Chapter Eight
F or days after the ball, Michael had the overwhelming urge to run. He yearned to run and run and run and run until his legs melted to pudding and his lungs threatened to explode. But he was in London enduring another afternoon. Running wasn’t something one did in Town unless you were a thief pilfering pockets or a young buck late for your first appointment with your new mistress. He’d considered riding in the park, but he got no farther than a few lengths from the mews before he spun around and returned home.
There was no explaining it. Michael was decidedly out of form. And it was the worst possible time. Tommy had scheduled a fight for that evening, and it was a big one. Tim O’Shaughnessy was fresh off an impressive streak of wins in Ireland and considered the top contender to be the next bare-knuckle champion. The Irishman and his people considered Michael a mere steppingstone before getting a chance at real competition—the current champion, Jack Harrison.
Michael also had his eye on Harrison, but arranging a fight with the star had proven difficult. For a man who’d barely been told no his entire life, Michael had been hearing it a lot over the past few years. Fighting was a sport for the common man, and there was nothing common about Michael. Although, on paper, the idea of beating an aristocrat to a bloody pulp looked appealing, the practicality of it often turned men away. The repercussions could be too great. Many of the fighters who didn’t know Michael considered him a liability, a fancy lad who was out searching for a lark. Fighting, though enormously popular in both the upper and middle classes, was still illegal. Men died all the time in the ring, or shortly outside of it from complications. No one wanted to accidentally kill a lord—a viscount, almost an earl—and have to deal with the questions.
But that hadn’t stopped Tommy. Michael’s unflagging trainer had worked just as hard to get Michael the matches he needed as he did to get his trainee ready for them. The Irishman was his latest miracle. Perhaps O’Shaughnessy assumed that if the match went belly up and Michael turned up worse for wear, he could hide out across the water until matters settled. Michael didn’t care what his rationale was. He had no intention of hitting the ground, let alone settling in for the long sleep six feet under tonight. His toe would make it to the line as many times as needed.
But the day dragged on. Michael still had hours until he had to meet Tommy at the gym, and this tortuous restlessness continued to plague him. He placed most of the blame on the excitement for the match; however, Michael knew that didn’t explain all of it.
And when he found himself navigating London’s streets lost in meandering thought all the way to Maggie’s aunt’s townhouse, that only proved it.
He pushed his top hat lower over his brow. What the hell am I doing here? he wondered. This was the kind of insane thing lovesick puppies did, although they usually knocked on the door and presented flowers or chocolates. What was it about Maggie that kept dragging his mind and body back to her? Why did he see her face before he fell asleep each night? And why did he constantly ponder what she would say about things? Just that morning, he’d read a story in the newspaper about the charity that Harry Homes was starting for the poor immigrant families arriving in droves from Ireland, and he’d wondered what she thought of the idea. Why did he care about what Maggie thought?
Because Maggie cared what Maggie thought. That was why.
Her confidence had always scared him. As a boy, it had given him pause because his own mettle had been so weak. He could admit that now. He’d been intimidated in his youth, which was why he’d been the first to call her names and dismiss her accomplishments along with the other children in their parents’ friend group— all her accomplishments over him.
Michael was grateful to realize he and the others hadn’t broken her spirit with their stupidity and childish jealousy. She’d always been worth ten of them, and they’d all known it. Michael liked to think that he’d grown into himself, that the intimidation had waned as the years passed, but seeing her with that old duke, that irrepressibly charming and good-for-nothing scoundrel, at the ball had brought back all those old feelings of inadequacy.
The woman had changed her tune rather quickly on marriage. It only took one handsome duke’s roving eye to fall on her before she backtracked. Of all people, why Lord Oliver? And what did he see in Maggie? Well, Michael knew what he saw: a beautiful woman who could make a man’s belly hurt with laughter from a clever comment. A woman who was equal parts wild and soft, who knew her own mind and couldn’t resist letting you know it too. A woman who once rode a sheep better than any boy and threw mud in his face when he dared ridicule her for it.
But how could Lord Oliver know all this? How could he appreciate it the way it should be?
Michael stopped pacing and stared at Lady Alice’s door once more. His side ached as if his fight had already started, and O’Shaughnessy was aiming to break as many ribs as possible.
Michael wasn’t the biggest fighter. Compared to most, he was tall and wiry but made up for the lack of bulk with speed and stamina. The pain in his stomach had nothing to do with nervousness from the upcoming brawl. He was scared. Again. And, again, it was Maggie’s doing. Because in this one moment of his life, Michael was terrified that he was the one who had been too slow. He could admire and value all the little idiosyncratic things that made Maggie Maggie . But what if it was too late? What if Lord Oliver accepted and loved them first?
