by Devon, Eva
Given his skills, he needed someone dangerous. Someone who wasn’t afraid to be hit with a hammer-like fist. Someone who could give as much as they got.
The gods must have heard his deep need, for Heath had deemed to come down to the west end of town this morning.
And luckily, Heath was a scary devil.
Very few men could fight with the vicious intensity of
Heath.
They climbed into the ring, both having whipped off their shirts, and circled each other. Heath had a sardonic look upon his face. One could never quite tell exactly what he was thinking.
Unless, of course, he wished you to.
Royland, on the other hand, knew he was much more transparent.
There was only one thing he hid in life, and he hid that well.
The rest, he felt he was fairly honest about. He was generally a jolly fellow, with a sense of joie de vivre.
But not today.
Bloody hell. He was a broiling force of emotions after last night. He felt as if he might burn the world down around him if he weren’t careful.
How the devil had that happened? How had he let a young chit of a girl turn him on his head? Bloody hell, he had rules about unmarried young ladies.
Surely, it had to be some strange power she had, to make him consider taking someone’s virginity in a garden. That would be absolutely mad of him to do. He would never have lived with himself for such rash behavior, and he certainly would have had to ask her to marry him.
She deserved a better life than with someone like him.
He knew himself well.
He was a rake and a rascal, but more, he knew the history of his family.
He knew what had happened to his father, and he wasn’t about to bestow that on anybody else.
Oh, it wasn’t like Blackstone’s father, who had died of drink and dissipation.
No, in a way, this was far worse.
His father. . .
Rafe swallowed, flexing and unflexing his hands. His father. . . He swallowed again.
No, he couldn’t think of it. Not now.
He and Heath touched knuckles then circled around each other again.
Rafe couldn’t bear to think of his father, not right now. That’s not what he’d come here for, so instead, he looked for a good area of the body to land a blow on Heath.
But Heath, devil take him, kept his guard up. His strong arms were like a veritable fortress, and his chest as broad as any brick wall.
Royland, too, was someone to be reckoned with, and he had a good two inches on Heath. So, as they circled each other, each looking for their opportunity, Royland had the upper hand because his reach was longer.
So when he darted in, he was able to quickly land a solid blow onto Heath’s lower back. Heath let out a grunt, whipped around, circled down, and came around his front.
They squared off again, and Heath came forward, darting in with a quick jab to Royland’s jaw.
It landed with immense force, and Rafe’s head shot back. His teeth cracked together, and for a second, he saw white.
Usually, it was quite difficult for someone to get a blow in, but his brain was elsewhere today.
He kept thinking of Penelope, of her beautiful dark brown hair, of those damn eyes which seemed to bore into his soul, of her clever mouth which said the most delightful things and kissed as if she had been at it for years.
Heath, with his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed, observed. “Gone wool-gathering, old boy?” he said, with a mocking tone.
Heath was not given to using public-school terms such as old boy, but every now and then, he would say such a thing just to remind the dukes that they were all a bit poncy to Heath.
Royland forced himself to grin. “Absolutely present, dear boy. Absolutely.”
Heath nodded though he clearly didn’t believe it for a moment, because the next thing Rafe knew, Heath drove his fist into Rafe’s stomach.
Rafe groaned, nearly bent over, and almost collapsed to the floor. Heath hit like an anvil.
Rafe forced himself up and kept dancing his feet as they went around the ring.
A crowd had gathered, observing them.
Several bets were being called out.
After all, it was impossible to tell who was going to win. Often, fighters felt that they had to let a duke win, but not Heath.
Heath was the kind of man who would never let anyone win just because of their title, unless there was something in it for him. And Heath and Royland certainly didn’t have that kind of relationship.
They were allies and partners. . . And brutally honest with each other.
Rafe looked for another opportunity as he wove around. He spotted an opening as Heath cocked his body to the side, and Rafe shot his fist forward.
The loosely clenched hand hit Heath square in the stomach. Heath bent over, and Royland felt a moment of triumph, but then, before he could barely register the hit, Heath had swung up and landed a blow in Rafe’s lower back.
Rafe gasped for air.
The two of them panted as they circled each other once more. Sweat flicked slightly from their skin as they bobbed and evaded.
At long last, Rafe danced in and struck out, ready to strike Heath on the jaw, but just at that moment, he thought of Penelope.
That beautiful young woman who’d done such wild things to his mind. Before he could prevent what was happening, he had over-reached and Heath had slammed a blow right into his gullet.
He bent to a knee and choked for air.
He drew in a wheezing breath. “Done! Done!” Rafe called.
His mind simply would not focus.
The sound of several men collecting bets filled the air, and Rafe shrugged with annoyance that he had so little control of his thoughts at present.
Heath strode up and lent him a hand. Rafe took it and stood, glad of the throbbing aches.
Maybe the pain would keep his mind off her.
They both walked towards the side of the ring, grabbing linen towels to dab the sweat.
Heath gave him a strange look.
