Chapter Eleven
James was surprised by how easy it was to talk to Lady Sarah. There was no judgment in her eyes, no haughtiness. Of course, she didn’t know anything about his profession yet…but he felt that, even if she did, she would not look at him with disdain.
He liked her, he realized.
It came as a bit of a shock. He’d expected to like her for other reasons, not because she was kind.
They continued down the row, chatting genially about inkwells and quills. It was a conversation that would have bored him out of his mind any other day, but today he felt all the things he wanted, almost within reach, and even the dullest topic in the world couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm.
After a few minutes, Lady Sarah said her good-byes and left the shop with her maid at her side. James, alert and sharp and heady with triumph and nerves, moved to the wax display. Eleanor Townsend was staring down at a collection of red wax sticks that all looked the same with a furrow in her brow, as though they held the secrets to the universe.
He pulled at his cravat, trying to loosen it from his too-warm skin. This was a subtler version of how he felt after winning a fight, that hot thrill of success, surging through his veins.
“Well?” he said, when she didn’t look up. He was a little annoyed that she was ignoring him.
Her warm-brown eyes lifted to his, but when she spoke her voice was cool. “Well?” she echoed.
“It worked.”
“I suppose. I wasn’t paying much attention.”
“Studying the fascinating properties of wax?” he asked lightly, fighting a twinge of irritation. “Why do they smell like that?”
“They’re rose scented. It’s supposed to be pleasing.”
“Just like it’s pleasing to stick one’s head in a rosebush?”
“Did you speak this way to Lady Sarah?” she asked suddenly.
Behind her, Georgina, who was shuffling through some items, cocked her head. James would have bet anything that the girl had no idea what she was looking at.
“Of course not.” He was trying to woo Lady Sarah, not entice her to slap him.
“Do you not feel that you’re being dishonest?”
He barked out a laugh, and the shopkeeper scowled at them. “Should you be the one to lecture me on dishonesty?” he returned.
She looked around and then lowered her voice. “I don’t wish to marry any of the men in the Natural History Society.”
“A good thing, too. I’d like to see how that revelation would go.” When she didn’t speak, he said, “Do you think anyone is entirely honest during a courtship?”
“There is middle ground between complete honesty and complete dishonesty,” she answered.
He wasn’t certain why her prickliness annoyed him so much. It hadn’t annoyed him before. But before, he hadn’t been eager to find out what she’d thought of his conversation with Lady Sarah—he assumed he’d done well, but reassurance from someone who knew would be even better.
Apparently, he wouldn’t be receiving that much-wanted reassurance.
And her prickliness hadn’t sounded quite so pointed before, as though something had shifted between then and now. As though she’d finally decided that she didn’t really like him all that much.
But then, what did it matter if she liked him, as long as she helped him?
“I didn’t take you for a romantic.”
“I’m not…I am just…Lady Sarah deserves better,” she burst out.
Something twisted in his chest, something deep and sharp and cruel. “No doubt she does,” he said with a careless grin. “But it’s not the best man who triumphs in these cases. It’s the man who can present himself to the best advantage. Courtship isn’t about honesty, it’s about winning.”
“That is exceedingly unpleasant.” The words were crisp and punctuated, little jabs to his ribs.
“That’s the truth,” he said bluntly. “Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”
She lifted her shoulder as though she was shrugging him off. “I did what you asked me to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I set up the introduction. I’d rather not take part in this any further.”
His gut twisted. He needed Eleanor. One introduction wasn’t enough. Not for an earl’s daughter. He needed more time with Lady Sarah, more time to make her like him so she would overlook his origins. Right now, he didn’t stand a chance. “We’re not finished.”
“Mr. MacGregor—”
She stopped as he leaned closer to her, one arm stretched along the shelf of wax. It was strange, to be so near her body. When she’d been Cecil, he’d only seen what he’d expected to see. Now he noticed everything…the softer parts of her slender form, the pulse that ticked in her throat, the dark flutter of her lashes.
And in those whisky eyes he saw coolness, intelligence, irritation.
“An introduction won’t do anything if I never have the chance to see her again. You should host something. A dinner. A ball. I don’t care. I’ll just need time to prepare, either way.”
