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  Cecil shook his head. “There are many reasons a woman can’t conceive. Times of war mean stress and great anxiety, for both participants. That affects... reproduction efforts.”

  Her chin trembled. Perhaps that was so, or else her husband didn’t wish to make any further inroads with her. “I think that was the reason my husband strayed while in France. He told me of it in a letter... one of the last he wrote to me.”

  “Ah, God. I’m so sorry.” Shock and disgust moved over his features. For her or for the situation? “But, as you said, you didn’t marry for love. Perhaps he found it. While such a thing is difficult to hear, that might have been the case.”

  “I’ve never thought of that before.” Her eyes widened.

  “If marrying for love is something you seek in life, don’t lose hope.” Yet a trace of bitterness clung to his voice. Why?

  Louisa snorted. “Marrying again is not uppermost on my agenda at the moment.”

  A frown tugged the corners of his sensual lips downward. “Are you desperate to reproduce?”

  “The urge comes and goes.” The want to cry lodged in her throat. “But until my present... difficulties clear, I won’t allow myself the opportunity to dream. Yet, if it comes time for me to wed again, how can I do so knowing I might be broken?” She gawked at him as hot mortification came over her for telling him a secret of her heart she’d never uttered to anyone.

  “Don’t ever think you’re less worthy than others because you don’t have children. It’s a horrid misconception in our world.” He shoved his hat higher on his forehead, but the emotion in his eyes was unreadable. “You and your husband most likely didn’t have enough time together in that way to make an assessment as to the cause of infertility.”

  “Thank you.” She blinked away sudden tears. “I’m glad he found happiness before he died.” She pressed her lips together. “And I hope, that given time, I might find the same with a man who understands me, who might love me despite my... difficulties.”

  Heavy silence brewed between them for long moments. “Life has a way of surprising us at any given time. However,” he narrowed his gaze. “There is something else pressing upon you. It lurks at the backs of your eyes.”

  How could he possibly know that unless it was from his own personal experience? “You’re right. What I’m truly worried about is a dinner two nights from now.”

  “Why? People must eat, even if the ton insists on turning it into a social occasion.” The levity in his tone lifted her spirits.

  Despite the gravity of the conversation, Louisa smiled, and when he returned the gesture, a few butterflies awoke from eternal slumber in her belly. Oh, those lips of his were perfect. Would they feel soft or firm against hers? If she painted him, could she get the set of them just right? “My stepfather means to marry me off to Viscount Wrycroft. The dinner will be our first meeting, and I’m...” She stifled a sob choking her throat. “I’m expected to accept his suit.”

  Cecil’s lower jaw dropped. “He’s a right proper bounder if ever there was one.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the rest of her fears regarding a union between her and the viscount. A shiver of revulsion racked her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter that I’ve refused. The baron will do it anyway.”

  “You’re a woman with your own mind, and you’re certainly past the age of dictation. No one can force you into a marriage you don’t want.”

  “If I don’t, he’s vowed to make my brother’s life unpleasant.”

  “Then we shall conquer that pitfall as it comes due. Together.” When she didn’t answer, Cecil stepped forward and rested a mitten-covered hand on her shoulder. She tilted her chin up as his intense eyes bore into hers. “Stand firm. It’s your future, and quite frankly, if you give in, you’re not the woman I’m beginning to see you as.”

  “Oh?” How was it that words from this man had the power to uplift her whereas her dealings with other men forced her to shrink and hide? His belief in her had Louisa straightening her spine and an odd sense of confidence growing inside of her.

  “You have a backbone and spirit. Do something with them.” He nodded and stepped away. She missed the brief warmth he’d imparted. “Use your difficulties as your fuel. Show other women in your same situation that it can be conquered.” When he raised his fists, he flashed a grin. “If need be, think of me as either the baron or the viscount. Now, come at me with vigor this time.”

