But then he flashed to Charity. His gut twisted at the thought of her losing her legacy on top of everything else. His wife had suffered too much already, and he hadn't been there to support her in her time of need. He hadn't been there—and he'd sworn to her, to himself that he would be henceforth.
He'd told her he loved her.
Mere words, if they weren't backed by actions.
All his life, he'd wanted to be a man of honor and worth: here was his chance. Because the exchange of his dream for Charity's was the one thing he could give her, true proof of the depth of his feeling for her. And compared to what she'd given him—her glowing, steadfast love, which hadn't faltered through all these years—his was a paltry gift indeed.
She, not the championship, was his true future.
His throat thickened.
"Well?" Garrity said.
"Define spectacular," Paul said flatly.
"Twenty rounds. You take five here and there, to give an appearance of a true fight. But you let Jem Barnes take the rest."
Paul's muscles bunched. "Barnes has the most powerful uppercut in the tournament. If I give him an advantage, what's to prevent him from knocking me out before the twenty rounds are up?"
The rules of prizefighting were simple: fight until you couldn't. Certain maneuvers—such as hitting below the belt—were prohibited, but everything else from eye gouging to kicking was considered fair play. The rounds that made up a match ended when a fighter was knocked or thrown off his feet. He had to rise and make it to the scratch line within half a minute in order for the next round to begin. This would go on until a fighter either couldn't get up again or his second declared him beaten.
It made for a long—and often savage—battle. Paul loved the primal rush of it. His main strategy, which had proved a winning one, involved maneuvers that exhausted his opponent. He'd wear his adversary out, then go in strong. On average, his matches had lasted less than ten rounds, and due to his defense tactics, he'd managed to escape any major injuries ... thus far.
Garrity's proposition could see him seriously harmed—or worse.
Paul's nape grew cold as he recalled seeing one of Barnes' opponents carried out of the ring, bloody and unmoving. That bout had only lasted six rounds. Surviving twenty with Barnes would take a miracle.
"You'll have to find a way to take a beating and still get up." Garrity's mouth curled. "The odds of a man lasting that long against Barnes are low—which will make my bet pay off in spades. All in all, a bargain for us both."
Easy for the bastard to say. He wouldn't be the one getting pummeled into dust.
For a minute, Paul considered turning down the offer. Instead, he could wager what money he had on himself to be the winner. His competitive spirit rallied at the thought.
But it would be far from a sure thing. A ruthless and savage brawler, Barnes was favored to win. Paul believed he could take the match from the other—but he didn't know it with a certainty. His hands balled in frustration.
He couldn't risk Charity's happiness for the sake of his own pride.
Losing a match meant nothing if he could erase the worry from her beautiful eyes. All he had to do was somehow survive Barnes' murderous blows ...
"I'll take your offer," he said grimly, "but it stays between us."
Knowing Charity, she would never allow him to lose for her, which meant ... she must never know.
"Done. 'Tis not a fact I'd care to share with the bookmakers." Smirking, Garrity held out a manicured hand.
Their hands met in an unshakeable grip, the devil's bargain struck.
FORTY-THREE
When he returned home, Charity was waiting for him. Bundled up in a flannel wrapper, her shiny curls framing her piquant little face, she ushered him into the parlor where a fire was merrily burning. She fussed over him in the wifely manner he adored, helping him with his jacket and boots. A cup of soothing tea and a collation of meats and cheeses had already been arranged on the nearby table.
Only when he was comfortably settled did she perch next to him on the settee and ask, "How did things go?"
He gave a rehearsed version of events to her—the same he'd given Nicholas and Hunt. While he hated lying, Paul knew that his wife and his friends would try to dissuade him from his plan, and he could not allow that to happen. One fight and they would be free of Garrity once and for all. One fight for a lifetime of happiness with Charity.
A risk he'd take a thousand times over.
"Mr. Garrity took the six thousand pounds as a down payment? He'll allow us to pay the rest off in installments?" Charity blinked at him. "Truly?"
