by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen
It was too much. He stopped abruptly and raised his hand. “That is all for the day,” he panted between deep breaths.
Immediately dropping his arms by his sides, Sam nodded. “Thank you, Lord—”
“Just Godrick is fine,” he cut in as Patience snorted again. Slapping the other man on the back, he watched as Sam went off. Patience gathered his jacket and handed it over. She said something to her brother, and he nodded. Shrugging into his jacket, Sam bowed to Godrick and then made his exit—leaving them alone.
She fiddled with the clasp at her throat. That damned cloak, torn and tattered. She could have worn a sack and been as regal as a princess, and yet Godrick wanted to attire her in silks and satins, as she deserved. “Thank—”
“Don’t continue to thank me,” he said harshly, sharper than intended. “I didn’t do this for your gratitude. I do require something of you.”
Wariness sprang to her eyes. “Require something?” she repeated blankly.
He fisted his hands. Her opinion was so low of him. With good reason. He’d given her little reason to trust his honor. Guilt sluiced away at him. “I assure you I respect you enough that I’d not put an indecent offer to you,” he said quietly, coming closer. He erased the distance between them and stopped so a mere hairsbreadth divided them. So the scent of lavender that had clung to her person as long as he’d known her filled his senses, intoxicating. “I want…” To properly court you. To woo you. To begin again. Her breath caught loudly, and he lowered his head. Their breaths mingled. “To meet afterward and discuss your brother’s training.”
Her lashes fluttered wildly, and then she remained unblinking. “That is what you require?”
He nodded. “You know a person’s temperament and behavior define a fighter’s success. I can teach him everything I know, but if I don’t know him and his strengths and weaknesses, our efforts will be in vain.”
Did he imagine her crestfallen expression?
Patience wetted her lips. “When?”
“This evening. Seven o’clock.”
“Very well,” she said with all of the enthusiasm of a man being shown his way to the gallows. She lingered and then, dropping a curtsy, took her leave.
A lightness suffused Godrick’s chest. He was very much the bastard she’d accused him of being ten years earlier. For as she took her leave, he didn’t feel the slightest compunction at deceiving her, all so he might spend more time with her.
Chapter Five
* * *
“Where are you going?” Ruth’s suspicion-laden voice halted Patience in her tracks.
Patience silently cursed. Fingers damningly on the door handle, she forced herself to let go and face her sister. Her mind raced.
Her youngest sibling folded her arms and stared back. “Well?”
Blast, it had been vastly easier to sneak about when Sam and Ruth had been children. And that had been back when their eldest brother, Edwin, had been overprotective and devoted to their family, too. “I’ve a meeting,” she settled for. It wasn’t untrue. She did have a meeting. “About Sam’s match,” she clarified. “I’ll return shortly.”
“Can I join you?”
“No,” Patience exclaimed quickly. Too quickly. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced a nonchalant smile. “Sam should return soon from his practice with Jeremy. Look after his hands.” Those knuckles and fists were all that stood between them and destitution.
Ruth gave a reluctant nod, and before her tenacious sister pressed her any further, Patience hurried from their small rooms and made her way down the dark stairs out into the streets below.
The setting sun cast a soft orange glow upon the pavement. It was moments like these, when the summer breeze caressed her face and the cool, dank chill was absent from the air, that she could actually believe she was the young girl who’d lived in the Leeds countryside with her mother while Papa traveled around England, fighting. A sad smile pulled at her lips, and she stared across the street to where a shopkeeper emptied a bucket of dirty water onto the cobbles.
As secure as her childhood had been, she’d never known a family. Not in the traditional sense. She’d a father who’d been a transient figure, moving in and out of their lives. A mother who’d pined for him, and siblings whom Patience had helped care for.
Until their mother had died, and everything had changed. In the distance, shouts went up, and she looked down the street to where two shopkeepers argued.
When Mama died, they’d no choice but to move to London, where they’d traded the chirp of crickets and the song of kestrel for the rumble of carriage wheels and cries of shopkeepers calling out their wares. Odd, she’d not thought before of everything they’d lost with their mother’s passing. Life had simply changed, and they’d struggled through their sadness and had begun again, as a family. She’d not allowed herself the dream of more—of a family in every truest sense, with a loving, devoted husband, and a return to the country—until Godrick.
For even as she’d vowed to never wed a fighter like her often-absent father, Godrick had been unlike all the other fighters she’d ever known. He’d whispered in her ear of dreams beyond fighting that involved a country cottage with them together in it. And children. Her throat worked. She’d carried the dream of babes of her own. Little boys with their father’s chestnut curls and mischievous grin.
“You fool,” she whispered into the quiet. Had she opened her eyes to that which had been truly before her, she would have heard the crisp, cultured tones. Seen the elegant garments and, until then, unbroken, aquiline nose. And she’d do well to remember that when they met tonight. The mountain of lies he’d built between them could never be scaled.
