Chapter 7
7
T hroughout the carriage ride to town, Charity twisted the tassels of her reticule around and around her fingers while replaying her plan in her head.
I am simply going into the butcher shop to invite Kitty to visit Modesty. I will not throw myself at Mr. Mansfield. In fact, I will not even look the chap in the eye.
After the carriage rolled to a stop, Tearlach opened the door and popped his head inside. “We’ve arrived m’lady.”
“Have we?” she asked glancing down to the knots twisted around her fingers. She swiftly pulled her hand away, and the silly strings tightened. “I willna be but a moment.”
But it seemed the more she pulled, the tighter the strings drew.
“You might try easing your hand forward a wee bit and slipping them off.”
Charity let out a sharp breath and gave the footman a nod. It took several huffs, but in the end, Tearlach was right. All she needed to do was relax and unwind the silly strings. In truth, the whole exercise had helped calm her nerves tremendously. It wasn’t every day she ventured into a butcher shop and confronted a man she had passionately kissed a sennight prior, only to have him tell her he’d lost his head and he wouldn’t be bothering her again.
Did he not know he was anything rather than a bother? And why could she not let the matter rest? She knew neither her brother nor her mother would allow her to marry a butcher, who also happened to be a boxer of all things. Mama wouldn’t care if Mr. Mansfield had rescued Modesty from certain death, the matriarch of the family would never stand for her eldest daughter falling in love with a tradesman.
So how does one go about un-falling in love? Possibly not love, but undoing an infatuation is more apt.
Smiling, Charity held her untangled reticule up by the strings. “Ready.”
Everything seemed to go smoothly, taking Tearlach’s hand, and alighting from the carriage. Even crossing the footpath and walking through the door to the tinkle of the bell overhead, she was quite confident that she’d be able to face The Butcher without growing weak at the knees. However, when she stepped fully inside and the man himself turned from his place behind the counter, his gaze meeting hers, Charity’s legs turned as boneless as a jellyfish.
Was it possible for a chap to grow more magnificent in a week? And why, oh why did he have to go and roll up his sleeves? Did he not know how devilishly tempting those powerful forearms were to a lady’s sensibilities? Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth as she regarded the large hands peppered with a riot of black hair.
Mr. Mansfield wiped his palms on his apron. “Good morn, my lady.”
She gulped and glanced over her shoulder, relieved to discover there was no one else in the shop. “Good morning, Mr. Mansfield. How are you faring this fine day?”
“Well, thank you.”
“I know you are averse to receiving a visit from me, but the reason for my call is rather dire.” Charity took a step forward, doing everything she could not to look him in the eye. Instead, she noticed a new placard on the counter. “I called in on behalf of my poor sister who is still convalescing from her broken ankle, and I was desperately hoping that Kitty might be able to come visit. The lassies do get along quite swimmingly.”
“They do—and Kitty tells me your sister is far better at teaching her letters than I am.”
“Well, Modesty is very good at explaining things, for certain.” Why did the man have to take up two-thirds of her line of vision, making it near impossible not to stare at him? Twisting the ties of her reticule yet again, she glanced to the rear door. “Is Kitty in? If you are agreeable, I’d like to take her back to the manor with me today.”
“Today?”
“Aye.”
Mr. Mansfield pointed with his thumb. “I’m afraid she’s out running an errand, fetching a tincture from the doctor.”
“A tincture? I hope you are not ailing.”
“No, no, never been sick a day in me life. It is for my mother. Her pleurisy is causing a great deal of pain of late.”
“Oh, dear. I am sorry.”
“There is no need to worry—with the money from the roof and the fight, I’ve arranged for her to go to Bath to take the waters.”
“I have heard many favorable reports about the healing properties of the waters. They’re quite warm and comforting.”
“They are, and me thinks it helps, though I’m not convinced, as the coughing and pain always returns.”
“The poor dear.”
With the next tick of the wall clock, the air seemed to become charged with gunpowder. The clock ticked thrice before Mr. Mansfield nodded.
