Holding her like this, he could thrust harder with her being unable to adjust. Not fair. Not well done of him. He shoved himself forward. Yes. Yes. Again, yes. She reacted to that last with a hitch of her breath that told him the boundary of acceptable was too close. If she knew how he craved that vicious twist in him when she cried out like that, half surprise, a groan, would she be appalled?
She got a hand loose, and he let that happen, and she wrapped her palm around the back of his neck and brought him closer. “Again,” she said, with her breath coming hard and a light in her eyes that made her look drugged. “Again. Like that.”
He did. The fires of hell beckoned and whispered that here he would find all that he needed. He adjusted his hold on her, pinned her again and this time let his fingers sink deeper until she made that sound again, pain and pleasure at one and the same time, and that twist of need in him blossomed out. He had to be hurting her. He was, he knew he was.
His body wound tight, heading for a climax that would shatter him. But she broke first, and that astonished him. She stifled her cry, and her body clenched around him. A flush deepened in her cheeks, and she sobbed through the pleasure. Thrale. This. God.
Tension moved from the base of his spine through his balls with that world-ending peak—one more thrust. Another brutal shove into her. The sound she made in response lanced through him. Another thrust while she kissed the side of his mouth. He kissed her, deep, deep, one more push into her, and then it was nearly too late.
She clasped her hand around him and worked the final peak of his orgasm, and he went away. He opened his mouth, and she covered his lips with her palm, reminding him where he was, with whom.
His mind cleared, and he stepped away, his breath roaring through him. Insanity, this. Taking her like that, letting himself come too near to chaos. Wanting her, Mrs. Wilcott, Lucy, like this. He thought about apologizing but didn’t. He wasn’t sorry and frankly, she didn’t look sorry either. She looked well-fucked. He bent to her and whispered, “I’d fuck you again in a minute.”
She leaned against the tree trunk. “If only you could.”
“If we had five minutes, I’d prove it to you.”
“And here I thought I’d wrung you out.”
“You did.”
He helped her put her clothes to rights, her hair, and while he did that, he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers. So sweet. He drew away, and kept her in his arms. She took his hand in hers and examined his knuckles. They were red and raw. The cloth he’d wrapped around them hadn’t done much to protect him. “Hitting him is like hitting a boulder.”
“My poor Thrale.”
“I was making a good account of myself, though.”
“You were. I think you would have won. He’s strong and fast—”
“Yes.”
“—but not as disciplined as you. He might have gotten lucky, though. I have records for three of his battles, and that was his reputation. A miller with strength, luck, and a refusal to give up.”
“Praise God he did not have luck.”
“I wish I’d seen more.”
He fingered her mantle. “It wasn’t you we saw.”
“No.”
“Your sister, I take it.”
She pressed her lips together.
He lifted a hand to her mouth. “I won’t say a word.”
“I sent her back to the house.” A crease appeared between her eyebrows, and he had to stop himself from running a finger along that sable arch. “I don’t know why she’s developed this interest in boxing.”
“With all the talk about Clancy and Granger? It’s no wonder. It’s all anyone talks about.”
“Johnson says Thursday.”
He nodded. He’d heard the same thing. “Yes.”
“Thrale.”
This time, whoever was calling for him was closer.
“Where the devil have you got to? Bracebridge says you forfeit.”
“Go,” she said. She picked up her skirts and walked away from him as if nothing had happened.
He watched the sway of her hips for half a second and caught her arm before she was out of his reach. She looked at him, and he said, “Whatever this is between us, it’s not impossible.”
“It is. You know it is.”
“Why?” He released her.
“There’s more than that involved. With all this.”
“Not much more.” Jesus, he’d left a mark on the back of her neck. He knew there were others on her body. Near the tender skin of her thighs, her bottom. He touched the mark on her nape and adjusted the collar of her dress to hide it. “It doesn’t have to be like that. I don’t need that.”
Under different circumstances, her confusion would have amused him. “Need.” She tested the word and then set a palm to the side of his face. “You held back. I could feel it in you.”
“Yes. I did.”
She smiled, slowly, sadly, even. “I wish you hadn’t.”
CHAPTER 32
Clancy versus Granger.
The battle had taken place. The hubbub in Bartley Green was unnerving, exhilarating. Electric. Everywhere, conversation flew about the great confrontation. In the street outside the Academy, Roger whined, unhappy with the noise. Lucy rubbed his shoulder.
The tumult was on the scale of Molineaux versus Cribb. Her husband had been ringside at that great battle while Lucy had been in the village. Devil had found her afterward, full of tales, descriptions to write, and with hastily penned notes of his recollections of the encounter for her to transcribe. She could hear him in her head.
Lucy, you should have been there. He brought out the claret with a tremendous blow, and all the men who’d put money on their lad, why, they groaned, not knowing that in the very next moment the world would turn on end.
As with that previous fight, Flash men swarmed the streets, some celebrating, others not. The din was remarkable. She’d already been past the Crown & Pig, overflowing with men either jubilant or in despair, spilling into the street with a pint mug in hand. Singing, shouting, reliving or reenacting key moments from the battle. It was absurd to think she would come across Thrale here; it wasn’t why she’d come, but now she was here, she wanted to see him.