  Louisa didn’t mind that everything seemed to be a teachable lesson with Cecil, for he’d been correct. She had a choice in how she wished her life to go. If she voiced her protests, no doubt her stepfather would retaliate with violence, but when did he not? It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to weather that particular storm. “You think me a leader?”

  “Under the right conditions, yes.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Well? How much do you want to tell off the baron, so he’ll leave you alone?”

  “Very.” She raised her fists, her gaze never leaving his. “Stand and deliver, Cecil. I won’t miss this time.”

  “I’d really like to see that,” he shot off as he began to move, circling.

  She did the same, her muscles limber and at ease, her focus on her opponent. When she darted into his space, she threw a punch that did indeed connect with his left fist. The smack of leather against leather resounded in her ears. Exhilaration swept through her veins.

  “That’s it. Keep going,” Cecil encouraged in a soft voice. As the sun broke over the horizon and penetrated the mists, she caught a hint of admiration in his eyes.

  Now she understood why he adored boxing so much. There was a certain thrill to the sport, a rush of excitement, and an immediate disposal of everything unpleasant lingering in one’s mind.

  With a giggle she didn’t understand, Louisa gave herself up to sparring. Again and again, her punches connected with his gloves. Every once in a while, Cecil would swing and tap her hands, but she learned how best to defend, when to retreat, how to rout him and set him on the defensive. She studied how he moved, and she emulated it, watched his feet, and made the same work for her.

  At some point, he lost his hat when she affected a wild swing. The tip of her glove glanced over his cheek, and when she voiced concern, he came roaring back, his glove skimming her shoulder. She pummeled his fists with enough force that he stepped backward a few times. He tagged the shell of her ear, and still they sparred along the banks of the Serpentine in their secluded area of the park.

  It wasn’t until she was winded and tired that he called an end to their lessons. “That hour flew by,” he said once he’d checked his pocket watch. “You have indeed improved. I’m proud of you. Will I see you at the shop in two days?”

  “Of course.” Was she heated because of his praise or the prospect of being with him again or the exercise? It was folly to become so attached to a teacher, and one whom she’d leave once her training had concluded. But there was no help for it. “I look forward to it.”

  You’re pathetic, Louisa. The first man to pay you a compliment or smile at you has you wanting to go tip over tail. Stop this nonsense. Men are pigs.

  “As do I.” He yanked off his padded mittens. “It’ll give you motivation to survive that dinner.” Then he winked.

  And Louisa shivered. It had nothing to do with the morning chill this time. Why, oh why were these lessons only an hour long? She needed so much more of him.

  Chapter Eight

  November 1, 1818

  Louisa practiced her steps and the different kinds of punches Cecil had taught her during their midday session earlier in the day. She’d come to live for those precious hour-long lessons with him, for at the end of each one, her confidence rose, as did her outlook. Unaccountably, she missed him when they were apart, for she’d come to rely on him as a friend of sorts. He listened to her concerns and fears without judgment and was nothing but encouraging. And... she’d started a painting of him that she hid at the back of her armoire. When the e
nd of her lessons came, at least she’d have a memento.

  It might make her the biggest goose, but she craved that kindness, almost to the point of folly. Surely it was desperate to want more of that in her life. And sometimes when he smiled in a certain way, something tingled through her, something both familiar and odd at the same time.

  He’d been true to his word and hadn’t touched her or made any sort of advances on her except to help teach form or correct posture or show her the finer points of throwing punches. Now that she had the hang of the movements, they didn’t feel so foreign or awkward, and she looked forward to practicing each day. If her mother wondered why she spent so much time in her room, she hadn’t said.

  For which Louisa was forever grateful.

  Slowly, her confidence was growing, her backbone hardening... as was her adeptness at hiding from her stepfather. However, her time was running out to maintain her own freedom and choose her own path. The dinner with the viscount was tonight, and there was no doubt the engagement would be proffered, for the baron had been positively giddy for the past two days. A sure sign he’d struck a bargain with the viscount.

  Her insides shook with fear thinking about it.

