by Darcy Burke
Ambrose moved quickly to her side. He put his arm around her and faced his visitors. “Out. You’ve overstayed.”
“I’ve gotten what I’ve come for.” Jagger set his glass on the sideboard. He gave a gallant bow to Philippa. “Delightful to see you, my lady. May I say how lovely you look?”
“You may not,” Ambrose growled. “You may not speak to her at all, in fact.”
Jagger turned and gestured for his men to follow. “Come along, you dolts.”
They stood and followed their employer from the drawing room. One of them, however, cast a lingering glance at Philippa. Ambrose fought the urge to trail him outside and beat him into Beckwith’s drive.
Philippa shivered. He turned toward her, cupping her face.
Her gaze was frantic, pleading. “Please don’t do this, Ambrose.”
“I want to fight. I need to.”
She gripped his upper arms. “Why? Forget Jagger. He has nothing to hold over us.”
How could he make her understand? “After Nigel died, fighting was all I had. It was the only thing that kept me human. It kept me alive. I can’t subsist without it.”
Her fingers dug into his arms. “You can. You have me.”
Did he have her? Aside from the physical sense? She’d made her inclination for marriage clear. He had only to propose and he could have her. In all sense of the word. Forever. A chill rattled his bones as he realized there was such a thing. For so long, he’d only thought about getting through the day. “It’s not the same, Philippa. Fighting is intrinsic to who I am.”
She pressed her lips together. “You’d choose violence above me.”
He wished she hadn’t put it like that. There was no comparing the two. “There’s no choice. I can’t not fight.”
Darkness crept into her eyes. She nodded once, but Ambrose didn’t think she truly comprehended. How could she? Fighting had literally saved his life.
She let him go, dropping her arms between them. She nudged her cheek away from him so that he was no longer touching her face. “So, you’ll fight a man who beat you a matter of days ago for a man who twice abducted me.”
He inwardly cringed. However, it was precisely because Weatherly had beaten him that Ambrose was so committed to fighting him again. Jagger’s involvement was an unfortunate coincidence he wouldn’t allow to trouble him. Besides, he posed no danger to Philippa anymore.
Further debate was pointless. Instead, he asked, “How did you know I fought him before?”
“Ackley mentioned him by name. How predictable of you to deflect the conversation away from yourself. From your feelings.” She stepped backward, well outside of his reach. “Please tell Mrs. Oldham I prefer to eat in my room this evening.”
His body thrummed with pent-up energy. It was as if the bone-melting bliss he’d experienced such a short time ago had never been. “Will you still come to the fight tomorrow?”
“No, I’ve had quite enough of watching you hurt yourself. I’ll be preparing to leave.” She set her hand on the staircase railing. The veins in her wrist were taut as she gripped the wood.
He was afraid to ask it aloud, but had to know for sure. “You’re going to your father’s? To marry?”
Her eyes flickered with surprise. “How did you know?”
It was true. “Lettice told me.” More surprise. “I saw her this afternoon,” he added.
“Good, maybe now you can start to heal.” She paused, but looked as if she might say something more. Then she pressed her lips together. Finally, she turned from him, murmuring, “Good night, Ambrose” as she ascended the stairs.
He nearly went after her. In his mind, he was already following her to her chamber, begging her to take him into her bed one more time. But what was the point of that when it would only be one more time? What he really ought to do was beg her not to marry whomever her father had chosen. If she could just wait a little longer, perhaps he could be the man she deserved.
No, it was good she was leaving. If she stayed with him, his selfishness and his passion would surely destroy her just as it had done Nigel.
He would focus on the fight, on winning. Then he’d come back to Beckwith and fulfill his duty. Alone.
Chapter Twenty-four
LATE the next afternoon Philippa and her maid packed the last of her belongings. Ambrose, Ackley, and Oldham had left for Truro a few hours ago and would be staying overnight at an inn. Philippa planned to leave early in the morning to meet her father. He’d be furious when she told him she wouldn’t marry Sir Mortimer, but he’d just have to learn to live with disappointment.
As would she.