The door opened, startling Michael from his plaguing thoughts. With her ridiculous dog in tow, Maggie came out into the sunlight and started down the sidewalk. She was a far cry from the girl he’d bantered with at the ball. Gone were the feathers and yards of silk. She wore a simple light-blue day dress and matching, perfunctory parasol. Her bonnet was tied tight, protecting her wavy butterscotch hair from the reliable afternoon breeze. She walked steadily with a determined air. That was why Michael fell into step behind her. He wasn’t following her, he told himself. He was merely curious. Her expression wasn’t an ordinary I’m going to the park expression, though that was exactly where she was headed.
Michael gave her space, wanting to watch her for a time before addressing her. There was something exciting about studying Maggie when her guard was down. She smiled politely and nodded to the people she passed, always apologizing for her ill-mannered dog and all his insufferable yapping and attempted ankle bites.
However, the more Michael followed, the more he sensed something was awry. A couple of times, Maggie’s footsteps slowed, and she twisted her neck to scan behind her. Michael made sure to hide from her view. When she was done searching for whatever she was searching for, she picked up her pace one more, still steady but less relaxed.
Just as Michael decided to catch up with her, Maggie ducked into a skinny alleyway, one that Michael was positive was a dead end. What the hell is she doing now?
He bided his time, waiting for her to come back. After a few minutes, his patience ran out. Michael had ideas of what happened to unsuspecting ladies in dark alleyways and none of them were good. He picked up his feet, hurrying into the alley.
Michael was just about to call out her name when—
“Oof!”
—the sharp brim of a bonnet slammed him right in the chin.
Michael grabbed hold of two arms to steady himself, holding tight despite the wiggling. Maggie’s eyes came up from under the brim, violent and bright. “What are you doing here?” she said, yanking free. “Were… were you spying on me? And why are you always bumping into me?”
There was suspicion in her gaze, but also relief.
“Maybe because you never watch where you’re going. And no, I wasn’t spying on you!” he lied. “Why would you even think that?”
Maggie wrapped her arms around her chest. The day was far from chilly, but goosebumps erupted over her pale upper arms. “Because I saw… I thought I…” Her neck wilted, but not before Michael saw the flush in her cheeks. She was scared. And it was because of him.
“What?”
She chewed on her lower lip. “Someone was trailing me. I hid in the alley to see if they would follow me in.” She paused. “But there was only you.”
Guilt flooded him. “How do you know someone was following you?”
“I felt it. Don’t look at me like that. I did. And it’s not the first time. It’s happened before—and recently. Don’t tell me I’m imagining things.”
“I’m not,” Michael said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But there are many people walking about. It could have felt like someone was following you.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Like yourself?”
“I wasn’t following you,” he lied—again. “I saw you—actually, I heard your barking, hairy sausage—and came to inquire about your day. And now I’m glad I did. It seems like I warded off a pickpocket or maybe even a kidnapper.”
Michael hated lying, and he wasn’t sure why he was doing it now. He felt lower than a snake. Lower than her precious sausage dog, who wouldn’t stop growling at him. Little George eyed his ankle like it were a Christmas ham.
Maggie pushed past, breaking onto the sidewalk once more. “Don’t tease about things like that. Dognappers are running rampant in the city. It’s always in the papers.”
“I’m not teasing,” Michael replied, falling into step beside her. The pain in his stomach subsided. How could the blasted woman be the source and the cure of his discomfort? “I wouldn’t dare. Well, you’re safe now anyway. No one will get past me.”
Maggie barked an acerbic laugh. “I don’t need you; I have George.”
The animal was staring at Michael’s boots. If that damn thing tried to bite him… “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
A silence fell. Michael would have liked to consider it a comfortable one, but it was not. Maggie was still on edge, and he was… whatever he was.
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he asked, “Are you off to the park? I am as well.”
From the corner of his eye, Michael saw her frown. “I’ve never taken you for someone who enjoys a long walk,” she replied stiffly.
“Well, I do,” Michael lied again. Why was it so hard just to be himself around her? Maybe he’d navigated his life between two selves for so long lately that he couldn’t remember which one was the real him. “It’s good training, actually,” he went on, struggling to stay nonchalant. “It strengthens the lungs.”
“Oh.”
Michael thought he heard a tiny sliver of interest, and it buoyed him forward. “So many people believe that it’s all the hitting that takes a fighter out of a match early.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” he replied eagerly. “It’s the lungs. All that punching and swinging and ducking. It’s exhausting. If a man is not properly fit, he’ll lose the match before he even takes a few swift jabs to the jaw.”
Maggie’s steps slowed as she appeared to mull over his words. Michael appreciated that she was taking him seriously. He rarely discussed fighting strategies with anyone outside of Tommy. His parents didn’t wish to hear about it, and his friends were most interested in the outcome rather than the preparation. It was a rare person who wanted to know how the food was prepared; they just wanted to eat it.
