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  “How interesting. That must feel so scandalous.”

  “The first few times, perhaps. Now, it’s second nature.”

  “I hope to adjust to these clothes as quickly.” Honesty shone in her eyes. “My mother would lock me in my room for days if she caught me like this.”

  Would that I could be your companion during your internment. Cecil gave his head a hard shake. Get hold of yourself, man! She’s a client, nothing more. Act like you’ve got some sense. “You’re a woman grown and can wear what you’d like. But if you still feel awkward, at your next lesson, bring your regular clothes. You may change before you leave.”

  “Thank you.” She lowered her eyes, and the dark fringe of her lashes fanned over pale cheeks. “That’s very kind.”

  Shoving the fetching image of her in breeches from his mind, Cecil nodded. “I wrote up a contract for my teaching services. It lists the payment amount per week. You can sign before you go today and leave the first deposit.”

  “Good. I want this to be above board.” Miss Harcourt stood with several feet of space between them, her posture stiff. No doubt she was ready to run.

  Again, he wondered what the devil her home life was like for her to appear so skittish. Then he shoved that from his mind too. “Let’s begin.” Cecil closed the distance. “You need to learn how to make a proper fist.” He held up a hand, fingers curled, thumb across his digits. “

  She experimented with her own fingers. “Like this?”

  “No. Mind your thumb. It’s too easy to break if tucked under.” Again, he held up his own fist as he drifted to her side. A slight intake of breath betrayed her unease at his proximity. “There you go. Just like that.” He nodded, and relief broke over her brow. “Now, let’s work on your stance. Plant your feet, knees slightly bent, arms up and fists at the ready.” He demonstrated the correct form. “The fists are what connect to your opponent, but your arm is where the power lies.”

  Awkwardly, she assumed the position. “How do you know which fist to punch with and when? It seems overwhelming to me.”

  “All that will come in time. Right now, I’ll teach the basics.” Cecil demonstrated how to throw a punch. “Lead with your first two knuckles. Where they go is where your fist will land.”

  “Ah. I think I understand.” Miss Harcourt moved her fist but twisted her arm slightly in the process.

  “Let me show you.” He maneuvered himself behind her. The faint scent of lilac drifted to his nose. “Straighten your arm when you swing.” He framed her body with his, leading her arm like how it should be if she were punching on her own, but her whole being stiffened, the muscles tensing as if she would dart from the room. “You must relax. Boxing while stressed will injure you.”

  “Sorry.” Miss Harcourt flinched when his head came too close to hers. She shied away from him and spun about, facing him with alarm in her expression and fear in her eyes. Her pulse beat fast in her neck while her chest heaved. “I’m afraid it will take some time for me to be at ease with all of this.”

  “Or with me,” he added in a soft voice. When she gave him a tight nod, he sighed. Obviously, he had a different sort of fight ahead and needed to address her fear before moving forward. “Miss Harcourt—”

  “Please, call me Louisa. Fighting is hardly a formal affair.”

  “You’d be surprised.” For the first time since she’d arrived, he let himself grin, albeit a tiny one. “It is, after all, a sport of gentlemen.”

  “That’s not what my stepfather says.”

  He didn’t miss the flash of loathing that sneaked over her face. “Then the man is weak, and he knows it. Pitted against any of us boxers, he would lose.” When she remained silent, he stifled the urge to sigh again. Slowly, Cecil. Go slowly. You don’t know her whole history. William had been much the same way when Cecil first found him and helped him. “Louisa, please know I won’t hurt you.” He paused. How to make her understand? “You have my promise, for I want you to defend yourself as much as you do.”

  She nodded, but the fear didn’t leave her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “However, you will need to work with me. You said you wanted to learn courage.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, you can’t have that until you feel the fear, defy it, and go forward anyway.” He made certain to modulate his voice into soothing tones. “Boxing will give you the confidence you seek. That’s another promise, and I speak from experience.”

  “You do?” At least she hadn’t dropped her gaze.

