~
Ros feared she might cast up her accounts at any moment as her stomach churned uncontrollably. Lord Cunningham flung a smile in her direction as he led her onto the crowded dance floor. With his blonde hair and blue-gray eyes, he was by all accounts a handsome man. But there was something about his patrician features that left her cold and uninspired. When she considered how a fleeting smile from Flint heated her blood, there was no comparison. The opening strains of the quadrille sounded, prompting the dancers to move about in the familiar patterns. The intricate steps forced her to focus on moving with the others around her as they wove around the formation until she returned to her partner.
“You are a most beautiful woman,” he said as she circled around him.
Heat danced across her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
As she moved through the dance, she reminded herself that she needed to find a way to circumvent Flint’s need to protect her—even from himself. She’d hoped their night together at The Market would do the trick. Instead, it seemed only to have reinforced his intention for them to break up as planned—and that simply would not do.
Resolving to not make her dance partner aware of her erstwhile focus, she came back around to Lord Cunningham and forced her most winsome smile his way. Her cheeks hurt, and her face felt as though it might crack like overfired china at any moment, but he seemed not to notice.
“I understand that my felicitations are due on the marriage of Lord Wolfington and your sister.”
“Thank you, my lord. They are quite happy.” Now. She, of course, left the last part off. After all, she was grateful they had resolved their issues, but there had been a short while where she had not believed they would do so. That they managed to find happiness gave her hope for her own happy outcome.
The dance parted them once more, and she spent the rest of the dance smiling and nodding at whatever comment Lord Cunningham imparted when they neared each other.
When they finally were able to leave the floor, she wanted little more than to be returned to Flint’s side so she could resume the siege she’d waged on his defenses. However, it seemed Lord Cunningham had other plans. He led her around the crowd of people making their way from the dance floor and out onto the terrace overlooking the rear gardens. It was a lovely view, though the June evening air was a touch cool for her without her wrap.
A chill crept over her as he led her toward the balustrade. “My lord, I fear there is a decided nip in the air.”
A mottled pink stole into Lord Cunnigham’s cheeks as he swept his coat off and draped it around her shoulders. “My apologies. I should have realized you were not as well fortified against the cool evening as I.”
Dread knotted her stomach as the warmth from his coat seeped into the cooled flesh of her shoulders and arms. She had done nothing to invite such familiarity with this man. “Truly, I should return to my escort. He will have noticed my absence.”
Lifting her hands to the lapels of his evening coat, she was about to push it off when he reached up and halted her movement. “Please, I merely ask a moment of your time.”
With the knots in her belly only growing more snarled by the second, she glanced over her right shoulder at the safety of the ballroom and tried to tamp down the urge to flee. The man was a peer of the realm, and there was no reason to suspect him of nefarious intentions. He had been politeness itself so far. Silence stretched out between them as she tried to decide what to do.
“There you are.” The familiar rumble of Flint’s voice sliced through the hushed atmosphere. “I wondered where you’d gotten to when the next set began, and you had not returned.”
She turned slightly to her left to see a raised brow paired with stern disapproval written plainly on his face. “My apologies, my lord. Lord Cunningham wished to speak with me for a moment.”
She glanced over at the fair-haired man who was decidedly shorter in stature than Flint, and who now looked ill at ease. “It was nothing of consequence.”
Flint stared at her, then shifted his gaze to Lord Cunningham. The silence grew heavy and tense with unspoken threats. Finally, Flint broke the standoff when his adversary’s gaze dipped submissively. “It would seem you have mislaid your coat, my lord.”
His face turning a rather rancid shade of red, the blonde man retrieved his coat from her and then scuttled away. Annoyed at Flint’s quiet aggression, she wheeled around and stepped into his immediate space. “That was unnecessary.”
Flint continued to remain implacable. “Was it? Last I knew, no man led a lady onto a balcony without some inappropriate intent.”
Annoyance reared its head. “First, this is a terrace, not a balcony. Second, there are plenty of people milling about to sufficiently guard my virtue. ” She stepped closer to keep her last thought private. “And finally, my virtue was well and truly compromised years ago—by my husband.” Straightening up to her full height, she stared at him in frustration. “As I seem to be destined to be a free woman, I have every right to indulge my interests wherever they may lie.”
She stepped around the hulking man and made to storm off, but was efficiently thwarted when he grabbed her by the arm and drew her into him so that his stomach pressed into her back as his arm caged her against him. “First, I don’t give a bloody damn if this is a dais in the Queen’s throne room. Second, the people milling here came for their own private encounters. They certainly would not take note of yours. And finally, until you have officially broken with me, we are still engaged. I shall not be made a cuckold in such a public fashion.”
She couldn’t see his face, but the anger fairly simmered off him in waves. It was both frightening and intoxicating, a heady sensation that could easily become an addiction, not unlike the man himself. Turning to face him despite the steel band of his arm surrounding her, she pressed into him, seeking his warmth and the masculine smell of his cologne. “I would not betray you in such a fashion.” Her voice cracked as emotion overwhelmed her.
