to be less potent than the first time, but it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t.
It was almost worse. Now she knew what he felt like, and she was still startled by the sensation.
He gripped her gently, loosely. Every time he shifted, the rough pads of his hands scraped across her knuckles. She was aware of every inch of her body—the tight clasp of her stays around her chest, tighter with each breath in and then easing, the soft but thick flannel stockings enveloping her legs, garters wrapping around her sensitive thighs. She was aware of her skin, for the first time, as a living, breathing thing. A thing that could feel pain and pleasure and sensation and want.
Eventually she couldn’t stand it anymore. She squeezed his hand in a ruthless grip. He glanced toward her, eyebrows raised.
When she didn’t ease her hold, he said, drily, “I’m starting to lose all sensation in my arm.”
Good, that was the point.
“One musn’t become too complacent when one dances.”
She could feel his stare.
“Is Lady Sarah going to try to wrest my hand off?”
No, Lady Sarah would dance serenely, her hand cradled in MacGregor’s like it belonged there. Lady Sarah wouldn’t be stupid enough to forget to wear gloves. Eleanor was obviously not Lady Sarah.
She ignored him. “Why don’t we go through everything once more without stopping, and then we’ll teach you the cotillion. That one requires more footwork. You’ll need to practice.”
They took up their positions. If she pretended that Georgina’s humming was a small orchestra, if she imagined it was night, and silvery sunlight wasn’t seeping in through the windows, she could almost pretend they were actually at a ball.
“Can I speak during a set, or should I remain silent?” MacGregor asked as he bowed.
“You’ll be expected to make polite conversation.”
“Hmm.” He grinned suddenly, an expression that didn’t hold any hint of sarcasm or challenge. “Have you seen any interesting beetles lately?”
Her heart did a strange little dance. They separated and she had to wait until he reached for her again. “It’s too cold for insects at the moment,” she pointed out.
“What do you do when you’re not observing insects?” He sounded interested, not as though he was only asking to make conversation.