The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Her mouth widened in outrage. He was blaming her! Without thinking, she took up the soapy washcloth and shoved it in his mouth while he was still swearing. Ignoring his cut, she began rubbing with all her might.

  He struck her hand away so hard she reeled backward. The next second he bent over, gagging.

  Albert was at his side immediately. “Here, man, take a swig o’ this to rinse out your mouth.” He put the tankard into his hands. Quinn grabbed it and staggered to the sink, coughing and spitting as he went.

  “I’ve had enough of your filthy mouth,” Florence said to his back. “I’ve told you not to blaspheme in this house.”

  With a last mouthful of ale spit in the sink, he turned, the look in his eyes sending a wave of fear down her spine. As he stalked toward her, she noted his lip was bleeding afresh.

  The kitchen had grown silent. As she looked away from Quinn, she noticed the others staring at her with disbelief. Even Damien’s eyes held wonder.

  She had the sudden urge to hide. She’d not felt so exposed since…not since she’d had to face a church full of people at Eugene’s wedding.

  She picked up the washcloth that had fallen on the floor. “You may finish with him, Elizabeth,” she said in her most dignified tone. Then she turned and began walking out of the kitchen, keeping her steps evenly paced, when all she wanted to do was pick up her skirts and flee.

  By the time she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, tears were running down her face.

  How could she have lost control like that in front of everyone? She who prided herself on her ladylike behavior and self-control? What kind of virago had she turned into since Jonah Quinn had come to their house? Who was she? She no longer knew herself.

  In the wake of her departure, the kitchen was silent except for the sound of the fire in the range. Quinn looked around, but everyone’s gaze dropped as soon as it met his. He suddenly felt like a strange animal. What was wrong with everyone?

  Damien was the only one to speak. He cleared his throat and approached Jonah. “I’m sorry. I mean, please don’t take Miss Hathaway’s actions…her words…to heart. She was…she was…I mean—” The normally eloquent man was at a loss for words. “She was hurt that you would think we wanted to be repaid for anything we’ve given you. Please forgive her. She’s clearly overset by the sight of seeing you in the boxing ring.”

  Jonah shoved past him and began to collect the coins from the table. All the pride he’d taken in bringing home something of substance had evaporated, leaving him with the same feeling of shame he always got around Miss Hathaway. Well, if she didn’t want his twenty guineas, he certainly wasn’t going to let it go to waste. He hadn’t had his body beaten and battered for nothing. It was clear his welcome at this household was at an end. He’d need the coin to see him on this way.

  Damien reached out, staying his hand. “Why don’t you come with me into the study where we can discuss things a little more?”

  The significance of the words was not lost on Quinn. Miss Hathaway’s accusations had been made in front of everyone. His eyes roamed the room before returning to the reverend. “I don’t see that any more words are necessary,” he said in a sullen tone.

  “Please.”

  Jonah shook off his hand but didn’t have the heart to deny him this last request. For it would be his last. “Very well,” he said, and continued picking up his money.

  Then as if a spell had broken, everyone began to move about. Albert knelt down and picked up the fallen coins from the floor. Mrs. Nichols and Betsy began clearing up the basins of water. Everyone talked of everything but Miss Hathaway’s behavior.

  Jonah fumed in silence, his anger growing cold and hard with each passing minute.

  Jonah awoke disoriented. His room had grown dark. He squinted at the clocking ticking on the mantelpiece. Eight o’clock. Had he slept so long? He’d just lain down after his chat with Damien. The poor boy had tried everything to convince him to stay, but all Jonah had promised was to sleep a night on it.

  Jonah sat up and immediately winced. His ribs, his shoulders, his abdomen, every muscle of his body groaned as he sat up. “I’m getting too old for fisticuffs,” he muttered, sitting for a few minutes before attempting to move farther.

