For a moment, he thought she might stalk off. Then, she’d always been fearless, unwilling to back down from a challenge. She got herself into the proper position and held her palms down.
Perfect. It was a perfect stance. Only—his gaze slid lower, lower still, to her hips. The fabric of her muslin dress strained against her hips and her perfectly rounded buttocks. His fingers twitched with the need to take her in his arms and drag her close. And what had begun as a lesson for her became a study in torture for himself.
“Do you approve?”
His neck heated, and he immediately jerked his attention upward.
She arched a crimson eyebrow and wagged her fists. He searched for a hint of knowing, but where societal ladies had sought to seduce the duke’s fighting son, Patience Storm now eyed him with the same frustration she had her brother.
Struggling to reclaim his footing, he walked a slow path around her. “Your stance is flawless,” he conceded. He ran a fingertip from her elbow up to her knuckles, and she trembled.
Ah, so she was aware of him. A primitive wave of triumph went through him, and he schooled his features, continuing his aloof study.
Dropping to his haunches, he reached for her hem. She gasped and immediately danced out of his reach. “What are you doing?” she demanded on an explosive whisper. She glanced frantically about.
He smiled slowly. “Generally, my students are of the pant-wearing persuasion, Miss Storm,” he said, infusing an edge of dryness. “As such, I can’t adequately assess your legs.”
Her cheeks flamed the crimson color of her hair as he crept forward and reached for her hem.
Patience yelped. “Lord Godrick, I am not one of your students.”
“Do you want to help your brother?”
Since she was a young woman, recently arrived in London to help care for her family, she’d always put her kin before herself. As such, it was a dirty trick on his part. And he was all the more shameful for having no regrets for it. She pursed her mouth and then stiffly settled herself into position. Fighting the urge to work his gaze over her willowy form, he slowly lifted her hem.
“I expect you have a good deal of experience lifting hems,” she muttered.
Godrick paused with the garment just above her trim ankles. His lips twitched. “If I did not know better, I would say you are jealous.” It came out in jest. Of course, with the years of hatred she’d carried, she likely wouldn’t give a jot whose bed he was in, as long as it wasn’t hers.
Patience dissolved into a strangled, choking fit. “I am decidedly not jealous, Lord Godrick. At all.” She fanned her cheeks. “It was merely an observation of London’s favorite prizefighter and a duke’s dashing son.” She promptly closed her mouth.
She’d been reading the gossip columns that mentioned his pursuits. “The duke’s dashing son?” he repeated back slowly.
“Oh, stop looking so smug with yourself,” she groused, bringing him back to his task.
A lightness filled his chest that she had paid attention. For since she had, mayhap she did, in fact, still care. Returning to the task at hand, he put all his effort into studying her positioning. He raised the skirts to her knees, baring her legs, and then froze.
Oh, God, this was folly. Of all the mistakes he’d made with and around this woman, this was certainly not the greatest or gravest one, but certainly a dangerous one. “Your legs are…” Long and graceful. He forced words out past a thickened throat. “Properly positioned. Weight forward. Knees bent.”
He stood. “Now, throw me a left jab.”
Without hesitation, she tossed a hook just as he put his elbow up and angled right. She jerked, and her strike barely grazed his upper right arm. Godrick caught her hand in his and retained it in his grip. “You can do everything true to form, but it all changes based on the whim of your opponent. The only thing you can do in the ring is what feels right to you.”
“His improper fists—”
“Feel right to him,” he finished for her. “That is more important sometimes than everything a man can learn about proper form.”
“There was never anything conventional about you,” she said softly to herself. A wistful smile hovered on her lips, a gentle expression of mirth that momentarily transported him to a time when they’d been teasing, carefree lovers and that same grin had graced her lips after they’d first made love.
I am lost.
With a groan, he reached up and drew her down to the floor. He cupped her nape and covered her mouth with his.