“This is beyond the—”
“Cecil,” he said in a soft croon. He was an ass, and he knew it. He just liked the way her eyes narrowed on him when he used that name. He liked her anger better than her coolness. Coolness meant she was dismissing him, but anger…anger took energy, it took focus. Anger meant she was aware of him, just as he was oddly aware of her. “I’m not asking for much.”
“Fine,” she said, her jaw tense. “Will you let me pass?”
His arm slid off the shelf, and he stepped back. Eleanor didn’t look at him at all, and even her sister, who seemed fairly laidback, glanced at him with something like disapproval.
He went back home and spent some time looking through his financial accounts, trying to figure out how many horses he could buy at the next Grassmarket. But once that was done, instead of feeling satisfied, he only felt distracted and restless.
He should have been reminiscing about his first meeting with Lady Sarah. There was plenty to admire about her, after all, aside from wealth and a good family name—there was the easiness of her manners, the sweetness of her smile, the prettiness of her round face and soft lips. But those memories faded, and all he could really remember was Eleanor ignoring him, Eleanor frowning at him, Eleanor asking to be released from their agreement.
Damn that woman!
…
“You look like you want to hit something,” Stephen said, accompanied by his friends, as they went up to the saloon.
James was still vaguely irritated by his argument with Eleanor, no matter how much he tried to shake the emotion.
“Are you volunteering?”
“Only if you wear mufflers,” Stephen said, picking up a set of boxing gloves hanging from a hook on the wall.
James sighed. He’d told himself when he began this saloon that he’d slowly pull away from boxing—he would instruct from a distance, observe and correct without actually getting his hands dirty. Eventually he would hire other successful pugilists to teach and have no connection to the saloon other than owning it. And then maybe someday he would sell it completely, buy land, rent out to tenants. Do everything a gentleman was supposed to do. He could extricate himself as cleanly as possible from his early days as a desperate prizefighter.
He would have to, if this start with Lady Sarah went to a finish. If she and her family actually decided to overlook his background, he couldn’t throw it in their face by actively teaching the sport. He needed to distance himself from it.
Stephen lobbed the mufflers at him, trying to catch him off guard. But his reflexes were too quick for that. He snatched them out of the air and pulled them onto his hands.
They moved to the center of the room. All of his restless energy focused to a point. They circled each other, and James’s feet turned graceful on the practice floor. He was alert and sharp, honed in a way he never was outside of practice or the prize ring.
Here he didn’t have to apologize for his large size or too-energetic personality. Here, they weren’t detriments.
Stephen threw a punch. His form was good—he’d been listening—but James still easily dodged it.
“Damn.” Stephen grimaced.
“You’re doing better,” James said.
“You’re too fast.”
He grinned.
He danced away from a few more jabs, and then threw some in Stephen’s direction so he could practice blocking them. And get used to the shock of taking a hit. It was a bigger part of boxing than a lot of people realized. It was best to avoid getting hit, but it was also an inevitability that it would happen.
A good boxer just had to take the blow, absorb the shock, push aside the pain, move on. A good boxer couldn’t stop, he couldn’t be afraid. He had to keep moving. Keep looking forward.
When Stephen asked for some time to rest, James went around to the other men, watching them, correcting their technique, taking some time to spar with them himself.
James worked up a light sheen of sweat. His muscles felt gloriously warm and stretched. And the air he breathed in tasted like nectar.
He knew, objectively, that his body was alive, but when he fought, his body felt alive.
At the end of the sparring process, he went to the wall to hang up his gloves, but he was oddly reluctant to let go of them. He felt at home here, in this little space he’d built for himself.
Boxing was probably the only thing he’d ever been good at. It seemed a shame to give it up.
But resolve had never been his problem.
A fresh wave of it nearly bowled him over as he remembered peeking into shop windows, grimy hands pressed to the glass until the owners inevitably chased him away. He’d been so young, left alone as his mother worked, and he’d stared at all the fine things on display, all the things a boy like him couldn’t even touch, and he’d yearned. Even then, he’d wanted some small piece of beauty for himself, something he could hold and admire, something he wouldn’t just covet, but could own. He remembered, later, cold, hard eyes that looked at him like he was nothing and a cold, elegant voice to match. Why would I go anywhere with you?
And that yearning had changed, shifted, become an almost savage hunger.
James’s hand tightened to a fist. He would have everything. Everything he’d dreamed of. Everything he’d ached for.
And if he had to give up something he loved for something he needed, he would.