Chapter 10
“Your left is trailing, Carden!” The shout cracked through the clamor of White’s like a hunting whip.
Felix ducked, twisted, and let his opponent’s fist whistle past his ear before countering with a body blow that thudded satisfyingly against damp linen and muscle. Viscount Trentham, two stone heavier and built like a siege engine, let out a startled grunt and staggered.
Felix stepped back, grinned, and wiped a sleeve across his mouth.
Blood spotted the cuff. He relished the salt-iron taste, the honesty of it.
Boxing was a welcome reprieve from the peacock’s parade of the London Season, a space where nobody cared about your reputation so long as you could throw a punch and stay upright for twelve rounds.
The ring was a makeshift circle of chairs dragged into the center of the club’s second drawing room; the ornate carpets protected by hastily scuffed duck canvas.
The usual suspects ringed the edge: three minor noblemen, a mob of well-pickled younger sons, and a pair of members of parliament who liked to bet on the odds with a bookmaker’s eye.
Trentham rallied, swinging high and wild.
Felix ducked again, stepped inside the man’s reach, and drove his shoulder into the viscount’s ribs.
A cheer went up as Trentham wheezed, wrapped Felix in a bear hug, and tried to pin his arms. It was a tactic of desperation and, Felix suspected, a way to buy breath.
Felix heard his own name volleyed around with the usual adjectives: mad, damned, game to the last. He broke free from the clinch, both men panting and slick with sweat.
The ref, a bored baronet’s son, murmured, “Break!” and the two men circled, sizing each other up anew.
Then the commotion at the far end of the room changed tenor. The laughter hiccupped and became nervous. A voice said, “Good God,” and Felix, glancing over Trentham’s shoulder, saw the crowd part with almost military haste.
There, standing just inside the door in a traveling dress three shades too somber for her youth, was Rose.
Felix almost let himself get punched in the nose for the distraction, but he dodged at the last second and took only a glancing hit. The world narrowed to a point around her: her wide eyes, the flush rising along her cheekbones, the little blue hat trembling just so atop her head.
For a moment, she looked so lost in the testosterone fug that Felix feared she would bolt. Then her gaze fixed on him—shirt clinging, bruised and smiling like a devil—and something in her spine straightened.
“Stop!” she cried, the word fracturing the room into utter stillness.
Every man present turned, various stages of bared teeth and dishevelment arrested mid-motion. Trentham looked aghast, red-faced, and dripping.
Felix broke into a full, toothy grin. “You heard the lady,” he said and raised a hand, signaling a halt.
For a moment, Rose simply stood there, blinking. When the reality of fifty men all staring at her settled in, she colored fiercely and nearly retreated back through the door.
Felix strode to the ring’s edge, rolled his shoulders, and yanked a towel from the nearest attendant. He dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow, tossed the towel aside, and crossed to her.
The men, silent now, formed a corridor for his approach.
He stopped a foot in front of her. The scent of her—lilies and, inexplicably, paper and ink—cut through the sour tang of sweat. She stared at him with a mixture of horror and pure, unguarded intrigue.
Felix bowed, the move slightly ruined by his half-undone shirt and bare fists. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Your Grace?”
She floundered. “I—I was told by the butler you’d be here. I did not realize—”
Felix waited; eyebrows raised. He glanced over her shoulder at the ring. “I would have won,” he said, loud enough for Trentham to hear.
“Unlikely!” Trentham called, holding his ribs.
Felix ignored him. “Is there an emergency? Or did you simply wish to witness this carnage firsthand?”
She stiffened. “There is no emergency. At least, not of that sort.” Her gaze dropped to the blood at his temple, then away. “I needed to speak to you. I didn’t expect to find you like this.”
He grinned. “What, shirtless and sweaty?”
This brought another wave of crimson to her cheeks. Felix took pity. He draped the towel over his shoulders and inclined his head. “Come. There’s a sitting room beyond. It’s quieter.”