She stiffened and then, with a little moan, twined her arms about his neck, angling herself to better receive his kiss. Their lips met in a violent explosion. It was an embrace stripped of the gentleness they’d once shared. She opened her mouth, and he thrust his tongue inside. Their tongues met in an age-old primitive dance that sent fire thrumming through his veins. It threatened to burn him from the inside out and, by God, damned if he wouldn’t be happy to go up in that conflagration.
His breath came hard and fast, blending with her own quick intakes. Fueled by the evidence of her desire, Godrick worked his hands over her body, reacquainting himself with the feel of her, the curves of her hips, the swell of her buttocks. He dragged her close, and his shaft prodded the flat of her belly. He groaned and drew his lips back.
She let out a little mewl of protest, but he trailed kisses from the corner of her lush mouth, lower, worshiping the place where her pulse pounded. “I have missed you,” he rasped. Patience moaned and angled her head to better receive his ministrations. He suckled and nipped at the flesh. So many nights after they’d parted he would lie awake with the memory of her, and them together, consuming him. A further penance, never again having her in his arms—until now.
“Godrick,” she whimpered when he trailed kisses along the modest swell of her décolletage. He cupped her nape and laid claim to her mouth once more.
A faint click penetrated the haze of desire blanketing his senses. He jerked his head up and swallowed a curse as Ailesbury entered the club. Godrick jumped up and helped Patience stand.
Patience blinked wildly. “What…?”
His friend called out. “Where in blazes are your serv—?”
Patience gasped, that soft exhalation damning and revealing.
Ailesbury stopped in his tracks and looked first to Godrick and then to her. It would take but a single glance at Patience’s swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and disheveled curls to ascertain precisely what they’d been doing. The other gentleman, however, demonstrated the same cool he was noted for in all Society. “Forgive me.” He swiftly dropped a bow. “I was unaware you were in the middle of a… lesson.”
Furiously blushing, Patience wrung the fabric of her skirts.
“Miss Storm and I just concluded our meeting. Isn’t that correct, Miss Storm?”
She nodded jerkily. “Yes,” she said on a rush. “I thank you for… the lesson. If you’ll excuse me?” She sank into a hasty curtsy. “My brother awaits.” Whipping around on her heel, she hurried from the roped-off area and, studiously avoiding Ailesbury’s eyes, bolted from the club.
As soon as Patience closed the door behind her, Ailesbury grinned. “New… student?”
Godrick would not rise to that baiting. “Of a sort.” Which wasn’t a complete mistruth. Through her connection to Sam Storm, she was in a way… oh, stuff it. She was nothing of the sort. He’d not concede that to anyone… not even his closest friend. With Ailesbury standing off to the side, a knowing grin on his face, Godrick hurried to retrieve his jacket. He shrugged into the garment and then reached for his discarded cravat.
Of course, he could not count on the other man to allow the matter to rest. “Quite unconventional methods you’re instructing in now.”
“Go to hell,” Godrick muttered, earning a rousing guffaw of laughter from his friend. He headed for his office, leaving the other man scrambling to catch up. Though he’d never revealed Patience’s identity or his connection to her, Ailesbury was well awa
re that there had been a young woman in his past. One whose heart Godrick had broken and for it, had lost the right to her love, arms, or any other part that made Patience Storm who she was.
Inside the ring, however, his body hadn’t had any discretion for honor or what was right or wrong. He’d known only that he needed to take her in his arms again.
I am a bastard… an utter bastard.
Not that the matter had ever been in question.
He stomped into his office and immediately made for the well-stocked sideboard. “Not another blasted word,” he ordered, pouring himself a drink. Setting the bottle down hard, he carried his snifter over to his desk and sat.
His friend helped himself to a glass and then, uninvited, claimed a seat across from Godrick. As Ailesbury sipped his brandy, he eyed Godrick contemplatively over the brim. With a sigh, he lowered the snifter to the arm of his chair. “Surely you don’t believe I’d walk into your sacred club to find you kissing a young woman senseless and let the matter rest?”