"He also agreed to a more reasonable percentage," Paul said, "so we will be done with the loan soon. Not bad for a night's work, eh?"
Her brow puckered as he'd known it would. "But why would Garrity do that? He's never been reasonable before."
"He knows he won't get his thirty thousand," Paul said smoothly, "and, in the end, he realized something was better than nothing. With our current agreement, he will get his capital back—and a healthy amount of interest besides."
His breath held as she searched his face.
Then she threw her arms around his neck. "I don't know what to say ..."
He inhaled the clean fragrance of her hair, his arms closing around her slim back.
"You don't have to say anything," he said huskily.
"But I do." Her head tipped back, and her radiant gaze stole his breath. Until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he'd yearned to have her look at him this way again: as if he were offering her the moon and stars—which he would, if she asked.
Because there was nothing he wouldn't do for her.
He told himself he'd survive the match with Jem Barnes. Even as coldness seeped into him as he thought of the other's lethal style of brawling, he told himself he'd find a way. Somehow he'd make it through so that he could hold Charity this way forever.
Her palm curved around his jaw. "You came back for me. You saved my father's legacy, even though he gave you little reason to do so. You, Apollo Fines, are my hero."
The brightness of her love fought back the shadows. What would come would come. In this moment, he wanted to savor being with his wife.
"I like the sound of that," he murmured.
"I have something else you'll like." Rising, she stood in front of him and tugged on the belt of her robe. The thick flannel fell away, leaving nothing but ... Charity. His nubile nymph, her delicate skin spangled with blushes and her gaze shining with passion.
He sucked in a breath. Darted a look at the closed door, which the maid or housekeeper could open at any moment. "Sweetheart, let's go upstairs—"
"I love you," she said. "With all my heart and soul."
Servants be damned.
Desire crashed over him, a burning need to affirm life in the face of looming danger. He took her up in his arms. He sensed her surprise when he carried her past the settee to the adjacent scrolled bench. The backless frame had front and back posts that curled inward on both ends, and the cushion was just sufficient to fit Charity's petite length. He spread her there like a feast, lowering to his knees beside her.
He loved how sensitive she was, responding to his mere look as if it were a touch: beneath his possessive gaze, her pink nipples hardened, jutting toward him. The soft dip of her belly quivered. And farther down ... his nostrils flared at the decadent sight of her dewy thatch.
Some of her boldness slipped, her arms crossing over her chest.
He halted that movement—circling her wrists and bringing them above her head. Gently, he folded her hands around the posts of the bench.
"Keep them there," he ordered huskily. "You're exquisite, love. Let me look my fill."
Her bosom rose and fell in a sharp wave. But she didn't move. Love and trust lit her face like a beacon and nearly undid him.
He flattened his palm against her throat, ran it in a straight path down between her small, heaving breasts, her delicate rib ca
ge, her silken navel. He cupped her sex—just held her there, relishing her lushness, the way she arched to his touch.
"Mine," he said. "All of this. All of you."
"Yes," she whispered.
He slid a finger inside her, his pulse erratic as slick muscles clamped around him, pulling him deeper. He obliged, frigging her steadily.
"You're drenched," he breathed, "So sweet and tight. Do you want more?"
Her hips pleaded as much as her words. "Yes. Oh, please, yes."
He drove in with two fingers, slapping his palm against the peak of her pleasure. With each thrust, she grew wetter, hotter, her cream dripping over his palm. She writhed against the cushion, her knuckles white against the mahogany, and he bent to take her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as he gave her clit another sharp smack. Her hips jerked, her pussy squeezing him with ecstatic force. Her grip on the bench loosened as her cry of release soared with the joy of a Bach hymn, striking fervor in his heart, in his turgid, throbbing cock.