“That was very strange, Your Grace.” Heath cocked his head to the side. “You’re not usually given to such mental meanderings.”
Rafe blew out a frustrated breath. “That obvious, eh?”
“That obvious,” Heath confirmed. “Who the devil is she?”
Royland scowled. “Why do you think it’s a woman?”
“It’s always a woman when men are off their game in the ring.” Heath drove a hand through his thick hair, sweeping it away from his brow. “That’s the only thing that can send a man’s mind wandering quite that far.”
Royland laughed at that. It seemed to be true. “She’s none of your bloody business.”
Heath gave a tight nod. “Well, well, Your Grace. I’ve not seen you so affected before. I am a person driven by curiosity, so don’t be surprised if I discover who she is.”
Rafe tensed. “Now, look here, leave off. I will be perfectly well, thank you very much.”
“If you say so,” Heath said nonchalantly. “Any luck with the newspaper?”
Rafe nodded. “Indeed. Several people have come down to give interviews. The hope now, of course, is that we’ll be able to make effective action arise from our information.”
“You’ll publish soon, then?” Heath said.
“Tomorrow.”
It was clear that Heath was definitely invested in this, and desperate to get the word out about what was happening.
Rafe asked, “Have you been warning people at the taverns and pubs and like?”
Heath’s jaw tightened. “Yes, we’ve put out word all over the streets, warning people about the slave catchers. It’s an abomination,” Heath gritted, a touch of his childhood accent coming through in his anger. “I don’t know how anyone can do that to another human being, and I’ve seen some pretty awful things happen in London. Damnation, I’ve seen children . . .”
He stopped. Heath didn’t continue.
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Rafe paused.
It was tempting to ask him to go on, but he didn’t wish to ask Heath to go down some road that he might not be able to come back from. Rafe had seen war, and he knew the fragility of men’s minds.
One just simply couldn’t ask another fellow to talk about something which might break them. Heath seemed unbreakable, but Rafe knew that all men, at some point, could break. It simply took the right amount of pressure or the right subject matter.
“So,” Rafe eased as he clapped Heath on the back. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Oysters as well, I think,” said Heath with forced cheer. “I’m in the mood for a bit of a repast.”
“Brilliant.” Rafe gestured toward the door with as much good nature as he could muster in his current state. “I will take you up on that offer.”
“Any word from Blackstone or the rest of your lot?” Heath asked.
“First, you’re one of that lot. After all you’ve done for us, you always will be, duke or not.” Royland eyed him carefully. “Second. . . You’re terribly interested in the Duke of Blackstone, aren’t you?”
“Well, I did ensure that he didn’t end up in total ruin,” Heath said, tugging lightly at his coat sleeve.
“True, true.” Rafe studied the other man, not convinced. “His sister, Lady Mary, is quite beautiful.”
“Ah, you’ve noticed? Not totally blind, then, are you?” Heath drawled.
“Not blind yet, no,” he admitted. Thinking of Penelope again, he added, “Some days I wish I was. But Lady Mary’s not the sort that takes my fancy although I can see why several gentlemen would be captivated.”
Rafe wondered. . .
Heath was a handsome devil, and strong and intelligent, and he would never do for someone like Lady Mary.
At least society certainly wouldn’t think so.
But Lady Mary wasn’t exactly the sort of girl society was used to. She was feisty and a bit of a devil herself. She had to be.
Once, he recalled, she had been an absolute wallflower, terrified of everything, unable to be outspoken. It was her father who had done that to her. Cold, brutal, and broken, he’d made her paralyzed with fear.
Now, she spoke as if she was in Parliament, shouting down the opposing party, and he quite liked her for it. He wondered if Heath did, too.
Despite the trouble it would cause him.
Perhaps Heath was right. It was only the ladies that could cause a man’s mind to meander so far from reason.
Rafe was unaccustomed to it. Usually, he flitted from lady to lady, keeping things easy and without complication.
There was nothing easy and without complication regarding Penelope. Certainly not now.
Somehow, he had to get her out of his head. For good. And as they strode out into the busy London air, he had a damned awful feeling that it was going to be far harder to rid his mind of Penelope than he ever imagined possible.
Chapter 8
“I say, are you looking for someone?”
Penelope startled and then scowled.
She was indeed looking for someone, and it was horrifying.
It was extremely frustrating, but the fact was she couldn’t force the Duke of Royland out of her mind.
That kiss. . . It had been the most incredible thing of her life, and then he had just left her. Unceremoniously, and far too easily.
It was preposterous.
How could he have done such a thing?
How could she have done such a thing?
So easily, she’d put herself at the mercies of a rake!
Was the kiss so little to him?
Almost certainly, because she’d heard neither hide nor hair of him since.
And it had been several days.
Penelope bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to let her emotions be completely transparent to Lady Mary, or half of London, on their walk.
She had hoped that, at least, he might consider calling upon her, but no, and she hadn’t seen him at any particular gathering or outing either.
After the party at the Barstow’s, she’d been truly launched into society. Much as Mary had warned, it wasn’t particularly exciting. To be fair to the ton, nothing could be after that particular night out in the garden.