He led her through the crowd of stunned clubmen. Once inside the smaller room—booklined, wood-paneled, and mercifully cool—Felix closed the door and found the nearest decanter. He poured her a glass of sherry and, for himself, a healthy finger of whiskey.
She looked at the sherry as if it might contain gunpowder. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You did, but I forgive you. Trentham has been insufferable all week. I relished the reprieve.” He sipped his whiskey and watched her over the rim.
She fussed with her gloves. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced in the gilt mirror above the mantel and shrugged. “Scalp wounds bleed more than they ought. Are you squeamish?”
“No.”
He caught the lie for what it was. He crossed to her, leaning against the window seat. “Now, what did you wish to say?”
She hesitated. “I talked with my mother.”
He gave her his full attention. “And?”
“She suggests we hold a christening for Lizzie.” Rose said the words in a rush. “As soon as possible. To solidify her place. To put to rest any rumors before they start.”
Felix’s first reaction was a laugh. The second was an uncomfortable prickle at the base of his spine. “Your mother is a strategist. I’ll give her that.”
She blinked. “You don’t think it’s wise?”
“I think it is… ambitious. It will be the talk of the town. And it will invite every wagging tongue in London into our business.”
“Then it’s a bad idea.” She looked stricken.
Felix set his glass down. “No. It’s an excellent idea.
We should do it. It will put the question to bed and make our arrangement seem more permanent.
After a public christening in the hall’s own chapel, no one can deny her.
Even Lady Rutledge will have to curtsy when she sees you in the park.
” He reached out and tugged the edge of Rose’s sleeve.
“You worry too much about the world. Let them worry about you for once.”
She looked up at him. “I don’t like being the center of attention,” she said.
“You’ll have to get used to that as well. It’s the only way forward.”
She considered this, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll begin with the invitations. You will come, of course?”
He laughed outright. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that vibrated between possible futures. Felix considered, briefly, how easy it would be to kiss her at once—she smelled of roses and starch and some indescribable sweetness, and for all her iron, she was softer than anyone guessed.
Instead, he poured them both a second round and lifted his glass. “To Lizzie,” he said.
She clinked hers against his, her lips twisting into something dangerously close to a smile. “To Lizzie.”
Felix downed his whiskey, then reached for the bellpull. “We’ll need to buy you a proper dress for the ceremony. And one for Lizzie, as well. It is a joyous occasion, after all.”
She almost objected, but he saw the glimmer in her eyes.
“You don’t have to,” she said; a token effort.
He waved it off. “I insist. If there is to be gossip, let it be about your wardrobe, not your resolve.”
She surrendered with an exhale. “You’re impossible.”
“Frequently. That’s why it works.”
Felix’s eyes flashed when he thought of Rose in a gown, tailored to fit her perfectly.
“You should return home,” he said, turning away from her. “Rest. Tomorrow will be tedious, but worth it.”
“You’ll be all right?” She watched him, the wariness returning.
“Trentham is a lamb compared to you. I’ll manage.” He grinned, showing every tooth.
Rose hesitated at the door, then, on impulse, reached up to touch the cut at his brow. Her finger was cool and gentle, and Felix felt the touch as if she had pressed a brand to his skin.
“You’re bleeding again,” she murmured.
He caught her hand and held it, just for a moment, then let it go. “Occupational hazard.”
She dropped her gaze, the smile lingering.
Felix watched her go, the color of her dress burning afterimages against his eyelids.
As the door shut, the room seemed colder.
“Stand still, Rose, or you’ll stab yourself again.” Felix’s voice was low, amused, as he watched the world’s finest pins pass within a hair’s breadth of his wife’s ribs.
He lounged on the divan, eyes tracking every flutter and motion across the shop.
Rose glared at him in the mirror, the effect spoiled by the blush that climbed from collarbone to hairline. “You said this was a private appointment.”
He grinned. “It is. Only the staff and I have the privilege.”
