by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen
“Very,” she replied automatically.
“Sam and Ruth?”
“Also well,” she murmured.
Unable to keep the question at bay, he finally asked of her eldest, surly brother. “Where is Edwin?”
She briefly glanced down at her toes, and for a long moment, he believed she wouldn’t answer. “He’s... gone.”
He jerked erect. Gone? Tom Storm’s fighting son, who’d resented every moment of Godrick’s time with his father, had simply... left? “He abandoned you.” The words emerged sharp and full of censure to his own ears.
Patience bristled. “I’ll not have you judge him. The loss of his eye and the ability to fight is the reason his life has gone to hell.”
Her words hit him harder than any blow, and he searched her for a hint of condemnation. Searched for a hint that she knew he was the man responsible for Edwin’s injury and the subsequent loss. And now I know her family’s suffering, too... Loathing unfurled within for the brother who’d abandoned her... and more hatred for himself for a night of violence that had forever changed that man.
At the long stretch of silence, Patience glanced down at her clenched fists. “He returns periodically,” she said with a trace of defensiveness. Periodically. If ever there was a man to beat with his bare knuckles, it was her bastard of a brother. Again.
“I didn’t know,” Godrick said when he trusted himself to speak. I should have.
She gave him a sad smile. “Would it have mattered?”
Yes, it would have. Because then he would have known that with Tom Storm’s passing, only Patience would remain to bear the responsibility for her family. And then what? She’d not wanted him around. Had ordered him to the devil. Nor had she been deserving of her hurt. The young man he’d been had made such a blunder of it all that he’d never deserved her.
His expression darkened. “I am sorry about your father’s passing,” he said solemnly.
She waved off his belated condolences. “It was a long time ago.” He should have been there to pay final respects to his mentor. You are dead to my sister and dead to my family... Get out...
“Four years,” he murmured, and she started. It had been four years since he’d attempted to reenter her life and pay his respects. Did she believe he’d not known? Had forgotten?
The truth was, he could never, ever forget Patience Storm.
Chapter Four
* * *
He’d known about her father’s passing. Knew it down to the years. That detail didn’t fit with the pompous duke’s son to whom she’d never mattered.
Unnerved, Patience cleared her throat and looked about the room. “And you are well.” Hers came as a statement, more than anything. One need but a glance inside this establishment and office to determine just how well Godrick had done for himself in their years apart. Her stare alighted on the elegant décor: Chippendale furniture, gilded mirrors, brocaded curtains. Was the room a product of a lady’s touch?
A cinch cut off her airflow. She’d deliberately avoided any mention of Godrick Gunnery over the years. In the fighting world, it had been a near impossible task. However, the men of her acquaintance didn’t speak of Godrick, as he’d come to be called in any capacity outside of fighting. Had he married? Did he even now have a delicate, flawless English lady as his wife?
It had been vastly easier to hate Godrick Gunnery when he had been cold and faintly taunting. When he’d pulled out that note for three thousand pounds as a challenge that forced her to put not a demand to him, but a favor. For then, he’d been very much the shocked gentleman she’d confronted after a visit from his betrothed, after Patience had learned all.
You are well?
That is what he’d asked her. Most other men would have ordered her gone. Or peppered her with jeering questions about coming ’round after the tongue-lashing she’d given him. Godrick never had been like any of the men who’d seen her as an extension of her father, there to tend a wound and discuss a fight, and never anything more.
The following morning Patience trudged down the cobbled road with her brother in tow. Lagging behind, Samuel yawned. “Come along, Sam,” she urged, taking him by the arm.
Where she and Ruth had woken with the crow of a rooster since they were babes in a cradle, Samuel had moved through life with slothfulness at odds with the Storm name. Just like their eldest brother, Edwin, who now spent so much time in a bottle at a tavern that they rarely saw him.
“He agreed to do this?” Samuel asked with a deserved modicum of skepticism.
He. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Edwin isn’t around,” she gritted out. Not that he’d ever had a smidgeon of Godrick’s talent.
“He’s not going to be pleased.”
“We don’t have the luxury of worrying about how Edwin feels about your taking lessons with Lord Godrick.” He’d forfeited that right when he’d descended into a drunken state and left the care of the family to her. Whereas Samuel didn’t know all the details surrounding Patience’s former relationship with Godrick, he was well aware of his eldest brother’s vitriol for the prizefighter. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe any of that resentment came from Godrick’s treachery against her, either.
Samuel touched her arm, staying her movements. “And you’re certain he’ll instruct me?”
He wanted to learn. It had always marked him different from their eldest sibling, who simply thought he was the best because of his name. “I’m certain,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.
Samuel set his jaw. He had the look of a boy playing at a man. And yet, he wore the evidence of his work and dedication to fighting in his broken-too-many-times nose and bruises. “I’m going to win that purse, Patience. I promise you that.”
She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “I know,” she lied. Even with Godrick, the greatest fighter in the realm, as his teacher, she still didn’t truly know or trust that Samuel could learn all there was to know. “Come.” She urged him forward.
They started across the street.
