Her Prodigal Passion (37 page)

"Christ, I love fucking you." He bucked, hard and deep. "I'll never get enough."

Her hips shoved back to meet his thrusts. She twisted her head to look at him, her eyes full of fire and love. "Good, because I love having you inside me. Fucking me ..."—her eyes squeezed shut as he rammed his shaft home—"loving me."

"I'll always love you," he said savagely. "To my dying breath."

Her head dropped, a dreamy smile on her lips as she gave herself over to their lovemaking. He wanted to make this last, to draw out her passion, but the sight of her milky bottom, reddened from his pounding began to unravel his self-control. His vision darkened as he watched his cock spreading her swollen lips, felt the hips beneath his palms vibrate as his bollocks spanked her sex again and again.

Too much.

His climax roared over him. Heat rushed from his balls, gushed with shuddering intensity up his shaft. Groaning, he emptied himself inside her, gave her everything he was as if this were the very last time.

When he could catch his breath, he gathered her in his arms and held her tight. His eyes were damp. Because now that he'd found heaven, he never wanted to let her go.

FORTY-FOUR

"I do wish you'd let me go with you," Charity said.

Paul nodded at his valet, who exited the bedchamber with the travelling cases. Paul was leaving for Banstead Downs, a three hour drive south of London. The match was tomorrow afternoon, and his plan was to get there a day early to rest and prepare for his fight against Barnes.

He cupped his wife's shoulders and placed a kiss on the tip of her little nose.

"We've been through this before," he said. "I can't afford a distraction."

"But I won't get in your way, I promise—"

"No, love," he said gently but firmly. As much as he hated to be parted from her, he could not allow her to witness what was certain to be a bloodbath. Shaping his lips into a smile, he said, "It's considered bad luck to have one's woman watching the fight. I'll lose my focus worrying about you amongst that rough and tumble lot. Trust me, the place will be teeming with ruffians, ready to riot and pillage at a moment's notice." This part, at least, was true. "A fight is no place for a lady, and you know it."

She huffed out a breath. "Fine. Banish me from the most important event of your life."

Her expression was the closest to a pout that he'd ever seen from her, and his smile deepened into a true grin. "At least you won't be the only one. Hunt says Percy's been sulking ever since he forbade her from going with him."

"One can't blame Mr. Hunt for being protective," Charity muttered, her eyes on his lapel. "Percy is in a delicate condition and mustn't take such risks."

"Precisely. Now are you going to blame me for having husbandly concerns about your welfare?"

"It's not the same. I'm not ..." She turned a charming shade of pink.

And well she should. Given the frequency of their beddings, such an outcome was more than possible. His chest expanded as he thought of Charity, plump with his child. He'd never thought of himself as a fatherly sort, but to have a little girl with eyes like her mama's ... or a boy he could teach to box and ride ...

Conviction flowed through him.

He would survive the damned fight. He'd come back to Charity.

And then they could really start their lives together.

"We have been busy, haven't we?" he murmured. He drew her close, inhaled once more the heavenly scent that was hers alone. "I have to be off, sweeting. Be a good wife now, and give me a kiss for luck."

Her lips were sweet and passionate, everything he could want. In the end, he had to break the kiss. If he didn't, he feared he wouldn't have the courage to leave her.

"Good luck," she said, her voice tremulous. "Be careful, my darling."

He ran a hand over her silky curls, cupping her nape.

"Never forget how much I love you," he said.

He brushed his lips against her forehead and left.

*****

Charity awoke with jarring swiftness, clutching the sheets, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. Rubbing her hands over her damp face, she told herself she'd just had a bad dream. She couldn't recall the specifics of the nightmare, but tendrils of fear snaked through her still.

You're overwrought. Paul will be fine. He'll win today, come home safe and sound.

Yet a shiver coursed over her nape.

Chiding herself for being silly, she got out of bed and lit the lamp. It was still dark, at least an hour before dawn. Restless energy buzzed through her, and she knew she needed something to occupy herself. After performing her ablutions and donning an old gown, she headed to the guest bedchamber.