  Now, with two hours to the dreaded meal, Louisa had taken refuge in the mews at the rear of the townhouse, punching into sacks of oats. She wanted to impress Cecil at their next lesson and practicing her movements surprisingly kept anxiety at bay.

  As she worked, the two grooms talked while mucking out the neighboring stall.

  “You going to watch the fight tomorrow?”

  “If I can convince the butler I’m not needed here,” the second groom said with excitement in his voice. “Who are you wagering on?”

  “Mr. Carrington, of course. He’s always my choice. Never lets me down.”

  Louisa’s ears pricked at the familiar name. She stayed her hands in order to listen.

  The second groom scoffed. “He’s rumored to lose, according to the nobs at White’s.”

  “Naw. What do they know? Carrington will take on all comers. Did you see his last bout?”

  “No, but I heard he put down his opponent in quick time.” Admiration hung on his voice.

  “True enough. Got a large following, he has, for a viscount’s son. Who knew one from the ton would take to boxing?”

  What the devil? Louisa poked her head around the stall. Both grooms leaned on their pitchforks. Since she was friends with all the staff, neither of them started or seemed embarrassed. “Mr. Carrington is a viscount’s son?” Why had he never told her? In fact, he hadn’t shared anything of a personal nature with her.

  “So the gossip goes, miss.” The first groom—Thomas—grinned. “It’s said he shuns the ton unless they’re buying his wares or filling his prize purse.” He glanced at the stuffed leather boxing gloves Cecil had let her borrow. “You interested in fisticuffs then?”

  “A bit. It’s hard work.” She frowned and her heartbeat kicked up. “Please don’t tell the baron.”

  He crossed his heart with a finger. “Secret’s safe with us. That man’s a real blighter.”

  I won’t disagree with you.

  “You best go upstairs, miss,” the second groom—John—said with a smile. “Wouldn’t want to dirty your fancy gown.”

  “And listen to the baron fuss about how I’m wasting his blunt? You’re right.” Louisa removed her gloves and hung them on a hook at the rear wall. They were safe there. Then she checked her cloak and the hem of the deep green satin gown. Thankfully, neither garment was dirty. “Have a good evening you two.”

  Worry knotted her gut as she picked her way through the stables, touching horse’s muzzles while she went. Was Cecil in danger with the upcoming fight the grooms had mentioned? Did he know the risks involved? Did he even know his opponent? There was much she was ignorant of when it came to the sport of boxing. But she owed it to him to find out, a repayment for his kindness, perhaps, to warn him about the rumors. Instead of going inside the house, Louisa slipped out onto the street. She wrapped the cloak tight around her as she hurried down the pavement. Once she’d gained a good distance from the house, she hired a hackney cab with the remaining pin money she’d stowed into a clever pocket of her cloak.

  Where would he be at this hour of the evening? She threw a glance about the area. Already, the sun had set, and an autumn chill had set in. But the driver awaited an answer. “Brooks Street, please.”

  “Aye, miss,” he replied as she climbed into the vehicle.

  As the cab lurched forward, Louisa fretted. Did Cecil know how dangerous the sport was? She snorted. Don’t be a widgeon. Of course, he did. So why did he engage in it? I need to learn more about him. And that terrified her. Once she became close to a man—one she trusted, and which would invariably happen if they deepened their friendship—that’s when she got hurt. Yet there was something about him that gave her pause. Yes, he was big and strong and fierce, and he would probably protect her if she asked, but he was also steady and honorable and true.

  It was oddly... comforting.

  When the hackney cab neared Cecil’s shop, she tapped on the roof. “Stop here please.” Through the window glass, she spied Cecil locking the shop door, and he was dressed in a nice suit. Not the elegant evening clothes that were de rigueur for a ton event, but quality, nonetheless. Quickly, she threw open the hack’s door. “Cecil!”