Oh, dear.
She looked at his arms.
And a swarm of butterflies flitted about her stomach.
Quickly, she shifted her gaze to the new placard.
“You have another fight coming up, do you?” she asked, rather breathlessly.
“Aye, as the winner of the last bout, I’ve earned the right to face Alanzo the Terrible.”
She smoothed her fingers over the print. “I didna realize that you fight so often.”
“The bouts are not usually so often I suppose, though Ricky has been receiving more requests of late.”
“Ricky?”
“My Second in the ring—helps with a bit o’ training. Best mate, really.”
“How often do you train?”
“Most every night.”
“That reminds me.” Charity snapped her fingers. “You didna answer my question.”
“What question?”
Heat spread up her face, though there was no chance she was about to mention he hadn’t answered because he’d pulled her into those brawny arms and kissed her silly. “When I watched you fight. It seemed as if you were a different person. Is that because of your training?”
“Mayhap. Why do I seem different?”
“Well, when we’re speaking, such as now, you are friendly, approachable, I suppose. But when you were in the ring with Mr. Destroyer, your face…”
He chuckled. “Don’t tell me I turn into a snarling ogre. That’s what Ricky says.”
“I wouldn’t say ogre, but you are awfully frightening.”
“I reckon that’s a good thing. Though I wish looking frightening were more off-putting for my opponents.”
“I imagine if Dudley the Destroyer is any example, your contenders are fairly snarly-looking as well.”
“Yes.”
“So, what is your strategy? Do you step in the ring and try to knock them out with the first blow?”
“I wish it were that easy. Most of the time a man has to dance around a bit, throw a few jabs and feel out the contender—discover how skilled he is and what his weaknesses are. It doesn’t hurt to tire him out a bit, either.”
“Fascinating.” She tapped the placard. “In order to arrive at a firm conclusion as to the barbarity of the sport, I think I will need to see you face Mr. Terrible.”
“Oh, no.” Mr. Mansfield came out from behind the counter and thrust his fists onto his hips. “Ladies, especially those of quality, do not attend boxing matches.”
The strings of her reticule wended their way around her fingers again. “Why?” she asked, even though she knew the answer—it had been drilled into her since the day of her birth.
He hovered over her as if he were the Duke of Decorum. “Because your mother was right— fights are barbaric and, dare I say it, would create a quite a scandal if you were to be caught at such a venue.”
Regardless of the imbalance of societal rules and regulations that were put in place for the strangulation of women, Charity stood her ground. After all, she had been exceedingly careful. “Which is exactly why I wore an unpretentious black gown to the last bout.”
The Duke of Decorum crossed his arms over his mammoth chest, his lips disappearing. “I doubt mourning clothes would have fooled anyone.”
“What, then, would you suggest? Don my brother’s trousers?”
“Absolutely not.”
Before her fingers ended up caught in her reticule’s strings again, she shook them out. “Mr. Mansfield, you are sounding more insufferable than my mother!”
“I bid you stay away.”
Good heavens, did he have any idea how much his bull-headedness made her all the more determined to attend his boxing match? “Simply because I’m gently bred and therefore do not possess the backbone to withstand a little brutality? Mind you, I have five brothers. Five! If you believe I have not witnessed a fist fight, then you are sorely mistaken.”
Mr. Mansfield ground out a foreboding growl. “I forbid it.”
“Forbid? Mind you, sir, you are not in a position to forbid anything I—” Another idea popped into her head. Not bothering to mull it over, she had out with it, “Since you are so averse to my attending your match with Mr. Terrible, then the only recourse I have that will enable me to make an informed opinion as to the barbarity of the sport is to insist that you give me a lesson on the days when you bring Kitty to Huntly.”
His mouth dropped open but before he could utter a sound, Charity held up her palm. “It is only fair. Reading lessons for your sister in exchange for boxing lessons for me. Besides, if we are calling foul, as the sister of a duke, I am of superior rank.”