“You certainly have a strong opinion on the matter,” his mother murmured. She tilted her head as if contemplating what to do with him.
“It would be impossible not to, all things considered. The task of protecting her reputation is not a simple one and you, if I may remind you, did not make it any easier when you decided to put her in that shocking gown at the Elmwood ball last week.”
“I still think you overreacted about that.”
“Overreacted?” His voice had reached a pitch that he had to admit was quite unacceptable and utterly uncouth. So he blew out a deep breath and leveled his tone. “Her breasts were practically spilling out of that bodice, Mama. It was . . . unnerving.”
“Hmm . . .” She said nothing further, just watched him with interest until he muttered something he had to apologize for immediately after. “I thought she looked lovely,” his mother continued, “but that is neither here nor there. We obviously have two very different opinions on the matter.”
“Obviously.”
“The important thing is she caught Burton’s and Lowell’s attention.” The smile that followed was a little too sweet. “Whatever your thoughts about them may be, I am sure she will make a wise choice for herself. What I quite like is that they do not disapprove of her buying that house and turning it into a school. Lady Everly informed me that both gentlemen have made donations in order to help.”
“As have I,” he reminded her with a grumpiness he desperately wished to get rid of.
“Yes, but you were compelled by duty while they were merely being generous.”
He kept quiet while counting to twenty since speaking at that exact moment would probably result in tears. When his blood had cooled a little, he stood and returned his empty glass to the sideboard. “I will wish you a pleasant evening now, as I am going back out.”
“Where to?” She sounded a little alarmed, which was to be expected since he was not prone to going out late at night.
“I cannot say, but this house is too small to contain my aggravation at the moment. A bit of fresh air should do me some good.”
Having shed the fine clothes he’d worn for the better part of the day and replaced them with a plain pair of brown trousers and a jacket to match, Thomas hailed a hackney carriage and directed it toward Seven Dials. From there he walked the remainder of the way to the Black Swan Inn, locating it easily enough on account of all the noise the place emitted.
Stepping inside, he pushed his way past a thick throng of people who’d gathered next to the door. The sound of violins and the stomping of dancing feet produced a boisterous atmosphere that he couldn’t quite say he disliked. There was something unrestrained here—no rules to govern one’s every move, except for the rule of common decency, though he knew many of the patrons did not even practice that.
Still, he could feel the weight of his responsibilities begin to lift from his shoulders as he crossed the floor to the door leading out to the courtyard beyond. Stepping through it, his blood began to sing in response to the fight that he saw taking place. It was masculine power at its best, just pure muscle and strength against one’s opponent. Moving forward, he joined the crowd of onlookers and considered the men whose faces were both puffy and swollen, their bodies soaked from the onset of rain.
“Well, well, well . . .” The thick voice that spoke at his shoulder had Thomas turning around to find Carlton Guthrie grinning back at him. “Didn’t think to see ye ’ere, Yer Gr—”
“Heathmore will do,” Thomas said, offering up his last name to prevent the man from revealing his title. “You should know that by now.”
“Aye.” Guthrie glanced around. “Matthews ain’t with ye?”
“No. He is abroad at the moment.” Figuring Huntley would not approve of him sharing details about his life with a man he disliked, Thomas refrained from elaborating. “So I have come alone this time.”
“Need a good thrashin’ do ye?” Guthrie’s lips curled back to reveal a row of surprisingly perfect teeth. In fact, if it weren’t for his mustache, the stubble that dotted his jaw and the unkempt state of his hair, the man would actually be quite handsome. He would also look a hell of a lot younger than one imagined him to be at first glance.
“I’ve had a bad week,” Thomas confessed. “I believe hitting something might do me good.”
Nodding, Guthrie stuck out his hand. “It’ll be three pounds to enter.”
“When I was last here, it was free,” Thomas muttered, not because he couldn’t afford the sum but because he didn’t want to be taken advantage of.