  “When I was a young man, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, I was awkward and picked on from older boys, my brothers included.”

  “That sounds like Jonas.” Her eyes rounded. “What did you do to prevent it?”

  “I learned how to scrap, to defend myself, to fight through the fear.” He nodded. “Then, when I embarked upon life on my own, I befriended Gentlemen Jackson and learned the proper techniques of fighting with my fists. With every successful punch I throw, every bout I win—even some I don’t—my confidence, my belief in myself, grows.”

  “Oh.” Tears welled in her eyes making the irises more green than brown. “Thank you. That’s encouraging.”

  “Good.” He gestured to his side. “Would you like to try again? My promise stands.”

  “My head knows what you say is sound, but my heart is terrified, as is my spirit. I have a... difficult time trusting men.”

  “Understandable in your situation.” He suddenly wanted to be the one she could count on. But they were far from that moment. “I’m going to teach you everything you want to know, yet trust must be present.” He held up his hands, palms out. “I mean no harm.”

  One corner of her lips quirked with the beginnings of a smile. It fascinated him. What would it take for her to grin in genuine pleasure? “You are a true gentleman, Mr. Carrington, despite what I said to your business partner earlier.”

  “Cecil. My name is Cecil.” He swallowed hard. Yes, damn it, he was a gentleman, and that meant keeping her a student in his mind, no matter that her subtle floral scent teased his senses and her scandalously clad form distracted him. “Now, assume the stance, and if I touch you, it’s to correct your posture. I meant what I said.”

  “Thank you for having patience with me.” Though her smile was slight and tremulous, he relaxed.

  Perhaps they would clear the first hurdle sooner than he thought.

  Chapter Seven

  October 30, 1818

  The chill of Hyde Park seeped into Louisa’s bones, and she shivered. Again. She’d slipped out of the house right before dawn. Thank goodness the baron hadn’t bothered her, for he wasn’t in residence. Business had called him away from the capital, and for the first night in a long time, she had slept well. She’d roused even before the servants, so there was no delay in dressing or putting her hair in a single thick braid down her back. Then she’d caught a hackney cab to the park. To wait for Cecil

  But he wasn’t here yet.

  Which was fine with her, for it gave her a chance to enjoy the quiet and the time alone. Since her hour-long lesson in boxing two days ago, Louisa had diligently practiced every move he had taught her. It was well worth the coin she reaped monthly from her dead husband’s meager pittance of a pension. With each punch she threw, she imagined her fist finding purchase in the baron’s hated face, and she lived for the day when she could employ her new skills.

  Cecil had been a good and patient instructor, and he was true to his word of not harming her. Not one bruise marred her skin, but he’d made an impression on her. The way he explained things in simple terms so that she’d grasp the concepts had made her respect for him go up. It hadn’t seemed to matter to him that she was a woman. In fact, he spent copious amounts of time avoiding looking directly at her. Why? Was she so unpleasing? Regardless, he was different from any man of her previous acquaintance. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, both regarding boxing and of him personally. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, he didn�
��t let any clues slip past his guarded reserve, but there were stories in his eyes she wished to hear, if only to understand him better.

  When they’d parted, she’d felt pleasantly exhausted and slightly lighter in spirit.

  The mournful honking of a goose broke into her thoughts. Louisa glanced around the area in appreciation. A slight mist rolled over the Serpentine and crept along the grounds, lending an eerie air to the morning. When said mist parted, she spotted a few brown geese maneuvering into the water, no doubt on the hunt of breakfast. Had she disturbed their slumber with her presence? She wrapped the folds of her cloak about her person while continuing to pace. At least both things kept her warm, for her brother’s castoffs, though incredibly freeing, were rather chilly. How did men keep their lower extremities from freezing? At least with skirting, the legs were insulated of sorts.

  A shadow materialized in the low-hanging clouds. Louisa’s breath caught as she stared into the shifting gloom. “Cecil?” Her muscles tensed. Would life always be like this, wondering if evil lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce? Such a horrible existence, that.