  He jerked about, and when he saw her, he smiled with genuine pleasure. “Louisa. What a surprise.” In the end of the gloaming, he approached the cab, his form tall and straight, his shoulders squared, his clothing that of a gentleman about town. His sandy-blond hair beneath the brim of his top hat was arranged into one of the latest styles.

  And he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Oh, dear Lord. A queer little tickle moved down her spine and into her lower belly. She ignored the reaction. The last thing she needed was to develop a tendre for him. He was her teacher, her mentor, her friend. That was all.

  But damn if she’d now have to create another portrait of him.

  When he reached the vehicle, Cecil gripped the open door with a fine, kid-gloved hand. The delicate skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he looked at her, and the light of amusement dancing through those blue-gray depths held her captive. “Are you well?”

  “More or less.” The knots in her stomach pulled. “Where are you off to at this hour?” His rust-colored waistcoat drew her gaze to the lean line of his torso. His black greatcoat hung open, but instead of hiding his fighter’s form, it enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the nip of his waist. She tamped down the need to sigh in pure appreciation.

  “I’m expected at dinner with my parents.” He glanced at her with a slow perusal as intense as if he’d touched her. “What of you? You’re dressed for an event...” His words trailed off. “Oh, no. It’s tonight. That night. Dinner with Viscount Wrycroft.”

  “Yes, in an hour.” Louisa swallowed down the sour bile that insisted on coming up her throat. “And I... He and my stepfather have conspired to...” She couldn’t finish the sentence, so foul were the facts the baron had bragged over.

  “Tell me.” When she gasped at his commanding tone, he modulated his voice. “Please.”

  “They mean to use me in the basest of ways, between them, a shared slave as it were.” Her voice shook. “The baron told me this himself some days ago.”

  “Good God! Does his depravity know no bounds?” The words echoed in the closed space. All previous happiness vanished from his expression.

  “Now you know why I live in daily fear of him.” Louisa pressed her lips together. “I can’t let this happen, Cecil. I just can’t.” Of course, there was nothing he could do for her outside of challenging the baron. She didn’t want that, couldn’t put Cecil in danger. As it was, if her stepfather discovered her connection to this man, however slight, they’d both land in the drink. “It was a mistake to search you out. Obviously, you have another engagement and do not need my troubles in your ev
ening.”

  Instantly, his eyes darkened and flashed. “Scoot over.”

  “No. I won’t let you—”

  “Louisa, I’m doing this.” His tone brooked no argument. “As of yet, I’m not late, so move over.” As she slid across the bench with worn springs, he addressed the driver and handed the man a few paper notes—much more than a trip anywhere in London would cost. “A tour through Hyde Park, and then a slow drive through Mayfair to Baron Althrop’s residence.” When Cecil sat beside her and closed the door, he said, “We are taking the scenic route.”

  “Oh.” A tremor of pleasure buzzed through her. The space in the hack seemed filled with his presence. Cecil’s shoulder brushed hers, and warmth emanated from the point of contact. The scent of him—citrus, spearmint, and smoke from his ovens, both set her at ease and heightened her new awareness of him.

  “Why did you seek me out? My shop is in the opposite direction of your home, where I assume you came from?” His tenor was modulated once more, and gooseflesh popped along her arms.

  “I came to look for you because...” Because she was a ninny, and he’d probably chuckle over her concerns when he was alone. Louisa cleared her throat. Having him so close should terrify her, but she felt... awake, perhaps alive as she never had before. “I desperately need to talk with you,” she finally finished in a hushed voice.

  Immediately, his body went taut. He turned toward her, meeting her gaze in the dim interior of the hack. “Did your stepfather lay hands on you? Violate you?” His voice was deceptively low with a warning rumbling through it. “I’ll kill him, I swear it.”

  Was it possible to wish to fall into a man’s eyes and find the peace promised in those depths? “No, thank God. Mother kept him busy last night. No doubt in preparation for this damned dinner. The night before that, he was at his clubs late and passed out upon coming home. However, my friend Olivia has offered the use of her home if things grow exceptionally violent.”