With a low growl, he leaned down and snared her lips with his as he dragged her into the shadows of the terrace. Their tongues twined and dueled, a sensual dance that had her heart skipping beats as her knees turned to aspic. How was she supposed to let this man go? To release him for some other woman to claim one day? With her heart lodged in her throat, she tore free from his kiss and took an unsteady step back. Nearly choking on the need to demand an explanation from him, she turned and flew from the darkened patio and back into the safety of the ballroom. The true threat to her person lay in Flint, not in a lord who merely showed a little interest in courting her.
Chapter 6
It had been three days since the Halpern’s ball, and he remained as unsettled by what had occurred as he’d been that night. When he’d spotted Cunningham leading Ros off the dance floor and toward the terrace, his protective instincts had been stirred. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.
Looking back, there was no denying he had been driven by possessiveness and jealousy. And when he’d stepped onto the terrace to find her swathed in the lout’s evening coat? He’d wanted to rip the garment from her shoulders and stomp upon it. While dueling was no longer acceptable behavior, throwing a glove at the man had crossed his mind. Despite the bubbling rage inside, he managed to leash his beast and use words to send the blighter off in short order. Of course, when Ros had turned to him, her eyes flashing annoyance, he’d lost his head and kissed her thoroughly. He’d silently laid claim to her even if he knew it was the last thing he should have done.
A woman like her deserved far better than a man like him. He was far too rough for such a sweet woman, and though he’d hidden his darker needs, she’d certainly matched him well in every other aspect in the bedroom. That had been quite a surprise, an unwelcome one if he was truthful. The more he found to admire about the woman, the harder it was becoming for him to do what he knew he must.
Hence his lingering consternation. Though he knew he needed to convince her to end their c
onnection, he could not bring himself to approach her about it once again. Reverting to form, he’d embraced his urge to excise his excess emotions through violence. And that is why he found himself haunting the London docks in search of a fight. His blood pulsed beneath his skin with the need to feel the bite of pain that included a much-desired rush of pleasure. Intently ignoring the persistent itching and tightness of his skin, he went in search of a familiar face.
Normally, he scheduled his bouts in advance, making prowling about the underbelly of London wholly unnecessary. He embraced his violent side, but he didn’t have a death wish. Rounding the corner out of a dockside alley, the smell of rotting fish smacked him in the face. With his eyes watering, he pressed on, determination carrying him along the eerie boardwalk. Unfortunately, the wharf appeared relatively quiet. A few intoxicated men stumbled along, ignoring the soft beckoning of the prostitutes lurking in the doorways of the taverns that dotted the docks. But there was a subdued quality to the scene that was at odds with the usual hustle and bustle.
Finally, Flint found the sign he’d been seeking—the Fisherman’s Noose.
When he slipped inside the salt-weathered building, all merry-making paused as the smattering of drunken dockworkers and the tavern wenches entertaining them all turned to note who’d entered. Keeping his battered hat tipped low, casting a shadow over his face, and his old cloak wrapped tight to hide his evening finery, he shuffled up to the bar and ordered a tankard of ale. As he settled on a stool, the low hum of revelry returned. With a careful turn of his head, he scanned the shadows for his usual contact to arrange a bout. The man was nowhere to be seen, but he recognized a competing fight coordinator, though they styled themselves fight chancellors. Spying the man, he rose and stalked across the tavern.
With a slightly drooping face and eyes dulled by drink, the man sneered. “Go away. I haven’t got a farthing to spare.”
“I’m not here for money.” Flint contained his snort of derision. “I’m in search of a fight.”
The weathered man stopped and peered closer at him. “I know you. You’re one of Chancellor Waters’ fighters.”
“I’ve been known to fight in his circle. But I’m looking for a match tonight, and he’s nowhere to be found.”
The man eyed him, speculation a living breathing thing. Flint knew approaching him would be a risk, perhaps more so than he’d anticipated.
“Boy!” The chancellor grabbed a stick that had been propped against his bench and jammed it over the high back and into the shadows.
A young boy, sleepy-eyed and scrawny as a rail, appeared, wiping the crust from his eyes. “Aye?”
The man leaned over and whispered something to the boy, who then turned and darted out of the tavern and into the night. “I’ll know shortly if there’s a match to be had. It’s a quiet night what with the weather being so nice. Everyone’s taken off to the countryside.”
Flint blinked in surprise.
The chancellor cackled loudly. After a few moments, he managed to contain his mirth. “Ha! The look on your highfalutin face.” He took a swig of whatever was in his tankard and set the mug back down. “Bah. Abbess Jones is having some big shindig down on the other side of the docks. Any man what got paid today took his bloody coin down there to spend in cock alley.”
“So, there are no fights to be had.” Flint made to rise, but a gnarled hand whipped out and latched onto his wrist.
“I’ve not said such. Though the fight may not be wharf-side.”
Flint settled back in his seat. “I am able to go where the action is.”