  He’d missed supper, his growling stomach reminded him. He yawned and scratched his head until coming against a tender bump. He didn’t dare attempt a stretch. Feeling like a rheumatic old man, he stood gingerly and shoved his feet into his slippers. He had fallen asleep in a clean shirt and breeches. He remembered too late he’d left the other things in the kitchen. Well, he’d go down there now and see if he could find something to eat. He worked his jaw, hoping it wouldn’t be too painful to chew.

  He left his room, closing the door softly behind him. The upstairs hallway was silent. He imagined the Hathaways in their sitting room with their dignified evening tasks. His lips turned down in derision.

  Before he’d taken more than two steps, the door opposite his opened and Miss Hathaway stepped out. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

  Her face looked paler than usual, as if she, too, had just awakened from sleep. She put a hand to her hair then jerked it back. “You missed supper.”

  He shrugged, although his stomach didn’t feel so casual about the fact.

  “If you’re thinking of troubling Mrs. Nichols, don’t. She’s gone to her home for the evening.”

  Her clipped words rekindled his anger. She had humiliated him for the last time. Her slim silhouette against the gathering dusk showed him suddenly how powerless she really was. What was she but a woman? He’d let her demean him once too often.

  She had no right to belittle his prize winnings. He’d won the twenty guineas fair and square and would take them with him on the morrow. But not before he’d given her a piece of his mind. He took a step toward her.

  As he advanced, she took a step back but could move no farther, her back against the door. He smiled with grim satisfaction. Let her be the one to cower for a change. He’d acted the gentleman long enough.

  Then she stopped, as if reading his mind, and straightened her shoulders a fraction, lifted her chin a notch, and stared him straight in the eye as she waited for him to approach.

  He admired her courage, but it didn’t stop his advance.

  Part of him told him to go back. But it was too late. He wanted it out with her now, for once and for all.

  He didn’t stop until he was inches from her, close enough to detect the rise and fall of her chest. “You’re angry because you think I put everyone’s life in danger? You can blame yourself if that’s the case.” At her widened eyes, he continued. “Yes, yourself. If you hadn’t continued lording it over me every minute o’ the day that every stitch on my back I owe to you—”

  He swatted away the hand she brought up as if to defend herself. “I’m not finished with you yet.” He leaned down to her. She edged her face away from his until it bumped against the door panels. “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid o’ me.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  He ignored her words. “Aye, afraid o’ me.” Why hadn’t he realized it before? She was a woman. Beneath that prim and proper act, she was a woman. Why had he felt he had to cower before her?

  “You’re afraid maybe I’ll see who you really are behind that disapproving look o’ yours.” He read outrage in her eyes, and this time, instead of thinking of the anger she held back, he thought of the passion.

  He brought up his hand and touched her cheek. Her skin felt as soft as a babe’s under his fingertip as he began to stroke it.

  For a moment he forgot his anger as he stared in wonder at her cheek then at her lips, which had parted slightly. He swallowed, suddenly conscious of how long it had been since he’d known a woman’s comfort.

  His fingers traveled downward and he anchored her chin between them. As soon as he did so, she began to struggle, but he only tightened his ho
ld on her and brought her chin up so her lips were only inches from his. “You give your life to your brother and your religious causes so you don’t have to look at yourself.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “You probably scared any man that ever came close to you, and hid behind those pious pinched lips o’ yours.” His breath fanned her lips. “When all along, what you needed was a man strong enough to crack that prim pose o’ yours.”

  Her eyes widened and he read the panic in them. At the same time, a pulse began to throb in his temple and he could not remember what he was angry about.

  She had stopped struggling and her eyes were no longer looking into his, but had dropped down to his lips.

  That finished it for him. The next second he closed the gap between them and covered her mouth with his. He almost jerked back at the jolt of pain in his lip. He’d forgotten the cut. But he shut out the pain, a greater need ruling him.

  He ground his lips against hers, using no gentleness, his desire to humiliate her quickly disappearing into his own need for her. He forced her mouth open and felt her shock.