She set down her lamp, perusing the cramped space. Paul had been using it as a dressing room, and his personal items littered every surface. Shaking her head, Charity picked a rumpled cravat off the floor. She paused, bringing it to her nose. Paul's woodsy scent both soothed her and made her miss him more.

As she sorted his belongings, she realized that Paul was right. They did need to find a home of their own soon. He needed more space, and though they managed to fit themselves in her bed—cuddled like two spoons in a drawer or with her nestled atop of him—a larger bed would give them more room to sleep ... and play. With a wistful smile, she retrieved a pair of cufflinks from the coverlet where he'd tossed them.

Yes, it was time to move on. If they weren't ready to purchase a property of their own, they could rent a flat or cottage for the time being. A place to call their own and to start their new lives together. The thought of leaving her father's house no longer filled her with grief.

I'm sorry you were hurt, Father, and I wish that you could have found happiness. That you were here now to witness mine
, she thought with a pang.
To know that we Sparklers
are
deserving of love.

When Paul returned, she would tell him she wanted to sell this house and begin afresh.

The thought of their future filled her with anticipation.

With cufflinks in hand, she searched for the large leather case that housed his accoutrements. He had brought his compact
nécessaire
to Banstead, so she was certain he'd left the heftier storage case behind. She'd seen it yesterday on the desk, but now all that lay on the surface were some assorted bottles and grooming implements.

Her brow furrowed.
Odd. It has to be in here somewhere.

Given the close quarters, there were limited places the case could be. She searched the small cupboard to no avail. She thought for a moment … and crouched to look beneath the bed.
Voilà
. She dragged the case out, torn between amusement and exasperation. Knowing her husband's habits, he'd probably kicked it aside without a thought.

She lugged the box onto the mattress. Opening the lid, she lifted out the top tray full of stick pins ... and her heart seized. Her mind couldn't make sense of what was before her. With trembling hands, she lifted out the familiar stack of banknotes. She counted them, twice, found the entire sum that she'd given Paul. The amount that he'd told her Garrity had accepted as down payment.

Why did Paul lie to me?

Agitation filled her, the formless panic from her dream now taking on the shape of very real questions. She paced, her mind racing. Why had Paul lied? If he hadn't given Garrity the money, how had he negotiated to get Sparkler's back? What had he used as leverage ... and why wouldn't he tell her the truth?

Fear spurred her heart into a gallop. Clutching the banknotes, she rushed from the chamber. She called for the carriage, grabbed her reticule, and hurried out.

*****

"Mr. Garrity is not at home." The butler looked down his nose at her. "Even if he were, I'm certain he wouldn't take uninvited callers at this early hour."

Charity drew herself up. "This is a matter of utmost importance. Where can I find him?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

She dangled a purse from her fingers, letting the coins within jingle. "Would this change your mind?"

She'd read the butler correctly. His gaze darted around before he held out his hand. Untying the drawstring, she placed a single guinea in his palm.

"Mr. Garrity left for Banstead Downs at dawn," the servant said, confirming her fears. "Got a wager on the match. A surefire win, he said."

Charity forced herself to sound calm. "Which fighter is he betting on?"

The butler arched his brow, his hand outstretched.

She gave him another coin.

"The master says Jem Barnes will take the match, and it'll be a fight for the ages," he said.

"For the ages? Why?" she said in a wavering voice.

When the other did not reply, she shoved the entire coin purse at him.

"Mr. Garrity predicts a bloodbath, and he's never wrong about these things." The money disappeared into the servant's jacket. With a hint of wistfulness in his voice, he added, "Wish I could be there. Like a bit of carnage myself."

The door shut behind him.

Charity stood frozen on the steps, the truth hammering in her chest.

Paul's bargaining chip with Garrity had been the final match. He was going to
deliberately
lose
the championship as payment for the shop's debts. He was going to let himself get beaten, likely
injured
, all for ... her.

Like hell he will.

Even as her love for her husband swelled to infinite proportions, fierce determination surged through her. She turned and dashed down the steps. Because she knew what she had to do, and she only hoped she was not too late.