The man nodded. “Then we wait for the boy to return. He’ll bring word one way or the other.”
And so, an hour later, Flint found himself in Seven Dials well after dark.
The hack he’d rented stopped before the ramshackle building where the fights were to take place that night. As he leaned out the window to confirm he was in the right place, the stench of rotting food, other waste that lingered in the air, and the general smell of the unwashed masses that lived in the gutters of London co-mingled to create a stomach-turning miasma. Quite incredibly, it was worse than the smell of the wharf. Ignoring the punch of nausea, he exited the cab and searched the shadows of the building for the entrance. He spotted the listing door and stepped forward to enter when a man materialized from the shadows and blocked his forward progress. Adorned in clothing that aspired to be well cut, the man approached with a confidence that caught Flint’s attention. As the pair squared off, the hairs on the back of his neck rose in warning.
A quick glance over his shoulder proved the cab he’d arrived in was well down the street and out of reach.
“Hold on there, governor,” the poorly dressed man said as he swaggered forward a few steps.
Flint narrowed his gaze. “Out of my way.” His voice came out as a low growl.
The other man grinned and shook his head. “I don’t think so, my lord. I was sent to deliver a message to you.”
Widening his stance, Flint stared impassively at the unknown man, even as fear lanced through him. For the first time in a long time, he realized he had a reason to know fear.
He never should have trusted Chancellor Gates.
“Mr. Bodwell wants you to throw your next fight.”
Flint had always expected this day would come. In truth, he was surprised the thugs who ran the underbelly of London had allowed a lord to win as long as he had, though this turn of events couldn’t have come at a worse time. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
The unkempt man just shook his head. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as you’re told.”
Flint shifted his weight and was about to swing on the overdressed back-alley goon when two large sets of hands grabbed his arms while another arm wrapped around his throat from behind. The ringleader smiled.
Flint jerked his arm, trying to break free of one of the assailants holding him. Unable to do so, he was rendered powerless to defend himself when the leader slammed his fist into Flint’s gut. Thinking him defeated as he doubled over, the foolish thugs released his arms and throat. Bent in half, he breathed through his nose as the pain morphed into a deep intense pleasure. Energy and purpose flooded his body and focused his mind.
In an unexpected surge, Flint swung upwards with his right and caught the ringleader under the chin. As he crumpled to the ground unconscious, the others grunted in surprise before they quickly retreated. Frustrated by the poor showing of the assailants sent to accost him, he stepped over the unconscious body and opened the door, only to find an empty building. With a curse fresh on his lips, he turned and stomped down the street.
As he walked through Seven Dials, he had far too much time to consider the ramifications of this unexpected threat to himself. It occurred to him that anyone who was associated with him could become a target—his friends, his family, and more importantly, Ros. Under the circumstances, his proximity to Ros was now a detriment, and the only way he could truly protect her was by not being near her. He had to make her see reason about their split. Whatever it was that he felt for her was of no consequence when her safety was in jeopardy.
By the time he emerged in an area of London where he could hail a cab, his mind was made up. He would have to force her to break with him.
~
Ros sat in her front parlor and sipped her tea. The knot in her chest hadn’t loosened since the Halpern’s ball. The night had not gone at all as planned. Well, not entirely as planned. Though Flint was still insisting on her breaking with him, he had kissed her out on the terrace. No, that was no mere kiss. That was pure unbridled possession.
She’d loved every moment of it.
And honestly, with the way the passion between them caught fire, how could he possibly still want to part ways? It boggled her mind to learn Flint was such a contrary sort. In the beginning, he’d been such an agreeable beau. So courteous and attentive that she’d almost immediately found herself falling for him. But lately, he�
��d shown her a side she was less than pleased with. The question was, what would it take to convince him they were better together than apart? She refused to give up so easily, refused to be a doormat for a man ever again.
She’d do as she pleased, and it pleased her to have him.
The front door knocker sounded, and a few moments later, the very subject of her thoughts stood in her front parlor. He looked pale and drawn.
“What has happened?” She managed to set her teacup down without spilling as she lurched to her feet.
Flint’s blue eyes darkened. Was he in pain? Distress? Oh, God! Has something happened to Julia?
He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and held her at a distance from him. “Nothing has happened.”
But for some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a yet dangling on the end of that statement. “Then, what is wrong? You are clearly upset.”
He nodded and stepped away from her. “I am. I am upset that you have not yet broken with me.”
Ros took a step backward and then another before sinking down into the seat she’d previously occupied. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for the coming onslaught. “I see.”
“Bloody hell, woman!” Flint spun around, giving her his back as he thrust a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you do.”
She drew a breath and attempted to steady her racing heart. “Perhaps you’re correct. I don’t see any reason we should not be together. We have grown fond of each other these past weeks.” She paused. “More than fond even. There is a chemistry between us that I have never experienced with another man. Why should I be forced to give that up?”
His Not-So-Sweet Marchioness: A Steamy Victorian Romance Page 5