The dressmaker, a monument of black silk and mother-of-pearl spectacles, tsked at the hem. “Your Grace, if you continue fidgeting, I’ll be forced to sew you into the garment and be done with it.”
“I’d pay triple for the spectacle,” Felix said.
The shop was a shrine to excess: bolts of velvet and brocade draped over every surface, a thousand shades of dye in open rebellion against the neutral light. Felix had never been in such a place for longer than the time it took to pay a bill.
This was different. The entire staff orbited Rose, alternately terrified and enthralled.
Now she stood on the dais, encased in a confection of blue tulle and delicate beadwork. Felix, who had once sat for a tailor bored enough to invent three new adjectives for the color gray, felt his mouth go dry.
“You can breathe, can’t you?” he asked, barely suppressing a grin as the maid fastened the final hook at her back.
Rose shot him a glare. “No, I cannot, and you know it.”
“Then I’ll carry you everywhere,” Felix replied. She rolled her eyes, but the edges of her mouth twitched.
The dressmaker completed her final pass and beckoned Felix over. “Your Grace, do you approve the fit?”
He circled the dais slowly, letting Rose feel the weight of his gaze. Her spine stiffened. Instead of appraising the cut, Felix found himself studying the way the blue set her honey-brown eyes alight. He ran a hand, feather-light, along her arm.
“She’ll outshine the Madonna in every church window,” he said.
The dressmaker smothered a smile. Rose said nothing, but the flush had migrated to her ears.
Felix snapped his fingers. “Pack it. And every other one you’ve prepared. If you’ve anything else in midnight blue or near enough, send it to Carden House.”
The staff bowed and scuttled. Felix watched as Rose, momentarily abandoned, regarded herself in the mirror, both pleased and bewildered, as if the reflection belonged to someone else.
“Your Grace,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to—”
He cut her off. “It is the least I can do. For you. For Lizzie.”
She hesitated, then their eyes met in the mirror. For once, there was no scorn or suspicion. Only something careful, and open, and very, very brave.
“Thank you,” she said.
Felix wanted to take her in his arms right then, to kiss her until the windows steamed over. But he had a performance to stage, and she deserved better than a scandal in a dressmaker’s shop.
Instead, he leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the curls at her temple. “You are going to be a dangerous distraction, Rose. Try to remember that I’m the only one here who’s supposed to be on your side.”
She half-turned, startled, and nearly toppled from the dais. Felix caught her, steadying her waist with strong hands. The heat of her skin burned through the fabric.
He held her just a second too long.
The staff returned, arms loaded with boxes and wrappings and no small measure of delighted giggling.
Felix escorted Rose to the sitting room at the front, where a waiting tea service had been laid out for two.
He poured her a cup, watching as she fought to keep the gloves free of jam and biscuit crumbs.
There was a childlike pleasure in it, and for a moment Felix wondered what sort of childhood she’d actually had.
Had anyone ever given her a present just because it would make her happy? Had anyone ever told her she looked beautiful, without expecting to own her afterwards?
He meant to ask, but the words would not form.
“Tomorrow is the baptism. The whole city will be there. I’ll wager a year’s rent that Lady Rutledge tries to upstage us.”
Rose sipped her tea. “She will be impossible to avoid. Even my mother expects her to make trouble.”
Felix smiled. “I look forward to it.”
She looked up, the intensity of her gaze pinning him to the chair. “You really don’t care what they say about you, do you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. And if I haven’t, I intend to.” She laughed, the sound unguarded, and he realized this was the first time he’d heard her truly laugh.
He leaned in, his tone dropping. “You must know, Rose, that there’s nothing they could say to make me regret this.”
Rose looked at him, the question plain. “Will it always be like this?”
He shrugged, then grinned. “With you? I certainly hope so.”
She laughed again, and the air between them shifted—charged, expectant.
Felix finished his tea, offered her his arm, and together they stepped out into London’s soft sunlight.