Someone had propped open the front door of the Academy with a brick. What she could see of the vestibule was much like the Crown & Pig; packed with men. She saw Flint, grinning, an elbow leaning on the shoulder of another man. Her pulse leapt. If Flint was here, then surely so was Thrale?
He must be. There was Bracebridge and, yes, Cynssyr; he’d made it from London in time, then. Aldreth must be somewhere in there, too. She shifted position, fingers clenched around Roger’s collar. There. There he was. Thrale. His gaze swept her, moved on, then came back to her, and, yes.
Her heart pounded. Leapt, and her blood raced through her.
He pushed through the crowd, disappeared from sight, then reappeared in the doorway. His eyes went wide when he stepped onto the walkway. Lucy could not have moved had her life depended on it. He pushed past the last revelers between then, and Roger whined when he reached her. He took her elbow.
“I won’t ask what you’re doing here. Foolish though it is. Cover your head.” He helped her arrange her shawl over her head so it draped her face in shadows. “Come along then. Bring Roger. Anyone who sees him will know you’re somewhere near.”
He led her to the Academy’s private door, the one that entered onto the corridor to the upstairs private viewing rooms. The noise receded. He opened two doors before he found one that suited him. He closed the door after them and spun her into his arms, moving in a circle as if they were dancing. “It was a battle, Lucy. The greatest, grandest, most magnificent battle ever fought.”
She let her shawl float away. Roger lay down with a canine sigh. “Is it true, then? Clancy won?”
“He did.” He could not help grinning back. “As you predicted.”
She stopped moving, and they stood so, with Thrale’s arms around her.
Reality sank in, and she whispered, “Nine hundred pounds. I’ve won nearly nine hundred pounds.”
“You played deep.”
“I don’t approve of risks like that.” She took a few steps away. “I could afford the loss, if he’d not won.” She held out her hands. “Look at me. I’m trembling. I ought not have done it. But the numbers were there.”
“You understood the risk.”
She faced him, her smile wide. “There’s a house on the other side of Bartley Green, in Little Merton, with a garden and two parlors, and room for Roger.” She beamed at him as her change in fortunes sank in. “I shall have my maid, and a cook, and a footman to come in days. My own home. Where I may do as I like, when I like. My sisters may call on me whenever they are here, and I shall serve them tea and Geneva wafers.”
“I will be sure to call on you.”
She laughed, still trembling because her life had just been transformed completely. “My little cottage shall have the noblest visitors. A duke, a marquess—if you keep your promise. If Bracebridge calls, an earl. Why, I shall only miss a viscount if Aldreth comes, and he will, I know he will. Anne and Mary and Emily need never worry about Papa, for I shall be near enough to look after him well enough.”
“Will you keep a carriage?”
She turned in a circle, one hand lifting the hem of her skirt. “A carriage? Yes, Yes, I shall have a carriage, and a matched pair. With room for Roger.”
“You may drive to Town whenever you like.”
“Do you mean London?”
“Yes. London.”
She snapped her fingers. “I care that for London.”
“It’s not far.” Thrale went to her. Roger opened one eye, but he and Thrale were fast friends, and the hound returned to his rest.
“Tell me about the battle, Thrale. Tell me everything.”
“By the end, a decisive win for your man.” He put his hands on his hips. Jubilant conversation floated up from below stairs.
“Fifty rounds, I heard.”
“Fifty-three.”
“How much did you have on Granger?”
“It happens I laid down a certain sum on Clancy as well.” His eyes sparkled, and she could not help smiling back at him. “My losses on Granger were mitigated. I thank you for your information and expertise.”
She shuddered. “Imagine what you’d think of me if Clancy had lost.”
“Do you think I would be dunning you for my losses?” He touched the tip of her nose. “Lucy, my love, I understood you were not making a guarantee. Only a reasoned analysis.”
“Was there a crush? A thousand men, I heard.”
“There might have been. The crowd in Granger’s colors far outnumbered those in black and scarlet. I never saw so many men in green in my life.”
“What was the battle like? Will you tell me? Oh, please, do tell me.”
“Aldreth and Bracebridge were chosen as umpires.”
“Were they? I’m not astonished, though. Tell me all that you recall. Was Granger in fighting shape? How did Clancy compare?”
“Granger’s arms were like tree limbs.” He demonstrated with two hands. “Legs like trunks. Seventeen stone, ten pounds. Clancy weighed in at sixteen stone exactly. They were a sight when they stripped off. Two big men.”
“And the battle itself? You wouldn’t be so cruel as to refuse to tell me, would you?”
He laughed, and so did she, and then he proceeded to tell her about the fight, several times demonstrating the key moments in the battle. “By the fiftieth round, Granger was reeling badly, though he’d got in more than one tremendous blow of his own. Clancy withstood them all.
“By the fifty-third, your man was hitting has hard as he had in the first. And then, the penultimate blow.” He demonstrated the strike. “Granger swayed and fell against the ropes. Clancy could have finished him off, but Granger was in no condition. Granger pushed off the ropes, and I tell you I am not convinced his brain was engaged. One more blow—like so—took Granger to his knees.”