  I can’t live like this anymore.

  Before she could decide to run, Cecil emerged from the mist with a sack slung over one shoulder. A natty tweed jacket clung to the breadth of his shoulders while a slouch-style cap rested low over his forehead. The garments gave him the look of a fisherman out for a stroll, and not at all as eye-catching as his shop garb.

  Relief coursed down her spine and she wilted a tad. “Thank goodness it’s you.”

  “Trust, remember?” He looked at her, but she couldn’t read his eyes due to the shadows from the hat’s brim as well as the pre-dawn murkiness. “When I say a thing, I mean it.”

  “Right.” A shiver moved through her person, and not merely from the chill. She’d forgotten how delicious the timbre of his voice was. Putting back the hood of her cloak, she moved closer to him. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Equipment we’ll need this morning.” He looked up and down her person. “Are you well? Nothing horrific happened in the two days since I’ve seen you?”

  Heat stung her cheeks. “It has not. Thankfully, the baron has been out of pocket, but is due home tonight.” A knot tightened in her gut. Of course he was because the dreaded dinner with his pet viscount would occur soon, and he wouldn’t want to miss that... or see the noose tighten about her neck.

  “Good. Have you practiced your forms, positions, and fist-to-foot movements?” His tone was brisk—a master to a student.

  “Yes. I punch into a pillow I’ve nailed to the wall.” In doing so, she’d pretended it was her dead husband’s face, for she’d never dealt with her feelings the day the letter came that said he was having an affair. Perhaps that’s some of my problem. I have no one to talk things over with, to let those feelings, that hurt, go. When Cecil quirked an eyebrow, she snickered. “It currently covers a hole in the wall my stepfather made the last time he entered my room and I evaded him. He was too deep in his cups to give pursuit, but I ran to the kitchens anyway.” Again. It was the safest place in the house aside from actually leaving the residence, and she couldn’t very well do that in the middle of the night.

  Though she’d been tempted a time or two.

  Consternation lined his face. “Are you certain you are safe there? I’d be happy to make arrangements for you—”

  “Stop.” Louisa held up a hand. “I’m handling my situation the best way I know how.” The words were harsher than she’d intended. “I might appear to need a man to rescue me, but I don’t want that to happen.” Would he want to listen to her worries without lecturing or advice? She didn’t know him well enough to ask. “Otherwise, I’ll never learn anything for the future. It would be his victory instead of mine.”

  And I sorely need that.

  “I understand, and I respect your choice.” Though something flashed in his storm-tossed eyes, so quickly she couldn’t read it. Cecil set down his bag. “This morning we’ll spar with padded gloves.”

  “What is sparring? Is it different than what you’ve already taught me?”

  “It’s simulated fighting. You’ll use what you’ve learned in a different format. Like a real fight to make certain you’re comfortable taking on an opponent.”

  Knots tightened in her belly. “Do you think I’m ready? I’ve only had an hour with you.”

  “You’ll never know unless you try.” A half-grin tugged one side of his chiseled lips upward.

  Despite her misgivings, his manner set her at ease. “Will I have to strike you?” She didn’t know if she could do such a thing to anyone who wasn’t the baron.

  The grin burgeoned into full bloom, and she stared at him, for it transformed his face from plain to arresting. A tiny tingle buzzed at the base of her spine, which was odd, for she hadn’t felt such a thing in a long time... for anyone. “That’s the general idea of boxing.” When he withdrew a pair of worn, brown leather gloves—mittens really—from the bag, he handed them to her. “Put these on. And lose the cloak. As before, it’ll be in the way and restrict movement.”

  “I shouldn’t do anything that gives my opponent an advantage,” she added.

  “Exactly.” Cecil tapped his temple with a forefinger. “You’re getting it. I knew you were intelligent.”

