She grinned, blushed, succeeded in not tugging the bodice of her gown up just a bit. “You are a boxer, yes? Have you ever fought Max?”
“Aye. Dozens of times. Most formidable opponent out there if only because he makes such a study of the sport.”
“Not his size, then?”
“No, my lady. It’s all this.” He tapped a meaty finger into his temple. “Never know how he’s gonna approach a bout.”
“Do you have a strategy, then? For … approaching bouts?”
“Full force, no retreat.”
“Quite aggressive. It’s nice to see you and Max can be friends what with … beating one another senseless.”
Mr. Lachlan shrugged. “You’re his … cousin?”
“Yes. By marriage. My husband held the Woodfeld title before Max.”
“Widowed then.” A gleam in his eye, a chestnut brow winging up in interest. “I like widows.”
She laughed. “I take it many do.”
“Your kind are … accommodating. And eager.”
Heavens, this conversation had taken a salacious turn. If she understood it right, and she was fairly certain she did. “Such delightfully positive perception of widows, Mr. Lachlan. I thank you.”
“No need to thank me.” He lifted a glass of wine that looked like a child’s cup in his large hand and took a sip, avoiding her gaze to look out over the assembled guests. “Not yet, anyway.”
Ah. Excellent information, that. If she were inclined toward another lover, he would be willing. My, fortune did favor the bold. She looked up, up, up at Mr. Lachlan, and something upsetting settled heavy in her chest.
“It was lovely to speak with you,” she said. “But I am afraid I must abandon you. My two little girls are above stairs, and they cannot sleep unless I tell them a bedtime story.” An excuse because she could no longer stand the shivering uncertainty crawling spiderlike across her skin.
He bowed. “Come to one of my fights sometime.” He winked. “If you dare.”
“That would be terribly exciting. Thank you, Mr. Lachlan.” She slipped from the room with the image of his fists in another man’s face. Terribly exciting, perhaps, and something a bold lady would do. But not for her. She’d seen the damage that could be done to a man on Max’s face and body, on his soul, and she didn’t relish the idea of witnessing it herself.
She stole a candle from a table in the hall and took the stairs slowly, one heavy step at a time. She’d return to the party later. Would be a pity to waste the few hours that remained to wear this particular gown.
She slipped into the nursery and peeked into the bed Izzy and Bridget shared. Two pairs of wide eyes gleamed up at her. “Mama!” A sentiment echoed in two voices.
“Good evening, my darlings. Did I wake you?” She sat on the edge of the bed.
“No,” Bridget said.
“We couldn’t sleep,” Izzy admitted. She threw back the blanket and came to her knees. “We were trying to tell each other stories like yours but they aren’t as good.”
Bridget found her knees, too. “Mine are!”
Izzy shook her head, blonde curls dancing.
“Should I tell a story, then?” Freddy asked.
Their heads whipped toward her, angry gazes dissolving as they nodded and sank back beneath the blankets.
Freddy pulled the quilt up beneath their chins and pushed their hair back from their foreheads. “Very well. Shall I use a silly voice or a very silly voice?”
“Very, very silly.” Izzy yawned.
The story would not have to be long.