Her heart ached every time she thought about not seeing Ambrose again. Didn’t he realize he didn’t need to fight anymore? She understood he’d needed it at a desperate time in his life, but he’d finally begun to recover from Nigel’s death—she was sure of it. He’d faced Lettice. He’d ridden Orpheus. He’d opened himself to her.
But he couldn’t move on until he decided it was time. And she wouldn’t watch him continue to punish himself. Not when he saw violence as more essential than love.
One of the two footmen she’d brought from Herrick House came to retrieve her last piece of luggage. She nodded at him and then left her bedchamber.
Mrs. Oldham was waiting for her in the drawing room. Her face was pale and drawn. She clutched her hands together. “You’re really leaving then?”
“I have to. My father is expecting me. Indeed, he’s due here tomorrow, but I’m going to meet him on the road. I just can’t stay here another moment.” It was too painful.
Mrs. Oldham nodded. Then she dropped her hands with a huff. “I wish I could kick that boy square in his posterior!”
Philippa startled at the housekeeper’s vehemence. “I beg your pardon?”
“His lordship. He ought to be marrying you.”
“You mustn’t be angry with him.” Philippa wasn’t. Only disappointed. “He didn’t invite me here, and I came with no illusions. Things have turned out as they were meant to.”
Mrs. Oldham frowned. “I’d rather hoped you would be staying. Will you be stopping in Truro for the fight? I admit I almost wish I’d gone with Mr. Oldham.”
She had? “Why?”
“I can’t imagine his lordship fighting like that. I suppose I wanted to see it. Half of Gerrans and Portscatho are there.”
“They are?”
The housekeeper nodded. “They want to cheer him on.”
Philippa thought about watching him in Dirty Lane. Instantly, as if she were watching him now, her breath grew short and her heart hammered. She curled her fingers into her palms. “I’ve seen him fight. It’s brutal.” And yet, she hadn’t been able to look away.
She suddenly regretted not going. If half of the peninsula was there, she wanted to be too—she cared about him at least as much as they did. More. She loved him. She had to see for herself that he would be safe. What difference would it make if she departed from Beckwith or Truro to meet her father? “Mrs. Oldham, how would you like to accompany me to Truro?”
The housekeeper’s eyes lit. “Give me ten minutes to change.”
The journey to Truro seemed to take forever instead of an hour and a half. They arrived in the Middle Row—Truro’s main thoroughfare—just as the fight was due to start. Philippa could only pray it didn’t begin on time.
The Middle Row was a noisy, smelly place, and the journey along the street took them an additional ten minutes. When they reached the Red Lion Inn, which was hosting the fight in its stable yard, Philippa fairly jumped from the coach.
They had to pay their admission and pass through an archway to get to the yard. A stage had been built in the center, and a multitude of lanterns illuminated the space. Ambrose and Weatherly circled each other. Philippa stopped and stared.
Mrs. Oldham took her by the hand and pulled her through the teeming crowd. Shouts and jeers jostled her senses as much as the ever-moving cluster of people. Above the din, she heard
the distinct sound of flesh hitting flesh. She stood on her toes and just made out Weatherly stumbling backward. Her heart surged.
She and Mrs. Oldham continued on until they reached her husband standing on the stairs leading up to the stage. There was a small platform at the top, just large enough for Ackley, who was acting as Ambrose’s second.
“Mrs. Oldham!” her husband called as he pulled her up the stairs to stand beside him. He grinned. “I’m so glad ye came!”
Mrs. Oldham turned and gestured toward Philippa. Her speech was lost in the noise, as Philippa turned to watch the fight. Standing on the second stair, she now had a clear view of the fight in the wide space between the slats of the railing that surrounded the stage.
Ambrose was focused on his opponent. His eyes were sharp, his fists positioned in front of his chest. He didn’t seem to have sustained any injuries. Yet. She went to wrap her gloved hands around the stair rail, but realized there wasn’t one. She scooted forward and clasped the bottom rung of the stage rail.
A bell sounded. “Can’t touch the railing!” came a loud voice.
