by Cecilia Gray
That was always the crux of it. He hadn’t even been allowed to be bloody heroic about the whole thing. She’d been the heroic one. She’d been the better half.
He’d been selfish and absolutely unworthy of her. Worse yet, she had known it.
He continued to be so. She was to become one of the most trusted women in society, and he was one step up from a drunkard in a taproom brawl. A fighter.
“Is this going to be a problem?” he asked Peter. “This girl?”
“Huh?” Peter’s eyes seemed to have glazed over. He shook his head. “No, I’ll… I’ll manage.”
“Do you enjoy being the slowest man in the world with the fastest horses?” Sera inquired.
While she was sure he had not been wounded by the barb, Lord Damon acted as though his heart had been struck. He placed his hand over his chest and slumped back in his carriage seat. “To be fair, the road is slow. My horses are going as fast as possible. See for yourself.”
She didn’t need to. She had been peeking out the carriage window continually for the past hour as they made their way from London toward Cambridge. The road ahead of them was clear, but well-trodden, and the carriage had to make stops and maneuvers as others had left behind impediments in their wake: broken spokes, fallen luggage, and the like.
The town of Dunbury was much closer. Less than halfway, if Lord Damon was to be believed, and she had to take him at his word since she had never been north of London in her life. But at this rate, by the time they arrived, she’d be out of mourning clothes.
She wore a lavender and gray dress with cap sleeves. It used to have black ribbon lining the sleeves and hem, but she’d had it removed. She’d had the ribbon removed from all her mourning outfits, even though they had been Tom’s very favorite part of any dress. He loved the shiny slip of the ribbon and often, when they sat together in the evenings, he with his pipe and she with the latest book that Bridget had raved about, he might reach over and absentmindedly finger the ribbon at her sleeve.
It had seemed the greatest irony to her, but the ribbon had been expected and so she had done it, but she could not wear this dress, or any of her mourning dresses, without remembering this little fact and feeling melancholy.
“There, see, we’ve met up with the melee,” Lord Damon announced.
A glance out the window revealed the line of horses, carts, and coaches en route to Dunbury. She had to squint on account of the light haze of dust kicked up by the activity. The road was mostly flat, and she could see a half-mile ahead to where the procession began. Even in her worry to discover Robert, she could appreciate that Lord Damon’s horses, with their noble bearing, were the most beautiful creatures on the road. If something could be said for an illegal boxing match in the country, it was that such an event was a great equalizer, drawing rich and poor alike.
“I need a mount,” Sera said.
“So I expected,” Lord Damon said. He barked orders out the window to the man on horseback next to his carriage, who was leading a mare with a side-saddle. She exited the carriage to take the horse, much to the irritation of the occupants of the approaching gig who had taken up a position directly behind Lord Damon’s conveyance.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she murmured, and upon seeing her, their eyes widened and they offered flustered apologies, offering to hold at bay any and all traffic that might affect her progress. There were times when she had enjoyed the ease brought to her by beauty, but for the most part, it made her feel alienated.
She sighed as she mounted the lovely chestnut mare and acquainted it with her touch while Lord Damon looked on with what seemed like a fair amount of anxiety for his beloved horse. Still, her appearance worked to her advantage today. As she rode ahead, weaving in and out of the other conveyances, any passengers and riders who seemed to display annoyance at her cutting the queue were immediately silenced by the sight of her face. Several recognized her, even though she was not among their acquaintance.
Still, their friendliness was useful, as she was able to ask questions of any who might be in the closed mail coaches. Roberta had not taken any conveyance owned by her father. Thus she must have taken a fare by coach. Reckless and unheard of. It made Sera wonder if she had taken or hired someone to pose as her lady’s maid since she had left her own behind, feigning a headache before sneaking out.
Sera made slow, frustrating progress, which was likely why she did not recognize Christian’s carriage until she was upon it. It had no crest, no adorned curtains, but was of fine and elegant construction. She recognized his profile in an instant. Hadn’t she been expecting him?
Hadn’t she leaped at the opportunity to rescue Roberta?
Christian’s eyes drifted shut, and she recognized him fighting the discomfort of the carriage as he had that night, although he had not admitted his illness. He opened his eyes once more and glanced again at the scenery, then to her.
His face went through a series of emotions: shock, disbelief, anger, and then a mask of composure so unfeeling she had the urge to poke through it. She brought her horse to trot next to his coach.
“Your grace,” he said, his voice silky steel. He had refused to call her anything else since Tom had acceded to the title, even in friendly company.
“Mr. Hughes,” she said in greeting.
“May I present Peter Herron?”
The boy seemed but a strapling next to Christian, but she had seen him once before, last month, just after Christmas. In a short time he’d gained muscle on his frame, an angularity to his face. And, she noted, something solemn about the eyes and mouth.
“Your grace,” Peter said.
She inclined her head, then her gaze drifted back to Christian. His blue eyes, always icy, no longer betrayed any emotion. It was the strangest thing, really. They had parted on good terms, but somehow, over the years, a wall had grown between them. As if the memories of that night had erected a barrier instead of creating a bridge. She took another glance at the carriage but found it did not conceal Roberta. “Might I have a word?” she asked.
