by Gina Lamm
God, she tasted so sweet. Like sugared mints, clean and delicious. He swallowed his groan and swept his tongue across her soft, full lips. No woman could be this perfect, this maddening, this…
A cough from the ground below them broke the spell, and Avery stepped back, reluctantly breaking the most incredible moment of his life.
He looked away from Leah, afraid of what he’d see in her face. He focused on the man lying in the dirt instead.
The stable master moaned and struggled to his feet. “You’ll pay for that, Russell.”
Avery moved between Leah and Mackenzie. The man was in no shape to threaten her further, but Avery would take no chances with her safety. Watching the stable master limp away, reality suddenly slammed into him.
Oh dear God, what had he done? If they’d been seen, she’d be ruined.
Shame filled him, replacing the fingers of pleasure that had warmed him at their kiss. “Miss Ramsey, I do apologize. I wish you much happiness.”
Without stopping to see if his apology was accepted, he turned and strode toward the house. He must get away, must separate himself from her. She was too good for him.
He should never have allowed himself to soil her so.
* * *
Leah stared after Avery, wondering what the hell had just happened. She pressed a trembling finger to her lips.
He’d kissed her.
Well, that had been unexpectedly incredible.
He’d been sweet, tentative, but demanding at the same time. She blew out a shaky breath, willing her knees to stop threatening collapse. She needed to get herself together.
It was only a kiss. She’d been kissed before.
Not like that, her subconscious whispered.
She mechanically picked up the bag that she’d dropped when he leaned down to her, and walked toward the street. Her thoughts flopped around like rapidly breeding Tribbles.
He’d never given her any indication that he was attracted to her. As a matter of fact, every time she’d touched him he’d backed away like his ass was on fire. How was she supposed to read signs that didn’t exist?
Had she completely screwed up this whole trip by chasing after the wrong man?
“Oy, watch ye’self!”
She staggered backward to avoid getting trampled by a horse and cart. The driver shot her a dirty look as he passed by. Walking around in such a daze was dangerous for more than herself. Shaking her head to clear it, she walked in the direction Lady Chesterfield had told her to go. Walk now. Think later.
She may not know exactly who she was here to fall in love with, but she did know she desperately needed a friend to talk to. Lady Chesterfield and Jamie’s maid Muriel were the best shots she had at some objective advice. But she had to make it there in one piece.
The sun had risen by the time she made it to Hanover Square. Setting her jaw, she marched up the steps to number four and knocked. The large door squeaked open slowly, revealing an ancient-looking butler. His long, hooked nose sported a sizeable mole, and his eyebrows, well, eyebrow, was composed entirely of curly white hair.
“The servants’ entrance is in the back of the house, miss.”
She had to hand it to him. He used that beak to his advantage, looking down at her over it as if he was the king of England. Before he could firmly close the door in her face, as she assumed was his idea, a trilling, cheerful voice floated down the stairs.
“Graves, do let the poor gel in. She is our guest, not a common kitchen maid.”
With a pained look, Graves stepped aside to let her in.
Lady Chesterfield, dressed in a flamboyant red robe, stood on the landing.
“Oh, my dear, how lovely to see you. Graves, take her things. Is that all you’ve brought? But of course it is, no matter. Come, come.”
With an emotion that could safely be labeled ridiculously heavenly relief coursing through her, Leah trotted up the stairs after Lady Chesterfield.
“I’m sorry it’s so early,” she said as the older woman bustled into a bedchamber almost as large as His Grace’s had been. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
Lady Chesterfield laughed as she pulled a velvet rope at the bedside. “No matter, dear, no matter. I shall rest when I’ve cocked up my toes. Now”—she clapped her hands together delightedly, eyes wrinkling at the corners as she smiled—“do sit down. Muriel shall bring us some chocolate, and then we shall make our plan of attack.”
Leah sank into the chair that Lady Chesterfield had pointed to, relaxing gratefully into the softness. She hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been carrying ever since she’d tumbled into Avery’s arms from that mirror.