  The heels of her hands came up to push against his chest, but they were nothing against his superior size. He pinned her against the door, taking pride in his greater strength. Just as he’d defeated a man larger and broader today, he would defeat this slip of a woman who’d lorded it over him too long. He’d prove to her that beneath her self-controlled front beat the heart of a woman.

  He bent her body to his, determined to break her will. She whimpered against his mouth. The sound, like that of a wounded bird, penetrated the haze of passion clouding his brain. Suddenly he realized what he was doing. Forcing himself upon a lady. He dropped his hands as if she were a live coal and stepped away, horror overwhelming him and extinguishing the ardor of the instant before.

  Her eyes reflected his horror. Two bright spots of color stained her usually pale cheeks. Her pink lips had deepened in color as well. His heart smote him when he saw the stain of blood at one corner of her mouth, until he realized it was his own blood. He brought up a hand and wiped the back of it across his bleeding lip.

  At the same time she covered her mouth with a hand. “Go,” she whispered. “Please go.” The voice was low and pleading.

  He felt a wave of self-disgust so strong he staggered back. What had he done? Attacked not just a lady, but Miss Hathaway, the only one to offer him help when he’d been on the run.

  Never had he assaulted a woman. He’d not do it to the lowest tart. But a lady. The enormity of what he’d done choked him.

  Before he could move, Miss Hathaway dropped her head and leaned against the door, looking more than ever like an injured creature.

  What had he done? He reeled away from her like a great lumbering beast with nowhere to hide.

  Florence heard Quinn’s steps retreat along the hallway and down the stairs. In the distance she heard a door open and shut. Not until complete silence reigned did she dare move. Slowly, her hand came down and she observed its tremble as if it belonged to someone else.

  Her first kiss.

  Long ago, she’d dreamed about it, but in her deepest imaginings, she’d never conceived of anything so brutal. She’d imagined a soft peck or a gentle joining of two mouths. A tenderness that surpassed all. Instead she’d been assaulted, left at the mercy of a man’s brute force. She felt a stickiness and tasted a salty substance on her lips. Had he ripped her lips apart? It had certainly felt so. But as she explored the edge of her mouth, she discovered no cut.

  She stilled. The blood was his. He’d broken open his wound in his attack on her. More than the joining of their mouths, his blood seemed to brand her and fuse her to him in some strange, indelible way.

  Would her lips show the evidence of his kiss tomorrow? Would others look at her and know what had happened to her? Would they see the change in her? For she knew she was changed forever.

  She shuddered and covered her face. She should feel outraged. She should run to Damien and demand that Quinn quit the premises this very night.

  But she knew she would do neither. She would remain silent.

  For the shame she felt was principally directed at herself.

  Because a part of her craved more.

  The realization stunned her and broke open the seal of all her deepest and darkest yearnings. How could she ever look Quinn in the face again and know what she knew now?

  You’re afraid maybe I’ll see who you really are. His words came back to her.

  Only he had seen her secret longings and guessed how much she’d wanted him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Good morning, Flo.”

  Florence whipped her head up, her heart pounding. But it was only Damien entering the dining room. “Good morning.”

  Damien seated himself and unfolded his napkin. “Sleep well?”

  She read only sympathy in his gaze. “Why do you ask?” She looked down at her place, hoping he hadn’t noticed the circles under her eyes. She could feel her cheeks warm, thinking of her greater fear—that he not remark anything out of the ordinary about her mouth.

  She’d scrutinized it this morning in the harsh light of day in her hand mirror but could find no evidence of Quinn’s kiss. Same lips, no bruising, gone all traces of blood. She’d spent a good while examining her entire face, but other than signs of fatigue, there was nothing to mark the profound change in her.

  “Morning, Reverend, Miss Hathaway.”

  Florence jumped at Albert’s voice as he peered around the door frame. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Mr. Kendall sent me over to tell you he’d be spending a few days over at the cottage.” The old man cast an apologetic look Florence’s way and then continued addressing Damien. “Said he wasn’t too presentable.”