Patience breathed deep. She should go. They were to meet at his club and discuss Sam, whose future as a fighter and his survival in the match against King should occupy her every last thought. Instead, she leaned her back against the stonewall and borrowed support from the aging structure. She’d managed to bury the memory of Godrick for many years. Oh, he’d always been there. Resurfacing when she didn’t expect it. In the papers after a fight, or in the dark when she’d stared up at the stars that managed to peek through the London clouds and haze. Eventually, the dull ache of betrayal had eased, and she’d learned to again smile and laugh and exist beyond the tears and sadness that had gripped her.
She gave her head a firm shake and then snapped her hood into place. A fool. An utter fool. She took a step—into the path of a towering figure. With a gasp, she stumbled back.
Strong hands caught her at the shoulders and steadied her. Familiar hands. “Godrick,” she managed, breathless. Being caught unawares in the streets was the height of folly that could see a lady with her skirts rucked about her waist, or her purse snatched from her person. Too many times, she’d relied on the skills her father had imparted to battle a drunken man with dishonorable intentions.
“Forgive me,” he said, retaining his hold on her arms. Through the fabric of her thin woolen cloak, her skin tingled at his touch. And her lashes fluttered as she remembered the power of those hands. The skill as he’d swept them over her body, caressing her, stroking her—
“Patience?” Concern filled his remarkably unaffected tones.
A blush heated her entire body, and she rushed out of his arms. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He cocked his head, and a dark brown lock tumbled over his brow. That gesture softened him. Made him a man more chiseled than most stone statues. “Surely you didn’t believe I’d have you wander the streets of London unescorted?” Her fingers twitched with the need to brush that errant strand back. To feel the satiny feel of it once more. Just as she’d used to drag her fingertips through those locks.
Then his words registered. Surely you didn’t believe I’d have you wander the streets of London unescorted? “I... I...” Actually, she had. “How did you know?” She pressed her lips closed.
He leaned down, shrinking the space between them. “How did I know where yo
u live?”
She managed a shaky nod. She hated that he saw how far she’d fallen. Hated that, as though her garments weren’t testament enough, he now saw the hovel they called home.
“I had a servant follow you.”
A gasp exploded from her lips, and she held his gaze squarely. “You had me followed?” She took comfort in the indignation that spared some modicum of her pride.
Unrepentant, he leaned closer, so close their lips nearly brushed. “I’m not letting you walk the streets of Lambeth by yourself.”
She braced for a righteous indignation at that high-handedness and yet... For the humiliated hurt at having her life laid out before him, there was also an odd lightness that suffused her chest. Since Mama died, Patience had been thrust into the role of caregiver, looking after her family. With Papa’s passing four years earlier, those responsibilities had only grown. When was the last time anyone had worried after her?
Wordlessly, he held an arm out. She eyed it a moment, then placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to guide her forward. His carriage, a regal black barouche wholly out of place in the streets of Lambeth, waited at the end of the street.
It was a sleek, elegant reminder of the station divide between them, just as her woolen garments stood in stark contrast to the dupioni silk of his jacket and the fine leather of his breeches. Even their very presence together, unchaperoned, was a mark of her ignoble rank. After all, a gentleman would never meet a lady alone without a chaperone. A little knot formed in her belly. A servant drew the carriage door open, and Godrick immediately helped her inside. Patience settled onto the red velvet squabs, the plush stuffing and soft fabric far finer than the lumpy mattress she shared with her sister.
England’s greatest fighter hefted himself inside, and his large frame immediately shrank the overly large space of the carriage. He rapped once, and the conveyance lurched forward, setting them in motion.
But for the churning carriage wheels and the occasional passing of a hack, silence reigned. Discomfited by his nearness, she inched closer to the edge of the seat and gazed out at the passing streets. Soon, the dirty, dank end she called home gave way to fine stucco buildings and lit gas lamps.
How the other half lived... similar to how she herself once had. And yet, of all she’d lost—the fine satins and silks, the elegant carriages, and clever bonnets—she would have given it all up to have the love of the man opposite her. But I could have... She’d been so hurt and humiliated at the lies he’d maintained that she’d not even allowed for the chance of a new beginning with him.
Patience’s throat worked, and she damned the need for him that had not diminished. Nay, the dream of what she’d wanted for them. That was all it had been.
“What are Sam’s strengths?” he asked into the quiet, and she gave thanks for the interruption. This question was safe. This was the reason she’d gone to him and the only bond they would now share. Business.
“He has strong wrists.”
Godrick nodded his approval. “Tough hands. Strong wrists.” Another lesson her father had given him... and all the other men he’d trained. It was the basic foundation that kept a man’s hands ready for fighting.
“He loves the fight,” she added. It was perhaps his greatest strength. His passion in the ring. Where Edwin had been fixed only on the praise and purse, fighting raged through Sam’s veins.
Godrick looped his ankle over his knee, and their legs brushed. Patience’s pulse skittered wildly. Do not be foolish... It’s just part of his leg... and I’m no longer a girl. Nearly thirty... and...
“How is his short-range hook?” His deep baritone washed over her, warming like the hot London, summer sun.
“H-His weakness.” She prayed he’d not detected that faint stammer.
“Like Edwin,” he murmured.
“Like Edwin,” she agreed. Her eldest brother, however, had been weak in many ways... long before he’d lost vision in his right eye.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and she parted the curtains. Patience puzzled her brow.