“Yes, actually, that is what I did believe,” he mumbled, taking another long swallow. Or hoped, anyway.
“Sam Storm’s… sister.”
He nodded curtly.
Ailesbury swirled his glass and made a show of studying the contents. “As I am a wagering man, I’d venture that this young woman is, in fact, the one in your past.”
Godrick didn’t pretend to misunderstand. At thirty years of age, he didn’t partake in games. He’d already lost too much of his life and happiness for dancing around truths. He gave a brusque nod.
“Ahh. Your late mentor’s daughter. Of course.” The other man spoke in matter-of-fact tones. “She is the one who broke your heart, then.”
Godrick could very well easily let the matter rest with Ailesbury believing that erroneous truth. All he’d known over the years was that he’d been hopelessly in love with a woman who’d turned him away. They’d said nothing more on it. After all, gentlemen didn’t talk of these things. Or they hadn’t… until now. Damned Ailesbury and his insistence. “I… broke her heart first,” he said gruffly. Shame swamped him.
Ailesbury shot his eyebrows to his hairline. “Indeed?” He shifted forward in his seat.
Unable to meet his friend’s eyes, Godrick proceeded to tell him the whole miserable story. Everything from the childhood betrothal he’d been entered into, to Patience and how they’d begun as friends of sorts, and then more… while he’d waited, searching for the right time to tell her about a betrothal he’d needed to disentangle himself from. A legal contract that would have resulted in lawsuits and scandal and disgrace.
When he finished, there was, however, more than the usual shame… there was… relief, at finally having shared everything about what had happened in those days.
When Ailesbury again spoke, his earlier levity was replaced by a somber mask. “You were young.”
He’d not allow his age to serve as a justification for what he’d done or how he’d behaved. “Youth doesn’t pardon dishonor.”
“No.” His friend offered a small smile. “But it does, however, explain it.” Finishing off his drink, Ailesbury set his glass on the edge of Godrick’s desk. “Society imposes their expectations on the peerage”—he motioned between them—“to make advantageous matches. To never sully our hands in trade or”—he jerked his head back toward the door leading out into the club—“fighting. You shouldn’t have been betrothed as a child.” He shuddered. “Egad, my father was a bastard and even he wasn’t so archaic.”
Godrick stared into the contents of his drink. “The truth remains. I was betrothed to the lady—”
“And she broke it off,” his friend pointed out. After all, it had been a scandal that had rocked Polite Society and was not something he’d discussed with anyone—including Ailesbury.
It had been Edwin Storm who’d shared the truth about Godrick’s relationship with his betrothed. He flexed his jaw. Edwin had always resented Godrick for his relationship with Tom Storm, and in the end, he’d seen him suffer, as he should. “She never intended to marry me,” he shared, and surprise lit the other man’s eyes. “The day she severed the arrangement, she informed me that she’d never have lowered herself to a duke’s second son, let alone a fourth-born one.” The great irony of her rejection was still not lost on him all these years later. He chuckled. “She’d merely sought me out to thank me for providing her a reason to publicly break it off.”
Giving his head a shake, Godrick downed his drink and then set it aside. There was so much he would have done differently. All of it. All of it, that was, with the exception of knowing Patience and spending that time with her family.
“You care for the woman still? Storm’s sister, that is,” his friend clarified.
Nay. I love her. Godrick nodded. “I do.” His life had been so very empty without her in it.
The other man stretched his legs out and looped them at the ankles. “Well, there is no betrothal or husband or really anything keeping you apart.”
Ailesbury made it… simpler than it was. For even if there could be forgiveness, it had still been shattered the day he’d cost Edwin his vision. And it spoke volumes of his cowardice still that he couldn’t get the words out… about what he’d done to Patience’s brother. “It is complicated,” he evaded, dusting a hand over his jaw.
“Only if you allow it to be.” Ailesbury pushed back his chair and stood. “Only if you allow it.” His friend fished around inside his jacket and pulled out a thick sheet of vellum stamped with a black seal. He held it out.
