"Yes, what?" he challenged her. "Give me the words."
"Yes, my pussy has missed you," she whispered.
Triumph and lust made him want to pound his chest.
"There's my good little wife," he said.
He unbuttoned his fall, freed his cock. He was as hard as rock, moisture oozing from the tip. He tormented them both by rubbing the engorged dome up and down her dewy lips before hilting himself in a forceful thrust. His hand grasping her nape, he pounded into her, their panted breaths in rhythm with the rattling dishes. His bollocks pulsed with fire, his pent-up seed climbing. He gritted his teeth. God help him, she'd better be close because he was going to blow any second—
Footsteps pierced his haze of lust. He had only an instant to yank out of Charity, shove himself back in his trousers. She jumped off the sideboard whilst his fingers fumbled with his buttons. The parlor door slammed open and Sparkler demanded, "What is the meaning of this?"
Paul couldn't speak, could barely control his breaths. Now he understood the expression dog-drawn: he gnashed his teeth against the physical pain of frustration. Mere seconds he'd been from ecstasy, from shooting so hotly inside his wife ...
"Father, wh-what are you doing up?" Charity stammered.
She might have asked her own husband the same thing, Paul thought with an inward groan. His cock throbbed like a second heartbeat against his belly. He'd never been harder, randier, more in need of release.
"Trying to protect my good name." Sparkler hobbled in, slapping a newspaper down on the dining table. "How much longer are you going to drag my daughter through the mud, Fines?"
What was the bastard going on about now? Paul went over, making sure his jacket was drawn over his groin and trying not to wince as his erection chafed with each step. He grabbed the paper: The First Stare, a notorious scandal sheet. He skimmed through the contents ... and anger overtook arousal. With each sentence, his pulse pounded more violently.
Goddamn Parkington. The bastard still wasn't satisfied with the pound of flesh he'd exacted. He'd dug up dirt faster than a grave robber and must have bribed servants to get all the sordid details.
The sheets crumpled in Paul's fist. "Where did you get this?"
"Someone left it on our doorstep. The maid brought it up with my breakfast tray," Sparkler snapped. "Not that I had any appetite left after reading about who my daughter has married. Have you no shame at all? Just how many females did you fornicate with at that iniquitous house party where you compromised my Charity?"
Shame crawled over Paul's skin. Charity's soft intake of breath made his stomach churn.
"Five, this article says." Sparkler shot him a triumphant glare. "Do you deny it?"
Paul was aware of his shallow breathing, of the fierce desire to lie and wipe that smug look off his father-in-law's face.
"Paul?" Charity's trembling voice gutted him.
Because he couldn't lie ... not to her.
"It happened before you and I met at the party," he said gruffly. "They meant nothing, Charity. It was just ..."
Her face paled. She swiped her palms against her skirts—skirts that he'd just tossed up. He wanted to punch a wall. Devil take it. If only he could explain how different it was, his careless fucking and what they shared ... Yet the accusation in her eyes dried up any words he might have uttered. In truth, there were no excuses: he had been indiscriminate, a rake in the worst sense of the word.
"Now do you see who you married, daughter?" Sparkler demanded.
Her silence said everything.
"Charity, that was the past. Things are different now. I made a vow to you," Paul said tightly.
She wet her lips, but before she could reply Sparkler butted in.
"I'm going to the shop today," he announced. "I don't trust you with that any more than I do with my girl."
"You can't, Father!"
Charity spoke up—of course she would, where her bloody papa was concerned, Paul thought with a flare of bitterness. Just once, why didn't she stand up for him? He might be a detestable rake, but he'd never lied about who he was. And he hadn't a done thing since he'd met her to warrant her judgment.
"I can and I will," Sparkler said.
"But Dr. Harrison said—"
"Quack will say anything for coin. I'm fit to walk, I'm fit to work." Sparkler weaved toward the door. "I'm leaving this instant."
Charity chased after him, leaving Paul no choice but to follow.
*****
At the shop, things went from bad to worse.