In the next heartbeat, he flipped her over, bending her over the width of the bench. Too far gone to deal with his boots and trousers, he ripped down his fall and fisted his cock, groaning as he rubbed it along her dripping slit. Then he gripped her hips and slammed into her from behind. His back bowed as her tight cunny embraced him, milking him and taking him to the balls.
"Christ, I love fucking you." He bucked, hard and deep. "I'll never get enough."
Her hips shoved back to meet his thrusts. She twisted her head to look at him, her eyes full of fire and love. "Good, because I love having you inside me. Fucking me ..."—her eyes squeezed shut as he rammed his shaft home—"loving me."
"I'll always love you," he said savagely. "To my dying breath."
Her head dropped, a dreamy smile on her lips as she gave herself over to their lovemaking. He wanted to make this last, to draw out her passion, but the sight of her milky bottom, reddened from his pounding began to unravel his self-control. His vision darkened as he watched his cock spreading her swollen lips, felt the hips beneath his palms vibrate as his bollocks spanked her sex again and again.
Too much.
His climax roared over him. Heat rushed from his balls, gushed with shuddering intensity up his shaft. Groaning, he emptied himself inside her, gave her everything he was as if this were the very last time.
When he could catch his breath, he gathered her in his arms and held her tight. His eyes were damp. Because now that he'd found heaven, he never wanted to let her go.
FORTY-FOUR
"I do wish you'd let me go with you," Charity said.
Paul nodded at his valet, who exited the bedchamber with the travelling cases. Paul was leaving for Banstead Downs, a three hour drive south of London. The match was tomorrow afternoon, and his plan was to get there a day early to rest and prepare for his fight against Barnes.
He cupped his wife's shoulders and placed a kiss on the tip of her little nose.
"We've been through this before," he said. "I can't afford a distraction."
"But I won't get in your way, I promise—"
"No, love," he said gently but firmly. As much as he hated to be parted from her, he could not allow her to witness what was certain to be a bloodbath. Shaping his lips into a smile, he said, "It's considered bad luck to have one's woman watching the fight. I'll lose my focus worrying about you amongst that rough and tumble lot. Trust me, the place will be teeming with ruffians, ready to riot and pillage at a moment's notice." This part, at least, was true. "A fight is no place for a lady, and you know it."
She huffed out a breath. "Fine. Banish me from the most important event of your life."
Her expression was the closest to a pout that he'd ever seen from her, and his smile deepened into a true grin. "At least you won't be the only one. Hunt says Percy's been sulking ever since he forbade her from going with him."
"One can't blame Mr. Hunt for being protective," Charity muttered, her eyes on his lapel. "Percy is in a delicate condition and mustn't take such risks."
"Precisely. Now are you going to blame me for having husbandly concerns about your welfare?"
"It's not the same. I'm not ..." She turned a charming shade of pink.
And well she should. Given the frequency of their beddings, such an outcome was more than possible. His chest expanded as he thought of Charity, plump with his child. He'd never thought of himself as a fatherly sort, but to have a little girl with eyes like her mama's ... or a boy he could teach to box and ride ...
Conviction flowed through him.
He would survive the damned fight. He'd come back to Charity.
And then they could really start their lives together.
"We have been busy, haven't we?" he murmured. He drew her close, inhaled once more the heavenly scent that was hers alone. "I have to be off, sweeting. Be a good wife now, and give me a kiss for luck."
Her lips were sweet and passionate, everything he could want. In the end, he had to break the kiss. If he didn't, he feared he wouldn't have the courage to leave her.
"Good luck," she said, her voice tremulous. "Be careful, my darling."
He ran a hand over her silky curls, cupping her nape.
"Never forget how much I love you," he said.
He brushed his lips against her forehead and left.
*****
Charity awoke with jarring swiftness, clutching the sheets, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. Rubbing her hands over her damp face, she told herself she'd just had a bad dream. She couldn't recall the specifics of the nightmare, but tendrils of fear snaked through her still.
You're overwrought. Paul will be fine. He'll win today, come home safe and sound.