“Of course, your grace.”
She winced at the title, which technically now belonged to Bridget. Would he grace her the entire time?
“Might I inquire as to the subject matter, your grace?”
A needle jab. That’s what his form of address did. “We have a problem, you and I.”
Christian Hughes had no title, but he had a fair amount of respectability, a close circle of influential friends, and thanks to betting on himself, more pounds sterling than the average peer of the realm. This was the mantra he repeated in his head as he instructed Peter to step out of the coach and walk her mount while she stepped inside, after he had drawn the curtains.
Recognizing Damon’s horse, he added, “Under no circumstances allow the horse to come to harm.”
He made a move to switch seats, so his back would be facing the direction they were headed, but she shook her head. “I’ll sit in that direction. I can manage it better.”
A flare of anger roused him. They had not spoken of that night, not ever, so why had she chosen to address it by calling out his shortcomings? It seemed something she was determined to do. To make him appear unworthy. As if he did not already know the fact.
They had a problem, did they? As far as he knew, he and the Dowager Duchess of Rivington had no end of problems.
“You must release Peter Herron from this obligation to fight and allow him to return to his obligations in society.”
She’d spoken so quickly, without preamble, that he didn’t ken the meaning of her words. As it finally seeped through, with it came a flicker of annoyance. This must be what Peter had meant earlier when he’d mentioned not being good enough. Sera must have done or said something to make him feel so. Perhaps not overtly, no. She would never be so direct. But it would become apparent in her choices, the way she moved. He’d felt it himself, and wasn’t as impressionable as poor Peter.
Sera was obviously here on the behalf of a you
ng lady, but Christian would be the one to fight for Peter. His uncle was the Earl of Landale! How could that not be good enough?
“His commitment to the fight is an obligation,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps, but it interferes with a previous understanding,” she said.
He barked at Peter out the window. “Come here.”
Peter wandered closer, keeping a gentle hand on the mare’s reins, to Christian’s relief. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you have any previous obligations of which you would like to inform me?”
Confusion furrowed his brow. “Sir?”
“Prior engagements? Existing contracts or commitments?”
“No, sir.”
“Excellent. As you were.” He settled back into the coach with a satisfied smile. “It appears you are misinformed.”
She looked down her nose at him, patient and condescending all at once. “The previous engagement is one of the heart.”
Maybe it was a desire to rile her up, a need to see her cool, calm demeanor shaken, that had him leaning forward. The carriage was clean and modern, but modest, and the space between facing seats was small. His legs, bent at the knee, all but slid against hers as he closed the distance between them. “Tell me, your grace, is there a governing body to which he must answer for these matters of the heart?”
There it was, the quickening of breath. A parting of her lips. She was not so immune, no matter what she pretended.
“It is a matter of honor,” she said.
His fists clenched, and he felt his jaw ache from the pressure of his grinding teeth. “You think I have no honor?”
“I did not say—”
“You implied, your grace. That is your understanding, yes? That Peter and a girl, one of your charges, I assume, had a romantic understanding that is being jeopardized by his decision to fight. Why? Does it make him not good enough for her? Respectable enough for the likes of a charge of a Patroness of Almack’s?”
Her gray eyes widened, and he bit back an oath. He’d revealed too much, particularly how much he kept up with her in the sheets. It made him even angrier. He could be set upon by five men without his heartbeat changing its pace, but it took only one look from this woman to set every sense afire.
“The young lady in question is young,” she said. “She worries for Mr. Herron.”
“Worrying for the boy is my job.” Did she think he’d put Peter in harm’s way? He hadn’t realized in his anger that he’d slipped quite a bit closer, forcing his legs to slide open in a V to accommodate the bundle of her skirts. He glanced down at their limbs, and she must have, too, because she tightened her fingers in her lap. Suddenly that scent was back, the familiar meadow.
She tried to draw back and press herself into the squabs.
Which made him inch closer. It was perverse and unwarranted and absolutely unstoppable.
“I think it is possible that Mr. Herron may not realize the effects—that he would cause worry in his campaign.”
“Did you ever worry over me?” he asked.
She squinted, as if confused.
He lowered his voice. “Did you worry after my fights?” He was a glutton for punishment.
“Of course not,” she said.
He bit off a laugh and turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t have to look at her. He was too far beneath her notice. Always had been. Even though he’d known it then and knew it now, something about the untouchable way she appeared made him want to touch her even more.
But to what end? She was a widow now. Could engage with him discreetly if she chose. But he’d promised himself long ago not to be a trophy of sport amongst the rich society ladies who dangled after him.
That’s what she had become. A rich society leader who cared for nothing but climbing society’s ladder. That’s what had driven the wedge between them—the distance she gained with each step.
“I’m afraid,” he said, hating the hoarseness in his voice, “that I see no obligation more pressing than the one Mr. Herron has in Dunbury. Given the size of the purse and, as you can see from the window, the draw, it would not only be irresponsible but immoral to withdraw.”