Sparkler took one look around the refurbished room and bellowed, "What is the meaning of this? What have you done to my place of business?"
"I should think it obvious that I've improved it," Paul said evenly.
He'd made strategic changes to drag the place into the nineteenth century. Stylish new fixtures, including a brass chandelier, relieved the gloom. Cameo blue silk revived the tired walls, and indigo carpets strategically covered the worn patches on the floorboards. Next to one of the display cabinets freshly lined with velvet, Jameson stood as unmoving as a statue in his crisp new uniform.
"Who gave you the authority?"
"Please, calm yourself." Charity tugged on her father's sleeve. "Paul was only trying to help."
Anger and disbelief scalded Paul. Trying to help? Like he was a child getting in the way of adults at work?
"You gave it," he clipped out, "when you asked me to look after the shop during your illness."
"I didn't ask you to do anything." Spittle flew from Sparkler's lips as he faced Charity, shook her hand off his arm. "This is your fault, you faithless girl. You drugged me with that medicine when I should have been here. You're in cahoots with this fop and together you've destroyed my life's work!"
Charity's bottom lip quivered, and Paul's grip on his temper slipped. "Do not take that tone with her. She's done nothing," he snapped.
"I'll speak to my daughter however I wish!"
"She's my wife." Paul extended a hand, palm up. "Charity, come over here."
Her gaze darted between him and her father ... and she hesitated. Her uncertainty obliterated his self-control. He couldn't think through the miasma of resentment and confusion. How had this happened? Somehow he'd managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Somehow—despite doing his best, doing the right bloody thing—he was coming up a failure yet again.
His hand curled and dropped to his side. "Charity, you can see the changes are for the better." He sounded eerily calm. Rational, though his inner voice was shouting, Goddamnit, side with me just once. I have the right of it. You must know that I do.
"I ... the shop does look more stylish." She bit her lip, said tentatively, "Father don't you agree that the showroom looks more spacious with the lights and mirrors? And the new cabinets do display the merchandise nicely, don't they?"
At least she noticed that much, Paul thought bitterly. All that deuced work … for naught.
"Style." Sparkler spat the word like an epithet. "That's all that matters to a fashionable buck like him. Remember what I told you: he doesn't give a damn about substance! Wouldn't know good quality if it slapped him in the face. Out with the old and in with the new, that's all these top-of-the-trees toffs know. Soon he'll tire of this and be onto the next whim that catches his fancy."
Charity paled.
Paul's hands balled.
"And what I want to know," Sparkler said, directing his venom toward Paul, "is where you got the funds to make these so-called improvements."
"The money was my own," Paul said through his teeth. "I didn't take a penny from you—even if there was a penny to take from your empty coffers." Though Sparkler kept the ledgers locked up, it didn't take a genius to see that the establishment hadn't seen a profit in years.
Blinking rapidly, Charity said, "Father, Paul has done the best he could."
Paul's fury mounted at her beseeching tone, as if she had to beg her stubborn ass of a father for forgiveness on his behalf. He'd done S
parkler the favor, not the other way around! What the bloody hell was the matter with her?
"Throwing away good money," Sparkler sneered. "That's one talent you do have."
Paul was done with this madness.
"Consider my duty discharged. I'm washing my hands of this miserable sinkhole," Paul ground out. "If you wish to flounder in your miserable ways, so be it. I'm not staying here a minute longer. Charity, are you coming?"
Her grey-green eyes pleaded with him. "Can't we talk this over? It's just a misunderstanding. Father doesn't mean to be unreasonable—"
"I'm unreasonable, you ungrateful chit?" Sparkler said through wheezing breaths.
"That's not what I meant. You must remain calm, Father. If we could all go home, talk about this in private—"
Sparkler jabbed a shaking finger at Paul. "That n'er-do-well is not to step foot in my house ever again!"
"Excellent. Because I wouldn't dirty my boots entering that hovel," Paul snarled.
Gasping, Sparkler said, "Get out! Get out of my shop!"