Yet a shiver coursed over her nape.
Chiding herself for being silly, she got out of bed and lit the lamp. It was still dark, at least an hour before dawn. Restless energy buzzed through her, and she knew she needed something to occupy herself. After performing her ablutions and donning an old gown, she headed to the guest bedchamber.
She set down her lamp, perusing the cramped space. Paul had been using it as a dressing room, and his personal items littered every surface. Shaking her head, Charity picked a rumpled cravat off the floor. She paused, bringing it to her nose. Paul's woodsy scent both soothed her and made her miss him more.
As she sorted his belongings, she realized that Paul was right. They did need to find a home of their own soon. He needed more space, and though they managed to fit themselves in her bed—cuddled like two spoons in a drawer or with her nestled atop of him—a larger bed would give them more room to sleep ... and play. With a wistful smile, she retrieved a pair of cufflinks from the coverlet where he'd tossed them.
Yes, it was time to move on. If they weren't ready to purchase a property of their own, they could rent a flat or cottage for the time being. A place to call their own and to start their new lives together. The thought of leaving her father's house no longer filled her with grief.
I'm sorry you were hurt, Father, and I wish that you could have found happiness. That you were here now to witness mine, she thought with a pang. To know that we Sparklers are deserving of love.
When Paul returned, she would tell him she wanted to sell this house and begin afresh.
The thought of their future filled her with anticipation.
With cufflinks in hand, she searched for the large leather case that housed his accoutrements. He had brought his compact nécessaire to Banstead, so she was certain he'd left the heftier storage case behind. She'd seen it yesterday on the desk, but now all that lay on the surface were some assorted bottles and grooming implements.
Her brow furrowed. Odd. It has to be in here somewhere.
Given the close quarters, there were limited places the case could be. She searched the small cupboard to no avail. She thought for a moment … and crouched to look beneath the bed. Voilà. She dragged the case out, torn between amusement and exasperation. Knowing her husband's habits, he'd p
robably kicked it aside without a thought.
She lugged the box onto the mattress. Opening the lid, she lifted out the top tray full of stick pins ... and her heart seized. Her mind couldn't make sense of what was before her. With trembling hands, she lifted out the familiar stack of banknotes. She counted them, twice, found the entire sum that she'd given Paul. The amount that he'd told her Garrity had accepted as down payment.
Why did Paul lie to me?
Agitation filled her, the formless panic from her dream now taking on the shape of very real questions. She paced, her mind racing. Why had Paul lied? If he hadn't given Garrity the money, how had he negotiated to get Sparkler's back? What had he used as leverage ... and why wouldn't he tell her the truth?
Fear spurred her heart into a gallop. Clutching the banknotes, she rushed from the chamber. She called for the carriage, grabbed her reticule, and hurried out.
*****
"Mr. Garrity is not at home." The butler looked down his nose at her. "Even if he were, I'm certain he wouldn't take uninvited callers at this early hour."
Charity drew herself up. "This is a matter of utmost importance. Where can I find him?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
She dangled a purse from her fingers, letting the coins within jingle. "Would this change your mind?"
She'd read the butler correctly. His gaze darted around before he held out his hand. Untying the drawstring, she placed a single guinea in his palm.
"Mr. Garrity left for Banstead Downs at dawn," the servant said, confirming her fears. "Got a wager on the match. A surefire win, he said."
Charity forced herself to sound calm. "Which fighter is he betting on?"
The butler arched his brow, his hand outstretched.
She gave him another coin.
"The master says Jem Barnes will take the match, and it'll be a fight for the ages," he said.
"For the ages? Why?" she said in a wavering voice.
When the other did not reply, she shoved the entire coin purse at him.
"Mr. Garrity predicts a bloodbath, and he's never wrong about these things." The money disappeared into the servant's jacket. With a hint of wistfulness in his voice, he added, "Wish I could be there. Like a bit of carnage myself."
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