Why had Godrick agreed to help? He could have scoffed at that ridiculous list she’d presented him. Instead, he’d not only offered her three thousand pounds, but also then agreed to train her brother. Had it been guilt? A sense of obligation to her father?
They reached the front of his club. As one, Patience and Samuel looked up at the impressive white stucco façade better suited to a lord’s Mayfair residence than a fighter’s club. Samuel whistled softly. “It’s amazing.” There was such adulation in that whisper that she jerked to.
“Come,” she prompted, gripping him by the arm. She led the way up the steps.
As soon as they reached the front door, the same servant who’d opened the black panel for her before greeted them. Just as yesterday, the young man made little attempt to hide the equal parts shock and disgust at her presence.
Alas, her father had been dead and gone now four years. Where once all in the fighting world had known of Tom Storm’s daughter, who’d counseled newer fighters from the side of a match, Patience had slid with his passing into the obscurity of a forgotten thought. Shrugging out of her cloak, she turned it over to the servant’s hands. At her side, Samuel glanced around the room, touching his gaze on each artifact and article the way a lover might pay homage to a cherished treasure. “Lord Godrick is expecting us.” Her voice carried, inordinately loud in the empty, kitted-out room.
The proper form of address called forth a reminder of the station divide between them.
“Miss Storm.”
She whipped her gaze forward, and the air lodged in her lungs.
Godrick strolled toward them. His features might have been carved of stone for all they revealed in this instance, harshly beautiful and menacing for that stoicism. Her breath stuck painfully in her chest. How, with his noble nose and commanding jaw and polished tones, had she not seen a gentleman in her midst ten years ago?
Because I saw what I wished to... “Lord Godrick,” she managed to greet as he
stopped beside her.
Samuel ripped his threadbare cap from his head. “Sir. My lord. It is an honor.”
As he tripped and stumbled over his boy-like adoration, Patience winced, bracing for Godrick’s rejection.
Instead, he held his hand out. “Godrick will suffice.” He offered Samuel a grin that softened his hard features. Her mind tripped back to the grinning boy he’d once been. Godrick briefly slid his gaze over to Patience. “After all, our families were once... friends.”
Samuel’s eyes glittered as he pumped Godrick’s hand once more. “An honor, God.” She grimaced. How she despised that moniker he’d earned through the years. Hated it because with his ease, power, and command, he wore the damned moniker as perfectly as the Almighty Himself.
Except... instead of the pomposity such a blasphemous nickname should yield, Godrick flushed, “Please, no need for—”
“Or should I call you Duke?”
Godrick coughed into his hand. “Godrick is just fine.”
“Thank you, sir—Godrick.” Her brother beamed. “All these years, Patience said you wouldn’t rem—” Patience jammed an elbow into his side. “Oomph.” She fixed a stare on him and gave her head a slight shake.
Her brother tugged at his limp cravat. “Uh... yes... well, we’re happy to be here. Honored to have your guidance.”
Godrick looked between them and then motioned him forward. Like an eager pup, Samuel fell into step alongside the taller, bulkier gentleman. Hovering at the front of the club, she stared after them. They stood, contrasting images. Godrick broad and thickly muscled, and Samuel lean and wiry.
Removing her threadbare gloves, she wandered closer, but still hung on the periphery, watching as Godrick led her brother into the eight-foot roped-off area at the center of the room.
Godrick spoke, and periodically, her brother nodded or offered a brief reply. Rushing off, he proceeded to remove his jacket. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Godrick as he strolled with more measured steps to the edge of the ropes and shed his magnificent, tailored black jacket. A young boy waiting in the wings trotted over and collected the garment.
God help her, she tried to look away. She desperately wanted to. But like a moth to the flame, her eyes went to him. His biceps strained the fabric of his white shirt. Thighs, like oaks, spoke of a man who might have retired from formal fights, but who’d in no way abandoned physical activity. He’d always been beautiful. He’d laughed when she’d used that word to describe him. But now, with his muscle-hewn frame, time had turned a mere man into an immortal.
Removing his cravat, he handed it over to the lad. Godrick’s murmured “Thanks” reached her ears. That expression of gratitude was so at odds with everything she knew of the nobility, or had read in the gossip columns. Suddenly, he looked over, and she froze and hurriedly snatched her gaze away. She curled her toes tightly. Mayhap he’d not noticed her fascination. Nay, appreciation. That was what it had been. Patience peeked over in his direction.
A slow, secretive grin played at his lips, and then ever so slowly, he winked, the subtle lazy movement so full of cocksure arrogance and knowing.
Bloody hell. She’d lost her foothold.
* * *
She’d been staring.
It was, however, the telling blush on her cream-white cheeks that served as a testament to one truth: She desired him. Even with the space between them, the expressive turquoise eyes she now darted about his club had glittered with a potent heat that singed him still.