Paul stormed toward the door, yanked it open. Sunlight and the empty walk beckoned—anywhere was better than where he was. Without turning, every muscle poised for flight, he bit out, "Charity, are you coming?"
"If you would just wait. I have to see to Father—"
He didn't wait to hear the rest. His boots hit the pavement, the voices fading behind.
TWENTY-NINE
Shaking the sweat from his eyes, Paul swung at his opponent, fueled by a savage need for blood. When the other man knocked away the punch, Paul drove in again, a barrage of jabs and crosses that pushed his strapping rival back toward the ropes. Paul kept at it, even leaving himself exposed to the other's powerful fists because the pain felt good, cleansing.
He barely heard the hoots and shouts rising from around the ring as he traded shot for shot.
Bloody Sparkler can take his shop and shove it up his arse. His blow struck his adversary's shoulder, and the impact sizzled up his arm. Don't have to apologize to him or anybody.
The hook snapped his head back. Lights blinked in his vision.
When he could see again, he was staring up at the ceiling of the Saloon.
Cheers went up from the other students who had gathered to watch the practice match. Paul's sparring partner, who happened to be the proprietor of the establishment and his teacher, helped him to his feet.
"By Jove," Gentleman Jackson said, "well done."
Stripping off his gloves, Paul gave the brawny pugilist a courteous bow, his head spinning as he did so. "Thank you, sir. As usual, your right hook was undefeatable."
"Not if you'd had your usual concentration," Jackson said.
"Sir?"
The other's dark brows lifted. "You've got a devilish blend of my power and Mendoza's defenses. What you lacked today was focus. Anything troubling you, Fines?"
Paul's face heated. Was it that obvious?
"Nothing I can't handle, sir," he muttered.
"You'll need a clear head in the tournament. You'll be taking on prizefighters like Jem Barnes, men who fight to win—and they don't care what happens to their rivals. A moment's loss of focus can cost you more than the match," Jackson said.
Paul knew about Barnes. The infamous Champion had three titles ... and three badly injured opponents to accompany each of his wins. One unlucky fellow had lost the sight in his left eye as a result of Barnes' powerful cross.
Recalling Charity's concern about his safety, Paul felt a pang. Then anger emerged, covering up any remorse. She should trust in his abilities—in him. She should take her husband's side and not her damned father's. She should ...
"Brilliant advice, Jackson." Traymore's brusque tones cut in.
In his forties, Viscount Traymore was a gentleman's gentleman who preferred sporting above all else. With his shaggy brown hair and alert manner, he reminded Paul of a foxhound. The viscount dressed like a Corinthian, was a founding member of the Fancy, and, according to rumor, had never met a bet he didn't like. Luckily, he had the wealth to support his pursuits.
"Perhaps you can convince Fines to take up my offer," Traymore went on. "I've proposed that he stay at my country seat where he can train without the distractions of the everyday. He needs to be in prime form to win the tournament."
"An idea worth considering, Fines, if it would clear your head," Jackson said.
Suddenly, the idea appealed to Paul. When he'd turned down the invitation before, he'd had his reasons. He'd felt obligated to help with the shop, had wanted to shelter Charity from any woes. His jaw tightened. Clearly, his presence at Sparkler's was not welcomed, and Charity had chosen to stay with her father. Had chosen him over her own husband.
That, he realized, was what stung the most.
He'd compromised his training, his dreams, for her, and she'd paid him back with a lack of faith. So what was keeping him from going off to pursue his goal now?
Absolutely bloody nothing.
"Give me a night to sleep on it," he said.
"Tournament starts up in a month," Traymore said doggedly. "Haven't got time to waste."
"I'll let you know," Paul said firmly.
How would Charity react if he left? Would she support his endeavor? Would she ask him to stay? Or mayhap, he thought with smoldering anger, she'd want him gone so that she could focus on pleasing her ass of a father.
"Whatever you decide, I predict success for you, Fines," Jackson said. "In fact, I have your triumph at the exhibition to thank for the recent increase in enrollment." He nodded to a trio of plump lordlets who were ogling the weighing machine, a contraption made up of a plank suspended by ropes. "Everyone wants to be The Fighting British Male."