  Nervous energy rippled over Louisa’s skin and mixed with the unexpected heat from his praise. She dropped the cloak and shivered when the anemic breeze sailed into her. Then she removed her kid gloves, dropping them on top of the cloak, and slid her hands into the padded mittens. “I can’t curl my fingers into full fists.” The padding prevented it, but there wasn’t enough there to stop injury. Worry coiled in her gut. Would marks of this encounter be visible on her skin and open her up for scrutiny? “This is a bad idea.”

  “Stop.” The command in Cecil’s voice kept her rooted to the spot. “You’re letting fear overrule your common sense and critical thinking.” He came forward, closing the short distance, and dropped his gloved hands on her shoulders. There was strength in his grip, and for one insane moment she wanted to tap into it. Teach me how to be strong. “Put your head into your current situation. Don’t let fear be the bully else you’ll lose the fight from within.” His attitude was forceful in a different way than the baron.

  It was... empowering, and she raised her chin a notch. “All right,” she whispered. Her heart beat out of control. “I’m trying to be brave. Stay patient.”

  He grunted. “Your opponent won’t be.” Cecil yanked off his gloves and threw them onto the pile of her discarded clothes. Then he wriggled out of his jacket and donned the padded mittens. “Fists at the ready.”

  Louisa assumed the proper position, like she’d practiced. It didn’t feel as silly now as it had in front of her cheval glass. “Ready.”

  “Do your best.”

  “You’re letting me throw the first punch?” A bit of awe clung to her voice.

  “I am.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “And you won’t be cross?”

  “Of course not. This is sparring. We will exchange blows.” He gestured with his padded fists and then assumed the position. “I won’t hurt you, Louisa. I’m your teacher, not your tormentor.”

  And that made all the difference. “I know.” Her stomach pitched. Oh, why wouldn’t it settle? “I want to learn... to be free.”

  “Then show me the work.”

  She planted her feet, lifted her fists, and leaned forward slightly. “How do I know which fist to lead with?”

  “Go with your gut. Whatever feels right, do it, but you have to be ready for anything.” He gently tagged one of her mittens with his. “You hesitated too long, so I took the advantage. Return the volley.”

  “You don’t play fair.” But she threw a punch... that missed his upraised fist. Both of them. “Drat.”

  “The bullies in our lives don’t play fair, which is why you’re here. Lead with your knuckles and trust yourself.” Again, he tapped her
gloved hand with his and then darted away. “Come at me.”

  Louisa narrowed her eyes. “Fine.” She circled him as her pulse rushed in her ears. Each time he threw a punch, he connected lightly with her hands. When he returned to a guarded stance, she swung. The first few missed him, which made her concentrate that much more. “Hit his dratted hands, Louisa,” she whispered to herself, but the anxiety of her upcoming dinner to meet the unsavory viscount kept looping through her mind. When she lashed out with what should have been an uppercut, she grazed the tip of his mitten. “Why can I not do this properly?”

  “Stop.” Cecil held up a hand. “I can see it in your eyes that you’re not committed to sparring.” He held her gaze, questions in his eyes. “What is invading your thoughts and rendering you ineffective?”

  With a sigh, she let her arms fall to her sides. How could this man, this near stranger, know her so well? “My attention is divided, this is true.”

  “Why?” He propped one mittened hand on his lean hip. “Tell me. Let’s have it out in the open so you can move forward.”

  “I shouldn’t bother you with—”

  “Louisa, you came to me wishing to learn fighting skills. Part of that includes making certain your mental state is healthy. If something is bothering you, I want to help you clear it.” His tone was low and soothing, as if he attempted to coerce a cat into his lap.

  Perhaps he was exactly the type of man who would listen without judgment. Every day that went by showed her how different he was from any man she’d ever met. “You know I’m a widow,” she began, not sure how to lay out her problems without seeming as if that’s all she was.

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “My husband was a soldier. I thought I’d married for love, but as time went on, I realized I’d married for companionship, to stave off loneliness.” She frowned. “To get away from my mother and stepfather.” That made her look horribly bad. “There was affection in my marriage, of course, but nothing else. Especially when I couldn’t become with child.”