“I ’ad to lure ye in first.” Guthrie smiled broadly, eyes flashing with devilish glee. “Now that ye’re lured, it’ll be three pounds.”
“What about them?” Thomas asked with a nod directed at the two men who were still throwing punches. “How much did they have to pay?”
“They’re me men, Heathmore. I’m trainin’ them fer the next match so I’ll be payin’ them an’ not the other way around.”
“I see.” Thomas pulled his coin purse from his pocket and counted out the money, then handed it to Guthrie.
“Thank ye very much, kind sir. Ye can toss yer ’at an’ jacket o’er there if ye like.” He pointed toward a stack of crates that stood beneath an overhang. “These two’ll be done soon so ye’d best prepare yerself ’cause I’m puttin’ ye against Smith.”
It wasn’t until he stepped out into the middle of the courtyard a few minutes later that Thomas understood what Guthrie had meant about preparing himself. Because the man he now faced bore a crisscross of scars on his cheeks and appeared to have risen from a medieval battleground ready to murder any man in his path.
Flexing his fingers, Thomas peered through the sheet of falling rain, his hair already smeared across his forehead. He balled his hands into fists, raised his arms and planted his feet in a solid stance like Huntley had taught him. The hours of exercises his friend had forced him to endure had physically changed his body. Gone was the softness to his belly that most men of leisure possessed, replaced instead by taut rows of muscle. His shoulders had widened as well, while his arms bore evidence of finely honed strength. It would be to his advantage now, he realized when Smith stepped into his space with a punch that was neatly avoided as Thomas moved out of its path.
He turned and rose onto the balls of his feet, dodging first this way, then that, before pulling his arm back and pushing it forward, directly toward Smith’s face. Thwack! His opponent’s head was flung back. Blood flew from his nose in a spray of crimson droplets that mingled with the rain.
Christ, that felt good.
So did the blow Smith landed next, straight to Thomas’s chest. It bit at his senses in an energizing way that had him punching back. Head lowered, he beat his way forward, demolishing every damn problem that clung to his brain; his sister’s unnecessary death, Jeremy’s questionable future, Lord Liverpool’s unwillingness to help and every temptation Lady Amelia offered.
His mind lingered on that last issue while he delivered another blow to Smith’s face and then yet another. Rage burned his eyes, but Thomas didn’t care. He just had to expel his baser instincts—the unforgiving urge he had to capture her lips with his own, to pull her into his arms and this mad desire he had to undress her. A fist slammed into his shoulder, sending him back, but not for long. If he could only stop picturing her naked. Perhaps then he would be able to go on with his life in a reasonable way. He staggered for a moment but regained his balance just in time to avoid getting punched in the face.
Shifting sideways, he stared at Smith. Both were panting now from exertion, and he saw when he raised his fists once more that they were raw and bloody. The pain didn’t bother him though, quite the contrary. He welcomed it in an almost perverse way, hoping it would bring some satisfaction—that it would erase the frustrated state he was in by replacing it with a different kind of ache.
It did no such thing, he realized later when he made his way back home. His body still responded to every thought he had of
her. And there were many since they included the products of his own erotic imaginings. Even now, beaten as he was, he felt himself stir at the thought of just seeing her again, of how her mouth would curve with pleasure when he offered a compliment or how her eyes might blaze with anger if he displeased her. Both affected him equally. It no longer mattered what mood she was in or whether she was happy to see him or not. He just wanted her, plain and simple, and he didn’t know what the bloody hell he was going to do about that.
As it happened, there was one thing that would serve to dampen his ardor, though he did not realize this until he returned home and found a note waiting for him on the silver salver in the foyer. Unfolding it, he read the few lines and felt his heart lurch.
Holy hell!