"But there can only be one Fancy Champion," Traymore said. "And that'll be you, Fines, if you would just prioritize your training."
"I'd best go attend to my new pupils," the Gentleman said with a sigh. The lordlets were giggling as they took turns riding on what they thought was a swing. "God help them if they break my weighing machine," he muttered as he strode off.
"Send a note around to my club first thing," Traymore said. "I hope you'll make the right decision, Fines."
Paul hoped so, too.
After taking leave of Traymore, he lingered a while longer. The Saloon had always been a home away from home for him, and he welcomed this small respite. Bellinger and Sands, companions from his rakehell days, caught him up on the latest on dit. The pair proposed a night out on the Town.
Knowing what a night out with the fellows entailed—wine, wagers, and wenches—Paul had the presence of mind to decline. He exited the boxing studio, his mind occupied with possible next steps. As annoyed as he was with Charity, he had to speak to her; it was the mature, husbandly thing to do. But he'd be damned before he went to the shop or her father's house to fetch her. Perhaps he'd send round a note ...
Caught up in his thoughts, he didn't hear the voice at first. It drifted over him, an echo from his past. He halted in confusion ... and heard those familiar, silky tones again.
"A penny for your thoughts, darling."
A carriage pulled up next to him. A lady looked out the open window. His heart began to thump as he beheld a perfect oval face framed by ringlets as dark as midnight. Exotic violet eyes smoldered into his.
No, it can't be ...
"You do remember me, don't you?" Her pink lips held a tempestuous curve, and he had the jarring memory of thinking that he'd do anything for the favor of that smile. "Because I certainly haven't forgotten you, my love."
"Rosalind?" he said blankly. "Why aren't you in Scotland?"
"Oh, Paul. You haven't changed," she said with her light, intoxicating laugh. "You're exactly as I remembered."
"But what ... what are you doing here?"
"I came to talk to you."
"Why?" He couldn't think, so dazed that he might have been half-seas over.
"'Tis a matter best discussed in private." She signaled one of her liveried footmen, w
ho jumped from his perch and opened the door. "Come for a ride, darling."
Paul took in the sumptuous red velvet interior, the plush cushions, the sensuous fall of Rosalind's silk skirts.
"I'm married," he blurted.
"I know." Her lashes lowered, and the droplet that tracked down her cheek wracked him with guilt. "But you made a promise to me as well. You do remember what you said to me, don't you? That last day by the Serpentine?"
He stared at her beautiful, upturned face. This woman who had haunted him for so long. He couldn't form a coherent response.
"All I'm asking for is a few minutes of your time. Surely you can give me that much?"
He didn't move. "Rosalind, I'm not certain—"
"Please, Paul." Her peerless gaze glimmered. "For old time's sake? After the promises you made, you owe me this, at least."
Remorse weighted his chest. He did owe her this, he thought miserably. And seeing the looks of passersby, he knew this wasn't the place to dredge up old wounds. The last thing he needed was to set more tongues wagging.
"I have a short while only," he said.
Her brilliant smile flashed like the sun after the rain. "This shan't take long. I promise."
THIRTY
The next morning, the tinkling of the bell jarred Charity from her glum state, and she sat up straighter on the stool behind the counter. Mr. Jameson had gone out to fetch some supplies, leaving her to tend the shop on her own for a few minutes. She'd assured the clerk that she was up to the task. She'd volunteered to be here today; 'twas the only way she could persuade her father to rest the morning before coming to work in the afternoon.
She discreetly dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as a customer entered and browsed through the displays. The lady wore a flower-laden bonnet that obscured her face, a trio of large footmen trailing in her wake.
Hold it together. No waterworks in front of customers.
Yet Charity couldn't stop the worry wringing her insides. Paul hadn't come home last night, and she didn't know where he was. She told herself that he must have gone to stay with his family, Mrs. Fines or Percy. But the fact that he hadn't bothered to let her know of his whereabouts ramped up her anxiety.
Her Prodigal Passion Page 20