Avery.
Oh God, what had she done?
She was saved from her mental swan dive into melancholy by a timid knock on the door.
“My lady, I have your chocolate.” A maid, probably about seventeen or eighteen, entered the room bearing a tray with a steaming cup atop it. Brownish hair curled around the bottom of her mobcap, framing her delicate, pale face.
“Muriel,” Lady Chesterfield said, “this is our guest, Leah Ramsey. You are acquainted with her dear friend Miss Jamie Marten, or should I say Lady Dunnington?”
The maid nearly dropped the tray in her excitement. “Miss Jamie?” She set the tray hurriedly on the bedside table and rushed to Leah’s side. “How is she? And my lord Dunnington? Mrs. Knightsbridge told me they were to wed. Was it lovely? I know it was the most beautiful ceremony, for they were so in love.”
Leah had to laugh at the maid’s excited outburst. “Muriel, you’re exactly like Jamie described you. Yes, it was a beautiful wedding, and they’re really happy.”
It was nice to think about her best friend instead of the mess Leah had made of her own life recently.
The maid turned her shining eyes to Lady Chesterfield. “How may I assist your ladyship?”
The woman propped her hands on her ample hips and smiled broadly. “Our Miss Ramsey here is destined to wed the Duke of Granville. And we, my girl, shall help her.”
“The Duke of Granville?” Muriel’s tone was surprised, but not in a good way. “But he is so old!”
Leah shifted uneasily in the chair. Muriel had just blurted out her biggest misgiving about this whole shebang.
“Yes, dear, His Grace, the Duke of Granville.” Lady Chesterfield sniffed. “And mind your tongue, Muriel. As you know, a gentleman’s age is of no real impediment to a match. I do not know His Grace personally. His mother is a harridan of the first water, I must own. Still, it is of no consequence. We shall see to it that our Miss Ramsey weds advantageously, you can be assured of that.”
“Lady Chesterfield,” Leah said, rising to her feet with only a slight wobble. “I might have been wrong about the duke. Mrs. Knightsbridge told me that my true love was in the Duke of Granville’s household, but she never actually came out and said it was the duke.” Unease swirled in her stomach as she looked at her hostess and the maid.
A quizzical smile appeared on the baroness’s face. “But there are no other eligible gentlemen in the household.”
Avery’s face popped into Leah’s mind’s eye, and she laughed awkwardly. “Well, a gentle man, but not a gentleman, if you get me.” Leah cleared her throat. “What I mean is, I kind of made friends with someone in the house. The duke’s valet, actually. And I’m wondering if I may have made the wrong assumption about the identity of the man I’m supposed to fall in love with.”
Pursing her lips, Lady Chesterfield paced in front of the wide hearth. Muriel looked on, fingers twisting her apron. The only sound for several long moments was the soft crackle and pop of the fire. Leah linked her fingers in front of her, willing her lungs to draw in oxygen deeply and evenly. Hopefully Lady Chesterfield could help her figure this out.
“May I be plain, Miss Ramsey?”
Leah nodded. “Please.”
Lady Chesterfield continued, “In your position as a temporary servant in the household, it is only natural that you wo
uld develop a tendre for another servant, as a presumed equal. But”—she crossed over to Leah and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder—“I cannot think that your Mrs. Knightsbridge wished for you to marry a mere valet. With my patronage, you will be welcomed into society. You need not settle for a commoner.”
Leah sank back into the chair as Lady Chesterfield continued.
“Is it not possible that your feelings were magnified by your difficult position? Should you not pursue what you had desired in order to discover its worth?” The woman grasped Leah’s hands. “I only wish to assist you, dear. And I would be very remiss indeed if I allowed you to set your cap for a valet when you could have snared a duke.”
Doubt began to creep into the edges of Leah’s consciousness. She’d really enjoyed Avery’s kiss, she knew that. But was it because she was so desperate for this to work? Was it because she was scared and lonely, and she’d mistaken his kindness to her for something else? Or was it because she was afraid to put herself out there and be rejected again?