“It is warm,” he explained. “I thought we might be better served meeting outside.”
In Hyde Park. At Kensington Gardens. It had been the first place he’d escorted her when he’d begun courting her all those years ago. Only, she’d been too naïve and in love to see that a gentleman with honorable intentions wouldn’t have escorted her at night, when the moon hung in the sky and the ton sought out their evening’s pleasures. Not wanting him to know that this park mattered to her for the time they’d spent here, she reached past him and shoved the door open.
His driver stood in wait and handed her down.
Patience’s feet settled on the ground, and to give her hands something to do, she snapped her skirts. Side by side, they entered the park. The lingering light of the day battled for supremacy on the horizon with the night sky. As they walked, she let the fragrant scent of summer blooms fill her nostrils. Calming.
In the end, it was Godrick who broke the silence. “You should have come to me.”
She stumbled a step and quickly righted herself. For a moment, she considered pretending that she didn’t understand his meaning. “Why would I do that?” she asked, her voice containing a plaintive thread. “We’d had one year together.” Patience bit the inside of her lower lip, hard. “And even that was built on lies.” Had he expected that she would have gone to him and pleaded for help after they’d lost all?
He flinched. “I deserve that.” Damn him. Why couldn’t he be the cocksure nobleman who expected the world was his due? Because he’d never been that kind of man... Men born to the peerage didn’t build a fortune in fighting or open clubs to train other fighters. They did, however, marry proper English ladies. Not women such as she.
They needed to have this out between them. If they were to help Sam and be in each other’s company over the coming weeks, it all needed to be said. Needed to be said, too, if she wanted to survive these next weeks, unscathed.
“I want to talk of us,” he said quietly.
Their thoughts had always moved in a synchronic harmony. “There is no us,” she whispered.
His face spasmed, and he gently cupped her shoulder. “There could have been.” Could have been. Not could be.
Where had that silly thought come from? Of course there could never be anything. Not with the lies and the station divide. “No, there couldn’t. Because duke’s sons do not marry seamstress’ daughters. Or fighter’s kin.” It was one thing to be a champion fighter among the shopkeepers and men dealing in trade. It was altogether different with the nobility. They might as well have orbited in different universes.
With an infinite gentleness that threatened to shatter her, Godrick guided her around to face him. “I never cared about your station.”
She drew back, hating him for rousing every insecurity she’d ever carried for her birthright. “There is no point in speaking of it.” What did he want of her? Forgiveness? A future together? She cringed. Where had that come from?
“Sam,” he murmured.
She blinked slowly. Sam?
“Do you believe he can beat King?”
Of course. That was the purpose of their being together. “No.” Patience shook her head. “Not as he is now. Edwin taught him to throw as hard as you can, as fast as you can.” Their eldest brother had never been about finesse in battle. “He broke his knuckles three years ago for that guidance.”
Looping his arms at his back, Godrick nodded contemplatively and strolled forward.
She hesitated and then quickened her stride to keep up. “He’s not hopeless,” she hurried to reassure him, lest he change his mind. The most sought-after instructor in London, he had reason to be wary of taking on a mere boy picked to lose the biggest fight of the century.
Godrick gave her a sideways look. “Do you believe I’m more worried about my own reputation?”
“No?”
At her denial that was more a question than anything, he snorte
d. “A man is not defined by his connections to another. That goes for nobility and fighters.”
Admiration pulled at her. The men in her life, including her late father, had worried about their reputations more than anything. The late Tom Storm had ingrained into them that it was all a person had. In the streets of London and in the ballrooms she’d never step foot within, it governed a person’s existence. The gentlemen her father had trained, however, had always treated the Storms as inferior. Lesser people for their lot.
Suddenly, Godrick stopped, and she drew to a quick halt. He stood, staring down at a cluster of buttercups. The whisper of a memory flitted forward.
I’ll know all your secrets, Miss Storm... beginning with... whether or not you are a lover... of butter...
The long-ago laughter trilled around her mind. Fiddling with the latch of her cloak, she glanced over her shoulder. “W-We should return. I...” Godrick sank to his haunches beside those small, fragile yellow blooms. He plucked one, and her throat worked. Please do not... Do not wake any more remembrances than you already have...
“How much has changed in ten years,” he murmured, more to himself. A lifetime had passed since they’d parted. Through it, so many heartbreaks that he’d not been part of. Godrick continued to eye that flower, turning it over in his gloveless palm as though the bud contained the answer to life. He came to his feet. She didn’t know how to account for this peculiar melancholy when he set aside the flower. “It was not all a lie, Patience,” he said suddenly, unexpectedly. “Surely you know that?”
The wounds cracked open, as fresh now as they’d been ten years earlier. “How could I know that? I gave you my heart,” she whispered, touching her hand to her breast. “My body.” The muscles of his face twisted in a mirror of her own pain. “And all along there was another.”
Godrick turned his callused palms up. “A woman I hadn’t even met.”
“But you were bound to her,” she exclaimed, and her voice carried in the empty grounds of Hyde Park. What had become of the young lady who’d shown up at her home and introduced herself, vitriol in her eyes and words of mockery on her lips?