“I had no idea,” Maggie replied, gently yanking her leash before George could jump on a passing little boy who was enjoying a fresh hand pie.
“Now you do.”
“So, you walk…”
Michael’s smile widened. “Well, I’d prefer to run, but now isn’t the time. Can you imagine me loping through the park with one hand on my hat and the other pumping beside me? I’d probably get thrown straight into an asylum.”
“And they’d throw away the key,” Maggie said, laughing, and the sound scratched at something inside Michael’s chest. He rarely considered a woman’s laugh—not like he did Maggie’s. Deep and throaty, her laugh was a far cry from the sweet and demure giggles of other ladies in their set. Nevertheless, Michael noticed that it didn’t happen often, most likely because Maggie didn’t lie. If she found something amusing, she saw little point in hiding that fact. The same could be said for what she didn’t find amusing—which was usually him.
“Or worse,” she continued, thankfully oblivious to his thoughts, “they’d gossip about you in the papers.”
“My mother would love that, I’m sure,” Michael drawled. “Another crazy Earl of Waverly. Must be in the blood.”
Maggie stopped and regarded him. Her face was exquisitely round, perfectly so. Michael had once heard that the sun was the only perfectly round object in nature. He had an inane desire to find the person who’d said that and debate them until they changed their mind.
“Your father isn’t crazy.”
Michael grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his father. But by the resolute way Maggie looked at him… Even George had shut his trap, sensing the seriousness of his mistress. With a sigh, Michael relented. “No, but my mother likes to think of him that way. It’s easier for her to understand.”
Maggie nodded, beginning to move again. Her forehead puckered as she considered her next words. Again, this was rare for Michael. People asked him about his father even less than they asked about fighting. “I suppose a wife doesn’t want to believe her husband is in love with someone else.”
“Especially if that someone else is a man.”
Michael froze. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. To a woman, of all people. What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t. That was the problem. Somewhere in the conversation, he’d stopped trying to be someone—not a fighter or a viscount. Michael was just being .
“I apologize—”
Maggie twisted her neck to him, one brow arched. “Are they? I mean to say… do they… love each other? Your father and his”—she swallowed a lump in her throat—“valet?”
Michael gave the question the gravity it deserved. “I’ve only been around them together a few times,” he began slowly. “My father tends to keep Mr. Brown away when I visit.”
“Is he ashamed?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. Honestly.
Maggie went on, completely oblivious to the fact that these were not the kinds of questions that one asked a man on a walk. But Michael wasn’t just a man, was he? He was more. And he desperately wanted her to recognize it too. “Does he want to protect you?”
“A little late for that.” Michael chuckled. “Half my childhood was spent defending myself from the boys who said that since I looked just like my father, and acted just like my father, that I must prefer men as well.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You remember?”
She shrugged. “I was present at most of those weekend parties with the same children. They never made it a habit to speak to me, but I heard things.”
Another lightning strike of guilt. Michael hadn’t made speaking to Maggie a priority either, though she had the grace not to mention it now.
“And that’s when you started fighting?” she asked, moving the conversation forward.
Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and stared straight ahead. “And I never looked back. We really shouldn’t be speaking about this. It’s hardly appropriate for a lady.”
Maggie waved her free hand in front of her. “Don’t worry. Grandmother was always telling me inappropriate things. She had views on everything and liked nothing better than to share them.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.” Maggie hesitated. “She… she said your father was a ‘damn fool’ but that what he did was one of the most romantic things she’d ever seen.”
Michael’s brow furrowed. He let out a short laugh. “Yes, I suppose someone might say that if they thought giving up everything for his lover was romantic.”
“No.” Maggie shook her head. “Not that. It was what he did for your mother.”
Michael’s voice was tight. He got the words out before his throat closed. “Wh-what are you talking about?”
Maggie went on before she lost her nerve. “Grandmother said that so many men are too open with their mistresses, regardless of their wives’ feelings. After the incident… I mean to say… when your father left, most of the whispers stopped, most of the gossip. Grandmother said that staying away was the best thing your father could do for his wife. He may have got to keep his love, but your mother got London.” Maggie flashed a wry smile. “And Grandmother always said that your mother came out on top. London was better.”
Head down, Michael stayed quiet, mulling over her words. “I suppose I never contemplated it that way before.”
Maggie shrugged. “There are as many ways to think about something as there are stars in the sky. It’s how you solve problems.”
That managed to bring out a smile. “Your grandmother was a smart woman,” Michael said. “I wish I would have taken the time to know her better.”
“She was smart.” Maggie glanced up at him from under her dark lashes. “But I came up with that one.”