He raced upstairs to his room while doing his best not to wake those who slept. Pulling out dry clothes from his dresser, he exchanged them for the wet and filthy ones he wore. He then grabbed a piece of paper and penned a hasty note to his mother, which he slipped beneath her bedroom door. Nerves tight and heart pounding, he headed back out. All in all, he’d spent no more than ten minutes at most inside his house before hurrying toward St. Giles. There, surrounded by a firefighting unit and with smoke billowing out of every available opening, stood the house Lady Amelia had bought, like an eerie lantern glowing in the dark.
He hadn’t seen it when he’d gone to the Black Swan earlier, nor when he’d returned. The quickest route for him had not required the use of Oxford Street. Now, he sorely wished it had done. Perhaps then he might have discovered this sooner.
“What happened?” he asked a heavyset man who was busy directing a hose from the fire engine while two other men worked the pump.
“Not sure. Perhaps someone tossed a cigar into the weeds, but it’s tough to say. I believe we should have it contained soon. We managed to catch it before it got too big inside—would have had to tear down the building then.”
“You don’t think that will be necessary now?” Thomas asked as he watched the smoke rise to the sky. “Looks pretty bad in there.”
“I suppose that depends on one’s perspective,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”
Thomas didn’t doubt it, given the man’s profession, but it still didn’t change the fact that Lady Amelia would be devastated by this news. How the hell was he going to tell her? “I would like to help,” he said, not only because saving the building would be in his own best interest, considering the money he’d already spent on it, but because he needed to know he’d done something.
“You can help man the other fire engine over there,” the man said. “I believe one of those fellows could do with a break.”
Thanking him, Thomas hurried over to where the other men were pumping and offered to take one of their places. It was tough work, especially after the fight, but he found a rhythm soon enough and put all his strength into pushing as much water as possible through the hose. If the house was unsalvageable, they could try to find another—he could certainly afford the expense—except Lady Amelia had been so set on this one he suspected no other place would do in her mind. So there was really nothing for it. They would simply have to muddle through as best as they could and make the most of whatever remained in the morning.
Chapter 13
Amelia was halfway through her breakfast when Pierson came to announce that the Duke of Coventry had come to call.
“That is rather early,” Lady Everly said. She returned her teacup to its saucer. “We are not expecting him to arrive for another three hours.”
“He is asking for a private word with Lady Amelia.” Pierson’s expression conveyed no hint of his opinion on such an unusual occurrence. “Shall I show him to the parlor?”
“Please do.” Lady Everly pushed herself out of her chair as soon as Pierson had exited the room. She looked at Amelia. “Stay here until I return.”
Nodding, Amelia watched her leave the room.
“What do you suppose all of this is about?” Juliette asked.
Amelia met her inquisitive gaze. “I’ve no idea.”
“But you do know why Lady Everly has gone to speak with him first.”
The way in which her sister said it suggested that Amelia should have some idea, except she didn’t. “Not the faintest.”
Juliette rolled her eyes. “Think about, Amelia. He arrives unexpectedly and asks to meet with you in private? Lady Everly obviously went to inquire about his intentions.”
“Which would be what, exactly?” A distinct tone of annoyance had slipped into her voice because she now sensed where this conversation was going. “He hasn’t come to propose, if that is what you are thinking.”
“He might have,” Juliette said with a hopeful smile.
Pushing her plate aside, Amelia leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms with a huff. “No, he might not. And please stop insisting that he feels enough for me to ever do so.”
“I think you’re wrong about that.”
“On what grounds?” Amelia stared across at her sister.
She shrugged, then took a sip of her tea. “It’s just a feeling I have.”
A feeling. What good did that do when Amelia had a long list of facts stacked against the possibility of Coventry ever making her that sort of offer? First, her background made her completely unsuitable. Second, she was too independent for his liking. Third, he found her aggravating, as evidenced by the fact that she’d been subjected to his temper three times already in little over a week. Fourth, he had no desire to marry anyone—he’d told her as much. And fifth, he was a duke for heaven’s sake! She might as well set her sights on the Pope for all the difference it made to her chances of success.
“Amelia?”
Blinking, Amelia realized Lady Everly was talking to her. She must have entered without her noticing. “Yes?”