Her grandfather would never let her relax if she settled for less than the absolute best. Only one way to know.
Her mind made up, Leah gave a tight nod.
“Let’s do this.”
Sixteen
The carriage rolled into the outskirts of Holborn, bearing Avery nearer to the mill. Avery rode up top with the driver, with His Grace comfortable on the inside of the conveyance. Breathing deeply, Avery looked down as the ground rolled along beneath the horses’ feet. He must clear his mind, make himself ready to face his opponent. He must win this match. There was no choice for him.
A playful breeze tossed his hair, at odds with the churning in his guts. Prachett would be at the tourney today. He’d be expecting Avery to spin the match to his specifications. Though Prachett had never paid Avery for his participation in the underhanded dealings, he had forgiven a portion of Avery’s debt.
But now that Avery owed Prachett nothing? He’d fight honestly. And, if all went well, he’d win.
The apothecary had sent a messenger around just before they’d left for Holborn. The medicine for his aunt’s ailment would cost more the next time around, as the ingredients were becoming scarce. It was more critical than ever that he win today’s purse.
They arrived by the ring much before Avery was ready. He disembarked from the carriage with thinly disguised trepidation. Prachett would be here soon. Avery’s needs didn’t matter to Prachett. He wasn’t after the purse; he was after the hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds to be gained from betting on the right man.
“Hoy, Russell,” Jenks, Avery’s bottle man, called from the corner of the roped-off square that would serve as their stage.
“Jenks.” Avery nodded a greeting as he stripped to the waist. The crowds were drawing closer to the ring, each man attempting to get the best vantage for the upcoming brawl. The shouts and raucous laughter did nothing to calm his nerves or fray them. He’d stopped thinking of them as humans. They were cattle, mindless animals that brayed and milled about while he did his duty.
He moved lightly back and forth on his feet, relishing the feel of blood pumping harder through his veins. As he moved, Jenks spoke.
“You’re to face Martin Peters, a young scrapper just come up from Brighton. He lasted near two hours in his last fight, and would have won had Lockston not tripped him so underhanded-like. He’ll be spoiling for a tough ’un, s’truth.”
Avery nodded. “Then we shall give him what he asks for.”
Jenks laughed, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “That’s it, m’lad. His Grace will be glad of that, and the rest of the Fancy too, I’ll wager. Becoming quite their darling, you are.”
Jenks walked away from him then, leaving Avery to his exercises.
The earth was damp beneath his feet. Fortunately the rains had stopped early the day prior, or his bout would have been a much colder, more inhospitable affair. As it was, his breath fogged from his mouth and nose as he stretched his limbs.
Closing his eyes, he bent forward to stretch his spine. As it always did, the image of his mother leaped unbidden to his mind. He did not try to stop the horrendous memory from playing out, as he used to. Experience had taught him that was a useless endeavor.
They’d been delivering a meal to an elderly woman in the parish. On their return, his mother had looked at him and smiled.
“Do you know why I love you so, Avery?”
He’d grinned, looking up into his mother’s face. “No, why?”
She’d laid a comforting hand on his back, rubbing softly. “Because you are kind and good. You help me to remember to smile.”
She’d hugged him close to her side, and he breathed her in deeply. He’d been so young then.
The brigand had come upon them only moments later. The wild-eyed man had grabbed his mother’s basket, spilling the food over the roadway. His mother screamed, grabbing for her young son. But Avery had ripped free of his mother’s grasp to leap upon the man and defend her.
She’d fallen so quickly. The sharp crack of her skull on the rock haunted him even now.
And here he was again, ready to fight another man. It seemed that he killed her anew every time he stepped into the square to fight.
But this time, his violence ensured his aunt’s survival. It was his atonement for his mother’s death. He could never bring her back, but he could keep his aunt, her only sister, alive for her.