*****

Charity arrived at the pristine Italianate villa in St. John's Wood a short while later. She'd never had occasion to visit the elegant and rather scandalous neighborhood just northwest of London. Despite its bucolic setting of gardens and cottages, the area was home to the mistresses of the rich, famous artists, and generally anyone who had the money and inclination to live life away from prying eyes.

Charity rang the bell.

The door opened and the large footman said, "Yes, miss? How may I help you?"

Taking a breath, Charity said, "Tell Mrs. Stone that her daughter is here and wishes a word."

The man didn't blink an eye. "Right this way," he said.

He led Charity into a drawing room done up in dramatic shades of emerald and gold. She declined the footman's offer of refreshments and stood by the window as she waited. The peaceful view of the garden did nothing to calm her inner tumult.

Moments later, Mrs. Stone came in. She was
en dishabille
, striking in her red silk dressing gown patterned with chinoiserie. With her hair down and face free of cosmetic, she looked younger, more vulnerable than her usual sophisticated self. The hope shining in her hazel eyes pierced Charity to the quick. Anger spurted, thick and dark as crude.

How could you leave me, mother?

"Charity, my dear," she said, "what a lovely surprise—"

"This isn't a social call. I have come for a reason. To ..."—swallowing, Charity forced out the words—"to ask for your help."

"Anything," Mrs. Stone said. "Anything at all."

"I want you to know that even if you help me, it changes nothing between us," Charity said as her heart thudded. "I can never forgive you for what you've done."

The light faded from the actress' eyes. "I know. That makes two of us." Exhaling, she said, "How can I be of service to you, my dear?"

FORTY-FIVE

Though the match had not yet begun, the roar of the rabble was already deafening, even inside the carriage where Paul waited. The mob at Banstead Downs was larger than any he'd seen at his previous fights. Beside the carriage, the ring was being set up: four stakes roping off the eight-foot square where the final battle would be held. On the opposite side of the ring stood Barnes' carriage. It gleamed, enormous and black, the crimson drapes pulled shut.

Surrounding the ring were men—mostly drunk and getting drunker—as far as the eye could see. Like a swarm of termites, the crowd had taken over the dusty field. Traymore had estimated that upwards of ten thousand spectators would show, and an exponentially larger amount of blunt would change hands.

Glancing out into the throng, Paul could make out the bookmakers: like pebbles landing in a pond, they were surrounded by ever growing circles. Men shouted and waved their caps to have their wagers taken. The sight made bile rise in Paul's throat. Sods who were betting on him didn't stand a chance. All because of that bastard Garrity.

Paul's fists clenched. What he wouldn't give to have a chance at a fair fight. To face Barnes on his own terms.

As if sensing his tension, Fogg, his knee man, said, "Touch o' the nerves is perfectly normal. That's a right proper crowd. Weren't 'alf as many 'ere at the Mendoza-Owens match last year."

"That's on account o' Mendoza and Owens bein' old codgers past their prime." Snorting, Stickley readied the bottles of water and oranges that he would use to refresh Paul during the fight. "Trust me, you've got nothin' to worry 'bout, sir. Forget the crowd. Just fight like you've practiced an' you'll make mincemeat out o' Barnes. He ain't nothin' but a brawler, and a true boxer like yourself wins every time."

Paul's gut curled. He gave a tight nod.

"Barnes is a brute," Fogg agreed, "so remember to keep your guard up. 'E likes to come in 'igh, and 'e's rung more than a few bells with that uppercut o' his."

Paul hoped his skull was hard enough to survive Barnes' summons.

The carriage door opened, letting in a swell of noise as well as Lord Traymore.

The viscount's face was red and glistening with excitement. "Now that's a crowd!" he said. "'Pon honor, the Fancy's never had such a turnout. Those coves outside are raring for a good fight. Which you're more than ready to deliver, eh Fines?"

"I'll do what I can," Paul said.
To stay alive.

"Barnes doesn't stand a chance. I can't wait to see the looks at White's when I collect," Traymore crowed. "Bets against me took up several pages in the betting book."