Philippa jerked back. All eyes—including Ambrose’s—turned to her. His fists fell a bit, but then the fight had been halted because of her error. His gaze connected with hers, and she felt the hungry fire in their depths all the way to her soul. He looked alive in a way she’d never seen him. Perhaps he did need this. And did that leave any room for her?
The bell rang again, and Ambrose’s attention snapped away from her. He moved forward, lightning fast, and struck Weatherly in the chin and again in the eye. The massive man—and he was huge—retaliated with a jab toward Ambrose’s middle.
Ambrose danced to the left. She noticed his feet were bare as they’d been at the end of the fight in Dirty Lane. He moved faster, easier than his opponent. Philippa let out a gust of air as her anxiety began to fade.
Too soon.
Weatherly was also fast. He followed Ambrose to the left and delivered a series of blows meant to overwhelm. Finally the fourth or fifth caught Ambrose’s ear. But Ambrose was undaunted. He drove forward, his mouth compressed, his eyes narrowed. A fake punch to Weatherly’s side followed by one to his cheek that connected. Another fake to his chin followed by a hit to his ribs.
Philippa leaned forward and just caught herself from touching the railing again. She gaped at Ambrose’s speed and agility. He’d been astonishing in Dirty Lane, coming back from near defeat, but this was something else. He was on fire, possessed. And it was shockingly thrilling.
Ambrose continued his assault. Unable to mount an offense, Weatherly was only blocking punches and even that defense was faltering. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Ambrose hit him in the cheek. Weatherly’s head jerked with the blow. Saliva and blood streamed from his lips. His arms flailed briefly and then he fell. Hard. Right in front of Philippa.
She stared at his face pressed against the wood. His eyes were closed, one of them already blackening.
The count started. Ambrose stood in the opposite corner, but he wasn’t looking at Weatherly. He stared at Philippa, giving her the intensity he’d directed at his opponent. She shivered.
The count continued, and Philippa’s pulse increased apace. Her breathing drowned out the sound of the crowd so that it seemed only she and Ambrose were present.
The count reached twenty-five. Ambrose walked to the center of the stage, his gaze never leaving hers.
She spared a glance for Weatherly. Still unconscious, his second on the floor beside him, trying to rouse him.
Thirty.
The umpire met Ambrose at the center of the stage and raised his arm. “Lord Sevrin!”
The resulting cacophony was unlike anything Philippa had ever heard. People pushed at the stage; now the fight was over they were free to touch the railing. Two large men, however, positioned themselves at the base of her staircase and prevented anyone from coming up.
Then Oldham grabbed her wrist and pulled her up the stairs. She joined Ackley on the platform. Ambrose was at the edge of the stage, his stare still intense. Still focused on her.
With a cry, she threw herself against him.
Ambrose hugged her close, heedless of the sweat coating his body. Her arms were clasped tight about his neck, and for a moment he forgot about the cheering crowd, their very public and visible position. He kissed her soundly on the mouth, taking her giddy laughter into himself like a tonic for his healing soul.
“Come with me,” he whispered against her ear.
Firmly, he clasped her hand and led her down the stairs. Ackley squeezed aside. Oldham met Ambrose’s gaze and nodded. He took Mrs. Oldham by the hand, and they led Ambrose and Philippa through the screaming crowd.
Ambrose recognized faces from Gerrans and Portscatho. Tenants from Beckwith. Thatcher from his last visit to Truro. All grinned widely and shouted their congratulations. For him. Winning had never felt this good, this satisfying.
Their progress took several minutes, but finally they entered the back door of the Red Lion into a small corridor. Ambrose had let a room upstairs.
Oldham closed the door behind them then clasped Ambrose’s arm. “I’ll procure a room for Lady Philippa.” His brow quirked up. “Or at least for her maid.” He and Mrs. Oldham continued along the corridor.
Ambrose turned and led Philippa through a low-mantled doorway that led to the servants’ staircase. As soon as they were in the small space at the base of the stairs, he shut the door. He recalled their encounter in the closet at wherever that ball had been. Keeping himself from her then—no, every time he was near her—had nearly killed him. And now, now there was no need to stop himself. Couldn’t if he tried. He pushed her back against the wood and seared her mouth with his.