“I see.” She fidgeted, drawing her fingers tight, almost into a fist. God, what he wouldn’t give to see her throw a punch again. Even one aimed at his jaw. What if he provoked her? Would she shake off her veneer of perfection?
“Could you not fight for him?” she asked.
“Ah, but I am fighting,” he said. “The day before, in an exhibition. Not that you care.”
“Of course I care,” she said, then called for a stop to the carriage.
“That is quite contrary to what you said a moment ago.”
She stepped down and took Damon’s mare back from Peter, mounting it again with his assistance, her gaze already lifted to the procession ahead. “I said I didn’t worry. But that’s because I know you’ll always win.”
She trotted off, leaving him speechless.
Peter entered the carriage as Christian slumped back in his seat. It had happened again, of course. He was left boneless, spent, while she seemed unaffected, her posture stiff and straight, riding off into the distance like some damned heroine.
Chapter Seven
The road to Dunbury
She was going to have to drag Roberta back by the lobes of her ears, Sera decided. She’d failed to persuade Christian to withdraw his fighter, and she’d barely kept her composure when they’d spoken for five minutes. What would happen with an entire four days of forced interactions with him? Or when she saw him fight?
Sera had never seen Christian box before, although Bridget had admitted that she had. Benjamin had once dressed her in boy’s clothing and snuck her into a ring. Their marriage was profoundly strange to Sera, but they seemed happy, so she harbored no complaints. Sera knew of Christian’s fights, of course. He was a member of the Abernathy circle. They frequently spoke and boasted of his athletic prowess. Often, Graham and Lord Damon would jokingly reenact the fight, much to Christian’s feigned annoyance and mirthful grin.
The friends more often than not ended up in headlocks, a maneuver she knew could not be allowed in a boxing match, so she doubted the veracity of their accounts. It never stopped her from imagining him in a fight, though. Tall, magnificent, utterly compelling. She would feel a quake in her belly—in her center.
She certainly had no time for that nonsense today. Roberta must have left in such a hurry that she was ahead of the object of her pursuit, perhaps not realizing how much he would have to prepare. Sera could tell from the top of Christian’s coach that he must have packed all his training equipment atop it.
Once she found Roberta, she was going to pull her on to this mare with her (although she did not want to imagine Lord Damon’s annoyance) and convey her straight back to London to find a suitable match. She understood Peter’s appeal. He had the dark, brooding looks of a poet hidden beneath the veneer of a fighter. But even with good connections, he had chosen to make a life of sport, of uncertainty, of violence.
She made her way through the procession, but progress was slow. She was recognized by several peers, and forced to make stops for greetings along the way. With increasing despondency, she had not found Roberta yet, and she wondered if she had made a grave mistake.
Perhaps Roberta had been alluding to another boy entirely?
But it wasn’t possible. Her affection for Peter was plain as day.
Although Sera was the first to know that one did not always pursue the man for whom she had the most affection.
“Your grace,” they whispered as she passed. “Fancy that, a dowager duchess at the Dunbury fight.”
She came upon Dunbury before she even realized it. The town’s dusty roads were clearly not equipped for a crowd of this magnitude. Makeshift stables had sprung up at most street corners and the taverns were filled to capacity with travelers weary and wanting for early suppers. It was getting dark, and she supposed she would have to rely on Lord Damon to
find her and her maid lodgings while she continued to search for Roberta. The more she considered it, the more she was convinced the girl must have found a friend in a respectable family to take her in. She could not be foolhardy enough to have traveled this distance without having made arrangements.
Unlike herself, she realized with a sigh. And now she was left with little recourse. Too many had seen her on the road, and for her to turn back to London would create more questions than she had answers for.
By the time she found Lord Damon, though, he had eyes only for his mare.
“I am quite well trained to ride,” she said.
This did not reassure him; he was utterly distracted by checking his horse’s mouth and whispering soothing words to her while he ran his hands down her flanks. Really, the man was a brat sometimes. Thank goodness for his pretty face.
“Might I trouble you to find us some accommodation?” she asked, rubbing her neck.
He shot up in surprise. “Accommodation? At the last minute? On the day before a fight?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Do you see the lot bedding down in the street?”
She had assumed they were urchins, and some were, but now she saw grown men were also making do with blankets and their meager belongings anywhere they could.
“But…”
“I would help you if I could, my lady,” he said. “But this is just how fights work. The location is only set the week before, and accommodations are full within the hour. I only have one room myself, and my man will need to sleep on the floor at my feet.”
She couldn’t imagine Roberta in such conditions! “I’ll request accommodations at the inn. There must be something.”
“You can’t mean to stay. I wouldn’t have let you come if I’d known. It’s not responsible,” he said. “I thought you were merely to attend to a matter of honor.”
“It appears it is still ongoing,” she muttered.
“Well, it is fortunate then that you have an advantage,” he said.
“What is that?”
“You are acquainted with one of the two individuals who might have enough sway to find you lodgings—Hughes and Jackson.”