She forced herself to turn to Lady Mary. “Of course not,” she said.
Lady Mary rolled her eyes as she adjusted her yellow reticule. “You’re a terrible liar, Penelope.”
Penelope sighed, trying to think of the bustling crowd upon the pavement rather than her own disappointment. “I suppose I am.”
They continued walking down the street with their footman in tow.
The pavement was a bit narrow at this particular point, but she and Lady Mary had decided to venture forth into the older part of the city.
They both particularly enjoyed history, and they were in search of a Templar church for enjoyment as much as edification. They wove their way through the thickly crowded area.
She was reveling, as best she might, in every moment of the experience.
Still, that dratted man’s face kept coming to the forefront of her thoughts.
Tall, astonishingly handsome, strong, and far too cryptic for his own good, he’d seemed to take up a permanent place in her mind, and it was driving her to distraction.
What the devil did he mean that he couldn’t make her happy?
It wasn’t because of her fortune, she was almost certain of that.
It was something else. It was something about him that had made him fly off into the night, and she really wished she could discover what it was.
“Oh, I think this is it,” said Lady Mary, pointing to a small close.
The footmen behind kept easy pace with them.
Just as they were about to turn down the little alley, Penelope spotted him as if her own brain had manifested him into reality.
The Duke of Royland was striding down the street.
He was an impossible figure to miss, in his beautifully tailored bottle-green coat, black silk top hat, dark breeches, and striking face.
He darted into a narrow way, and suddenly she couldn’t help herself.
She was following him.
Lady Mary cried out, “Where the devil do you think you’re going?”
“I’m on an adventure,” she declared wildly, for she could think of no other reply. What else could she call her sudden madcapped pursuit of the man who had left her so. . . unsatisfied.
Lady Mary followed, sputtering behind her, “Well, I do adore a good adventure. I hope that you shall tell me what it is.”
“Eventually,” said Penelope as she hurried forward through the crowd and down the small alley that the duke had disappeared into.
Shoving aside all rational thought, she did not give credence to the better side of her nature. No, she was going to boldly go where her instincts instructed. She’d always followed them, and they had always served her well.
True, given his fierce declaration some nights ago, there was absolutely no reason to be following the Duke of Royland.
Yet, once again, she felt compelled by him.
To her growing frustration, she realized she had felt compelled by him since their first meeting.
It was a dratted, undeniable nuisance.
Still, she wasn’t going back now.
Lest she lose sight of him, she trotted, Lady Mary in tow.
As they followed him farther and farther down the beautiful old street that had clearly been there since Tudor times, he didn’t seem to notice.
She swallowed as he disappeared into one of the newer houses along the way.
It was a beautiful, imposing building, looking more like a townhome than anything else. And it was remarkable that it was tucked off Fleet Street so easily.
The door shut behind him, and she stopped in the shadows, tucking herself behind one of the hodgepodge buildings so that she might wait unnoticed.
“Were we just following the Duke of Royland?” Lady Mary asked, joini
ng her with an astonished footman.
They all stood tucked into the shadows, barely able to see the door that Royland had gone behind.
“Indeed, we are,” Penelope whispered.
“May one ask why we are following him?” Lady Mary queried.
“No. Not at present,” Penelope gritted.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Mary breathed. “He’s who you were thinking of all this time.”
Penelope groaned. It was true. That was exactly who she was thinking of.
“Oh, my dear. Not him,” lamented Lady Mary.
“Why ever not?” Penelope asked, lifting her chin.
“Well,” Lady Mary started before she took a preparatory breath. “He would be just the thing for a bit of fun, but you are not in the market for fun, are you?”
“You know,” Penelope said, “I think I may be. I’m not entirely sure I’m actually cut out for this silly, stiff married life that everyone seems to suggest I should have.”
“Then, you best choose to be a very expensive mistress,” Lady Mary warned without apology, “for you won’t want to be a poor, ruined young woman. That is a terrible fate.”
“Quite true,” Penelope agreed without any attempt at argument. But the idea of being an expensive mistress was a bit off-putting too.
It did seem to monetize the whole situation, and she really didn’t wish to make her situation with the Duke of Royland, or any man, for that matter, about money.
But then again, marriage itself was the monetizing of a relationship.
Were women doomed to endure all relationships with men in regards to finance? She shivered a bit at that horrible thought. But the truth of the matter was that ladies did rely upon men for their income.
It was such a shame that there was so little suitable work available that might support a young lady in a state that wasn’t absolute poverty.
“Do you think this is his mistress’ house?” Penelope asked suddenly.
Lady Mary shrugged. “It’s entirely possible,” she said. “I really don’t know.”
The very idea that Royland was with a mistress sent a jolt of anger through her. It was so intense, she had to blow out a slow breath. She had no right to be jealous. Royland didn’t belong to her. . .
But right or no, the emotion burning through at that particular moment was undoubtedly jealousy. She felt as if he belonged to her.