She met his kiss, tongue for tongue, lips and teeth mashing together in a mad, lustful frenzy. Her hands splayed against his bare chest, kneading and stroking his muscles. Her nails dug into his shoulders, pulling him savagely against her.
His cock raged and he positioned himself squarely between her legs. But those damned skirts… He pulled them up and clasped her thigh. She spread her legs for him, and his fingers delved into her curls, finding her heat…
She wrested her lips from his. “Upstairs.”
“What’s wrong with here?” He slipped his finger into her tight sheath and her eyes fluttered close.
She cast her head back against the wood. “Nothing,” she gasped out. The muscles of her sex clenched around him, and moisture flooded her channel.
Here was fine, but upstairs would be better. He swept her into his arms and took the stairs two at a time. No easy feat given the narrow space and low ceiling.
At the top of the stairs was another door, which he shoved open with his shoulder. He turned left down the corridor until he reached the end where his chamber was located.
He had to set her down to open the door. She pressed against his back as he fumbled with the latch. Her hands came around and stroked his rigid cock through his breeches. He turned and ruthlessly took her mouth. She pushed into him and he stumbled backward into his room, falling onto his back.
She landed on top of him, her eyes wide. “Are you all right?”
He grinned. “Never better.” He stretched out his foot and managed to kick the door closed.
She straddled him, pulling her skirts up so that her bare flesh rode against his prick. He grabbed her waist and ground her down as he thrust up. She braced her palm over his chest and dug her fingertips into his skin.
Impatient and desperate, he shoved his hands beneath her skirts and unfastened his breeches. Her hand joined his, closing around his flesh. His head fell back against the floor and he closed his eyes in ecstasy. She stroked him once, twice. God, that was impossibly good.
And then she was gone.
He opened his eyes to find her bent over his waist, her gaze focused on his erection. One hand was wrapped around his prick and the other was exploring his testicles. Light, curious touches. He wanted
to tell her to stop, that he may not be able to control himself, but words simply wouldn’t come.
He dropped his head back and lost himself in her touch. She stroked and massaged him, her fingers working around his tip and then descending to the base with delightful precision.
His eyes flew open again when he felt something wet against the head of his cock. He looked down and the sight he beheld—Philippa’s mouth poised around him—nearly made him come. He wound his fingers in her hair, pulling the pins free, desperate for the satiny curtain of sable to cloak his thighs.
Her mouth bobbed down then up, her tongue laving his flesh. How did she know how to do this? His balls clenched. He wouldn’t last long.
She sucked him deep into her mouth and when she came up again, he grabbed her shoulders and sat up with her. Then he picked her up again and tossed her atop the bed.
He stripped his breeches and drawers from his heated body. “You. Are wearing far too many clothes.”
“You’ll have to undo my dress.” Her voice was deep, seductive. She turned and held up her disheveled hair to give him access.
He jerked the—thankfully few—laces free and put his mouth on the back of her neck. He opened her dress, trailing his lips along her flesh, kissing and biting each place he exposed.
She shrugged the dress down to her waist and he pulled it off entirely. Kneeling, she started on the laces of her stays. He would’ve taken over, but he didn’t think he’d work as efficiently as her. And he wanted her naked. Now. Instead, he stayed behind her and worshipped her back with his lips and tongue. When the stays were loose, she tugged the garment free and tossed it aside. He dragged her chemise over her head, leaving her nude save her stockings. She’d lost her slippers somewhere along the way and he worked quickly to divest her of her last garments, finally exposing her to his starving gaze.
She made to turn, but he gripped her shoulders and held her still. He trailed his mouth down her spine, licking a path to the delicious contour at the base. She shivered as he drew his finger over the round curve of her buttocks. He pressed her face down onto the bed and lay beside her. He slid his finger down, down until he met her damp sex. He thrust inside of her and she opened her thighs, giving him greater access. Welcoming his touch.