A prickle of warning spread across his shoulders, and he turned. Of course. Prachett approached, flanked by two of his men. The menacing smile on Prachett’s face boded ill. Avery stood silent, filling his broad chest with air. Calm. He must remain calm.
“Russell.” Prachett’s voice slid over Avery like grease. “’Tis good to see you here.”
Avery said nothing.
“It has been much too long since you’ve been among us. Peters is a newcomer and lost his first. You know where the bets will fall today, don’t you, lad?”
Avery shook out his fists, wishing he could use them to pummel Prachett into the dirt instead of young Peters.
“The right people are betting against you. And you must make sure that they win.”
Avery stilled, spearing Prachett with a look. “I cannot throw the match. The purse is too—”
Prachett’s laugh cut him off. “Oy, Russell, you lost your purse when you refused to fight today. I had to pay my men to convince you. You’ll fight, and you’ll lose, and your life is the only prize you’ll claim.” Prachett stepped close, his men shadowing him. “If you wish to live, you’ll make sure to allow Peters the victory. If you do not…” The glint of a knife flashed, and a sharp prick lanced his side. Avery froze, impotent anger crushing over him. “Peters will win. And make it look good, lad. I have use for you later, so I should hate to leave your body for the dogs tonight.”
The knife disappeared, and Prachett and his lackeys walked away.
With a roar, Avery plunged his fist into the earth. The crowd cheered at such an expression of violence and rage. He ignored it, focused only on his impossible predicament.
He must win, for his aunt to survive. He must lose to keep his own life. Avery slammed his eyes shut and shoved himself upright. What a damnable mess. There was no answer, no way out of this conundrum.
“Russell?” The duke’s voice pierced his confusion. “Is all well?”
Avery dragged a heavy breath through his lungs. “Yes, Your Grace. My apologies.”
The elderly duke nodded. “Many of the Fancy are counting on you today, my lad. Give us a good showing.” He gave a smile, then strolled toward his private viewing box. The rest of the Fancy, tonnish ladies and gentlemen who supported and enjoyed the fights, were spread around him, all too eager to enjoy the bout with the Duke of Granville.
His employer wanted him to win. He needed to win. But Prachett would kill him for it. A dark grin spread across Avery’s face. He knew what he had to do.
All too soon, it was time for his match. Jenks and Tarley
, Avery’s knee-man, huddled in the corner for a quick word.
“He’s favoring ’is right side as he moves. Mayhap an old injury. Pound him there and you’ll be home for an early supper.”
Thanking Jenks for his advice, Avery turned to his adversary.
The boy was young, a half-score years his junior. Tall and muscled, he was fairer than a day in June. Must have been of Scandinavian descent.
His young opponent spat in the dirt before offering Avery a respectful nod.
Avery returned the gesture, and both raised their bare knuckles into the traditional fighter’s stance.
The fight master called them to order, and then they were off.
Avery circled his opponent calmly, looking for an opening in the young man’s defenses. It was easy to discern from Peters’s movements that he’d been trained by Jackson, who was highly regarded as the master of fighting. A dark smile crossed Avery’s lips.
This boy may have been trained by Jackson, but Avery had been nursing hellfire in his soul. Letting his baser nature take control, he grunted at the impact of the boy’s fist. First blow was done.
Avery’s own knuckles connected.
Peters staggered backward as the throng roared. Regaining his feet, Peters rushed toward Avery again. The valet was ready for him and used his opponent’s forward momentum to deliver a blow to his midsection.
Peters coughed but returned a punch of his own to the side of Avery’s head, leaving his ears ringing like cathedral bells.
Avery shook his head as Peters staggered off him, gathering his senses. This would not be a simple fight, so he must collect his thoughts and plan.
The fight wound on, the combatants trading blow for blow, the crowd jeering and celebrating by turns, and Avery growing more and more weary.
He dodged a blow that Peters aimed at his face and laid one across the chin. Peters grunted in pain, spitting blood. His right arm sagged as he coughed.