Then, there had never been a dearth of desire between them. Or laughter. Or endless stories of their childhoods. Rather, he’d shared everything with her—except the most basic, elemental part of who he was, his birthright. A duke’s son. And at the time, a man who was betrothed to a young lady. At his parents’ bequest, when he’d been a mere child and the lady the same. That detail hadn’t mattered to Patience. Nor should it have. She’d deserved the whole truth from him and not at the hands of a young woman who’d broken off their betrothal... immediately after she’d sought out Patience and shared all. He’d been just twenty. A damned fool who’d navigated so poorly through life... and lost the only woman he’d ever loved for it.
“Are you ready, Lord God?”
From across the room, Patience’s snorting laugh reached his ears. A louder than would ever be considered ladylike, contagious expression of mirth. His neck heated. He’d always despised the moniker affixed to his boxing persona. It stank of arrogance and conceit, and though he’d prided himself on his skills as a fighter, he’d accepted that there was always someone out there better than he was. His inability to make any happiness out of his own life was proof that he was more human than that almighty figure. He glanced over at her.
Through her amusement, she gave a roll of her eyes.
“Do you take umbrage with my fighter’s name?” he called out as he returned to the roped-off fighting arena.
Patience cupped her hands around her mouth. “Are you bothered by it?” she shot back.
He nodded in approval. Of course she’d know the first lesson Tom Storm had ever passed on to him. Had the young woman been born a man, he’d no doubt she would have handily defeated any blighter in the kingdom.
“Always remember,” he said, returning his focus to his charge. Godrick tapped his head. “If an opponent attempts to get in here, you meet him here.” He lifted his knuckles into position and held them close, just below eye level. The power of focus. It had been one of the most valuable lessons he’d ever received from his beloved mentor. One that most men, by sheer nature of their confidence or ignorance, never learned the value of. “Fighting is about focus and control.” He touched his knuckles to his forehead. “If you cannot master this, then all of this”—he spread his arms, gesturing to the fighting ring—“can never be won.”
Sam Storm stared on with wide, somber eyes. And for the first time since Patience had put the favor to him yesterday, Godrick confronted the peril of the untrained, naïve younger man stepping into a fight. A fight he was slated and supposed to lose. “Arms up,” he instructed, and his student instantly complied.
Walking a path around him, Godrick assessed his stance and then positioned himself in front of Patience’s brother. “Palms down,” he advised. “Now, hit me.”
Unhesitant, the other man shot a fist out. The velocity of his strike hissed loudly. Godrick easily sidestepped the blow and put his fists up. “Miss Storm, what’s the danger of a misplaced punch?” he called out.
From the corner of his eye, he detected her drifting closer.
“Patience isn’t a fighter,” Sam muttered and took another jab.
Godrick arched back, and the blow barely grazed his chest.
“Your sister knows more than most men,” he scolded. So this was also why Sam Storm was here. He wouldn’t take advice from his sister. A damned fool.
“If one lands a blow on the skull, one can shatter one’s hands,” she accurately chimed.
He and Sam continued to spar in silence. And ironically, it was Godrick who now, despite the lifesaving advice he’d handed over, was fighting the pull of distraction. Patience drifted over and gripped the ropes, intently scrutinizing their match. Not a single English lady would so much as talk of his fighting, and he’d wager the small empire he’d built himself here that, were one of those same ladies to observe him in action, they’d have fainted on the spot.
Whereas Patience had always been real in ways that no other woman ever had. He’d been able to talk both fighting techniques and the dream he’d carried to build his own club without any recrimination. Instead, she’d plotted and dreamed alongside him, not knowing that his future hadn’t been dependent upon the purses he won. That he could have easily paid for it all with the funds already in his name, as the fifth child of a duke. He’d also known that if she discovered the truth, she would hate him for the lie and for his birthright. In the end, he’d been right.
Sam’s fist grazed his chin, and Godrick
grunted. Steadying himself, he danced out of the younger man’s reach. Damned distraction.
Patience clapped her approval quietly from the side. “Very nice, Sam.”
Giving his head a shake, Godrick put his fists up once more. Breath coming fast, he jabbed his opponent, easily catching him on the cheek.
Sam staggered back, but retained his feet. He immediately shot his fist out, hard and fast. Deflecting that blow, Godrick countered with his own to the younger man’s midsection. The air left him on a swift exhale, and he went to his knees. “Ramming your fist into any part of your opponent as hard and fast as you can is dangerous,” Godrick said.
“You’ll end up with broken fingers or strained knuckles,” Patience explained.
Sam wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up. Struggling to stand, he repositioned himself. “I’m ready,” he said tightly. The boy was as stubborn as his sister, with a resolute sense of determination.
Godrick paused and glanced over to Patience. If she said to end the lesson now, he would. Her brother was still a mass of bruises from a recent fight. No doubt a loss.
“We do not have much time,” she called out.
No, they didn’t. Which also meant neither did he have much time left with Patience Storm. His heart throbbed painfully. When they were finished here, he would lose her all over again. He briefly closed his eyes and fought to come back from that vicious reality. “Another go,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Sam looked to his sister and then back to Godrick. They resumed their lesson, and Patience stood quietly at the side for the duration. Occasionally, her murmured guidance to Sam reached Godrick’s ears. How many times had she stood just so during his own lessons? A distraction he’d gladly suffered a blow to the head for, just to have her there.