  “Is he all right?” Damien asked. “Should we summon the apothecary?”

  Albert shook his head. “Oh, nothing a few days won’t mend.” He chuckled. “Got a lip that’s pretty swollen and one eye kind o’ shut up and colorful.”

  “Doesn’t he need nursing?” Florence couldn’t stop herself from asking then bit her lip as Albert’s eyes turned on her. He, too, was looking at her with sympathy.

  “Oh, Elizabeth and Betsy’ll take good care o’ him, don’t you worry yourself none, miss.”

  Of course. Her concern turned bitter in her throat as she pictured Betsy hovering over Quinn, her ample bosom thrust under his face. “Thank you for informing us, Albert,” she said.

  Albert tipped his head and left the room.

  As soon as he’d said grace, Damien cleared his throat. “I, uh, had a talk with Kendall yesterday afternoon.”

  “What—oh?” She looked up and suddenly stilled. Did her brother know? Her hand went to her heart.

  “I think I convinced him not to leave.”

  When she said nothing, Damien continued. “His pride took a bit of a beating.”

  She looked down, heat burning her cheeks. She fisted her napkin. “I…I…don’t understand what happened.”

  “I think having the Nicholses witness the whole thing just took away from the joy of his win.”

  She stared at her brother. What was he talking about? Then she remembered. The scene in the kitchen. She sagged back from the force of relief.

  “Are you all right, Flo?”

  She nodded and bent over her plate. The kiss last night had overshadowed her entire memory of everything else yesterday. She collected herself with a sip of tea before addressing her brother.

  “Quinn shouldn’t have taken the risk of appearing in a boxing match. You saw the crowds there.”

  Damien sighed. “It was a foolish thing he did, going out in public in that way. I explained it to him. Perhaps that’s another reason he’s keeping out of sight. Maybe he needs a chance to think on things. Florence?”

  She lifted her eyes to meet Damien’s kindly gaze. “He was intent on leaving, you know.”

  It was her turn to look away, embarrassed as she recalle
d her behavior in the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper—”

  “I know you didn’t. I explained to him that you were overwrought from the fight.”

  Overwrought? Florence touched her lips. How could she explain how she felt now?

  “Are you all right with Quinn’s staying on here?”

  How could she answer that? No one must ever know what had transpired above stairs…yet, how was she ever going to face him?

  Four days later, when Jonah awakened at dawn, he realized he had imposed on the Nicholses’ hospitality long enough. He rose from the narrow cot and eyed himself in the mirror, as he had each morning. Each morning it had been the same. Anticipation warred with dread—anticipation at seeing Miss Hathaway again…and dread at the prospect.

  This morning was no exception. As he picked up the mirror, he almost hoped to see the monstrous swelling of his face still there. But his face looked almost normal. Even the cut on his lip was healing nicely.

  How could a man feel so twisted up about one person?

  As he entered their small kitchen, Albert came in from the barn. “You look fit as a fiddle this morning.”

  “I feel about as tightly strung,” he said. He sat down to his dish of porridge and picked up his spoon. “I think I’ll go up to the house today.”

  The old man observed him then nodded. “I suppose that’s a good idea.”

  “Get back into my gent’s togs.”

  The older man chuckled. Mrs. Nichols placed a dish of porridge and cup of tea in front of her husband. “Thank ye, my dear.” Albert bowed his head and said a quick prayer, then picked up his spoon. After a few mouthfuls, he paused and looked at Jonah.

  “What’s the matter, my face still bad?”

  Albert shook his head. “I…uh…saw some posters in town day ’fore yesterday. Forgot to mention them till now.”

  “Posters? What sort of posters? Another fight?” The last thing he was interested in was another boxing match.

  “No. Wanted posters. Of that fellow who escaped the noose a while back. Jonah Quinn.”