“You need to hear what Coventry has to say. As long as you leave the parlor door open, I have no issue with the two of you being alone for a moment.”
Unsure about Lady Everly’s somber tone, Amelia hesitated. She glanced at Juliette, who shook her head as if to say that she no longer had any idea of what to expect.
“Very well.” Amelia got to her feet and made her way toward the door. For reasons she couldn’t explain, it felt as though she was heading for the gallows. Which made her wonder if she might have done something else that he did not approve of—something of which she was not yet aware.
By the time she arrived in the parlor, she almost expected him to look tense and irritable. “Coventry?”
He was standing by one of the windows, looking out onto the street. At the sound of her voice, he turned around and faced her, revealing a face that bore no resemblance to the one she’d seen when last they’d met.
“Bloody ’ell!” The words were out before she could stop them, the shock of seeing his eyes outlined in shades of blue and purple so shocking, she forgot herself completely. Another bruise colored the left side of his jaw while a vertical line of dark red upon his lip suggested he’d been bleeding. “What ’appened?”
“What happened?”
Befuddled, she shook her head. Was he seriously correcting her English right now? Slowly, she moved toward him. “Were you attacked?” It seemed like a logical question, given his appearance.
To her surprise he grinned, though only for a second. “No. I engaged in a boxing match at the Black Swan last night.”
She could only stare at him before calmly asking, “Are you mad? You’re an aristocrat, Coventry. You don’t belong in that place.”
“Perhaps not, but I needed the sport.” Before she could ask him why, he quickly changed the subject. “But I am not here for you to study my rare coloring. Rather, there is a matter of great importance I must discuss with you.” When she waited for him to continue, he gestured toward a nearby armchair. “Perhaps you will be more comfortable sitting down?”
Her heart lurched as a rush of foreboding swept through her body. “What is this about?”
“
I will tell you in a moment.” Again, he swept his hand toward the chair. “Please.”
Unsure of where this was going, Amelia moved across the floor on leaden feet and took her seat. He, on the other hand, remained standing. Something intense brewed in his eyes. She saw he was clenching and unclenching his jaw, and the action only put her all the more on edge.
“What is it,” she finally asked, unable to stand the anticipation of what he would say for one more second.
He drew a deep breath before he spoke. “There has been an incident.”
His solemn tone made her insides wither. “What are you saying?”
“The house you bought caught fire last night.”
Every hope she’d had of him not conveying some terrible news was gone in a heartbeat. She shook her head. “No. That cannot be.”
“I saw it with my own eyes. When I arrived at the scene, the fire brigade was already doing their best to put it out, so I stopped to help pump water.”
“But . . .” Breathing was suddenly difficult. “Is it . . .” Oh God, she could barely bring herself to ask the necessary questions.
“It was not burned to the ground, if that is what you wish to know. In fact, the entire structure is still standing due to how quickly the flames were brought under control. But there is some considerable damage.” Moving toward her while she processed that bit of information, he paused by her side. And then, quite unexpectedly, she felt his hand settle upon her shoulder.
It was both comforting and disconcerting, the inappropriateness of the gesture quite forgotten by her as it shoved her misgivings aside, replacing them with a keen sense of solidarity—an unspoken promise that they would get through this together. It was so touching she feared she might weep. So she bowed her head, hoping to hide the emotion that no doubt showed in her eyes.
“I thought you might like to go to see it for yourself. If anything, doing so may help put your mind at ease since I do believe the house can be saved.”
Gulping a breath of air, she clutched the armrest and gave a curt nod. “Yes. I believe you’re quite right.” Disregarding how weak she felt—as though it was she who had taken a beating instead of him—she rose to her feet on legs that did not feel capable of carrying her weight. Still, she forced her spine into a rigid line and pushed up her chin. “Allow me to ready myself and to inform Lady Everly of our outing. I’ll only be a moment.”
The Duke of Her Desire: Diamonds in the Rough Page 15