Puzzling his brow, Godrick looked at the official note and then took the page.
“The reason for my visit,” Ailesbury explained. “Prinny is hosting a grand ball following the fight between Storm and King. I expect you’ll be attending.”
Distaste soured his mouth. God, how he despised ton events and functions. “I shall see.” No, he would not be going. That evening marked Sam Storm’s fight… and the last time Godrick would again have reason to be with Patience. He rubbed the damned incessant ache in his chest.
His friend inclined his head. “Of course. You were never one for balls and soirees.” Ailesbury started for the door, and he stared after him.
That was what had brought him here? Since he’d inherited the earldom with his older brother’s passing, Ailesbury had delighted in avoiding all talk of ton gossip or news. Now, he’d paid him an express visit with talk of Prinny’s ball.
The other man opened the door and then paused. “Oh, I should mention Prinny has issued an invite for both King and Storm, as well as their families.”
Godrick’s heart started. Patience.
His friend chuckled and touched an imagined brim. “I see I have your attention now. Good day.”
And as Ailesbury took his leave, Godrick sat contemplating the other man’s optimistic musings. Could he and Patience start anew? No doubt she deserved better than a man who’d lied to her and destroyed her brother. But God help him, he wanted her anyway.
“It is complicated.”
“Only if you allow it to be.”
He froze. Mayhap Ailesbury was right, after all. Mayhap he and Patience could begin again.
Godrick dropped his head into his hands.
But first, he had to tell her all.
Chapter 7
Later that evening, Patience sat beside the lone window in their rented rooms. She layered her arms on the sill and rested her cheek upon them.
There were but seven days until the fight. The one Sam was slated to lose, and the one their family desperately needed him to win. For their security. For their pride. Everything depended upon it.
So why did she sit here, with the summer sun disappearing over the shops across the way, thinking not of Sam’s match against King—but of Godrick?
Because he’s all I’ve thought of for the better part of three weeks. But for the brief distraction provided during Sam’s lessons, he was always there. She touched her fingertips to her mouth. Her lips
still burned with the memory of his kiss. He kissed me.
Her heart skittered a beat, for there had been nothing gentle in that exchange. Rather, it had been two people divided by time who’d come together with an aching desire as potent as it had always been. What madness had possessed her to return his kiss? What madness, when it only weakened her further?
“Because I was always hopeless where he was concerned,” she muttered under her breath. If she were a proper lady, she would have been horrified at being discovered in his arms by a stranger. Her mother might have been a seamstress and her father a fighter, but they’d raised her to be respectable.
Until Godrick, that was. She’d not only given him her heart those long-ago days, but her body as well. And damn her for wanting to give him those gifts all over again.
It was not, however, solely that embrace that occupied her thoughts. She closed her eyes.
He had allowed her to step foot in the ring. Something not even her father had permitted. Oh, he’d allowed her to watch, had even taken pride in her knowledge of the sport. But never had she felt the thrill of the matches she’d observed, because he’d always relegated her to an observer, never a participant.
Until this afternoon. Until Godrick.
In the weeks they’d spent together counseling Sam, the bond they’d always shared, a natural, easy one, had stirred to life, reminding her of how it had once been.
Only, with the passage of time, he was no longer the cocksure young man, but a grown man in full possession of himself. A man who asked for her opinion and allowed her an equal say in Sam’s training.
And soon he would be gone. In just six days, the terms of their agreement would come to an end and—
Her throat worked.
“Is he ready?”
Patience thought of Godrick’s assurances. “As ready as he’ll ever be for King,” she settled for.
Removing her cloak, Ruth set the garment on the hook behind the door. “That isn’t an answer.”
She closed her mouth. It was the only one she’d give. When she returned from work, it was Ruth’s custom to seek out their shared chamber and read. Instead, she drifted over. “We could always ask Godrick for help. I don’t doubt he would.”
Fighting For His Lady Page 7