“That was it, then?”
He nodded. “Not a sound could be heard for several seconds after he hit the ground, and then, there was an explosion from his supporters, 'rise up, rise up.’ He tried. He did. But his knees were jelly, I could see them shake from where I stood. He toppled like a felled tree. Time expired without so much as a twitch from him, and again there was silence. His second went to him, and then the surgeon, and Clancy crossed himself, and there were whispers Clancy’s previous blow had killed Granger.”
“No, oh, no.” She knew Granger hadn’t been killed, but the thought brought back terrible memories.
“Presently, Granger stirred, and when he’d been hauled to his feet, he extended his arm to Clancy and they clasped hands.”
“Devil would have loved to be there.”
“I don’t doubt that he would have.” He took her hand in his and drew her near.
“He would have.” She was over the moon. Nine hundred pounds, and a great battle that made her feel Devil was near. “He would have.”
“Lucy.”
“My lord?”
He stared at her so intensely she did not know what to think. “I’ve told Captain Niall he has made himself unwelcome in my company.” He tensed. “He will be gone from The Cooperage before day’s end.”
“But, why?” Some of her joy shrank away. “Why, Thrale?”
“I have observed his behavior toward you.”
“You dismissed him on my account?”
“That, too.”
“He is your friend.”
“No longer a friend. I should have spoken to him sooner. My apologies if I’ve overstepped, but I could not countenance his behavior toward you. Nor” —he pressed his mouth together— “certain statements made in my presence. He made himself abhorrent to me.”
She closed her eyes. “Not because of me. Please, not.”
“Lucy. You have a right to a better life. A right to better treatment. From your father. From men like Niall.” Thrale took her head between his hands and kissed her. She softened against him, giddy, and then a deeper kiss, and she fell, his, in this moment.
He kissed her tenderly, gently, and his arms slid around her, and when they parted at last, he clasped a hand to the back of her head and drew her to him.
“Lucy,” he whispered. “Lucy, what am I to do with you?”
“Come visit me at my cottage.” She twined her fingers in his hair, and her heart settled into the right place now. Thrale would call on her. And if he spent the night, then he would, and they would be friends and lovers. “Come as often as you like.”
CHAPTER 33
Lucy told herself she would do this. No matter the consequences. She was determined. From her place in the doorway where she’d stopped to get her nerves in order, she saw her sister working industriously in the small parlor at Rosefeld. Mary sat at the desk where she wrote letters and checked the household accounts. That last was a skill they’d both learned from their meticulous elder sister.
Lucy wanted nothing more in the world than to turn away from the door and avoid this discussion. Not a discussion, no. She would lose her will if she had to debate her decision. She was not asking for an opinion or for permission. Not at all. She was delivering news.
This must be done. Must be, or she would never be able to start her new life.
Her aversion to conflict of any sort was a crack in her foundation. One might not see the flaw in the clay that formed her, but it was there, compromising the very structure of her character. Well, no more. She squeezed the edge of the door. No more floating through life, never resisting the direction the winds might send her in. Her stomach tied itself in a knot, but she knocked on the side of the doorframe anyway.
Mary turned sideways on her chair and smiled. “Lucy. Good morning.”
“May I come in?”
“Yes, of course.” Mary pushed aside her ledger and the papers before her. “Please. This is a welcome break.”
Lucy went in, and was that not a triumph that she shut away the dozen excuses for putting this off? What difference would it make if she announced her decision tomorrow or the next day? Over the course of a month, say, a delay of three days was nothing. Why, another week would hardly matter.
When she reached her sister, Lucy adjusted her shawl around her shoulders and sidled closer to the fire. Mary never seemed to feel the cold the way she did. Her nerves continued to fracture her determination. “I’m not interrupting, I hope.”
“No, never.” Of all her sisters, Mary’s features were most a meld between their parents. Their mother’s eyes, their father’s mouth. Anne and Emily most resembled their mother; blonde and delicate. Lucy looked like their father, with his dark hair. Mary’s hair was a brown that was surely the result of a precise mix of black and blonde.
She inched toward the fender and wondered what Mary would say if she added more coal without asking permission. One never wished to offend. This was Mary’s home, not hers. Soon, Lucy would have a home that belonged to her. With everything ordered and arranged exactly as she liked.
Mary folded her hands on the desktop. “You look as though you brought the world in here with you. I take it you have heard the news.”
“What news?”
“I had it from Aldreth. There was a match the other day—”
She could not restrain a grin. “Was there?”
“You know there was. But this morning Aldreth told me someone made off with the prize money, and a considerable additional amount being held for others. Eight thousand pounds, all told.”
Lucy put a hand to her upper chest. “No. Oh, dear, no.” This was news. Terrible news. Prizefighters risked jail and fines for stepping into the ring. While it wasn’t unheard of to have someone abscond with the money, it wasn’t done. It wasn’t. “Say it isn’t so.”
“It is so. Aldreth said your guest, Captain Niall, gave Marsey a considerable sum to hold for him. Money he could ill-afford to lose, I'm told.”
“Have they got it back?”
Mary made a face. “No, they have not.”
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