Was he shocked by her forwardness? It was hard to tell. But the way he’d so abruptly departed, without either accepting or rejecting her proposition, must tell her something. Though what?
She smoothed the fabric of her skirt and frowned. It was a mass of wrinkles. She’d made a mess of it, twisting and crushing it without thinking. Nerves.
Did he think her offer revealed her as a strumpet? Many men would think so.
But Alice refused to be ashamed. It was her body to offer: she was a free agent now and owed fidelity to no one. If he condemned her for it, well, she would be disappointed in him—more than disappointed if she was honest with herself—but she wouldn’t go back on her offer, nor would she apologize.
Lady Peplowe was right. It was time Alice discovered for herself what most other women found in the activities of the bedchamber. She wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of her life wondering.
***
James strode away from Alice’s house, oblivious of where he was going. He was as tense as a wound spring.
I am willing to become your mistress.
He pounded along the pavement, his fists clenched in hard knots, wanting to punch somebody—no, not somebody: her thrice-damned arse of a husband.
Her face haunted him, so taut and pale when he’d arrived, then later blushing and hesitant, offering herself as if she were... he didn’t know what. All he knew was that he was boiling with frustrated rage at what had been done to this sweet and giving woman.
He wanted to marry her with all honor, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it: she thought she had to debauch herself first.
The hesitation in her eyes, the uncertainty. The courage it must have taken after refusing his offer of marriage, to then offer her body, to lie down with him in an act she was sure she would loathe. Had loathed. For eighteen long, blasted years.
And she didn’t even know how to kiss!
That bastard!
There were times when James caught glimpses of the hopeful young girl that she must once have been. All innocence and bright expectation. Before her pig of a husband had driven all the youthful confidence out of her.
But he hadn’t managed to kill off her sweetness. Alice had every right to be bitter, but there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in her.
If only James had met her back then, before she’d married that oaf. He would have married her—no, because then he wouldn’t have met and married Selina, which he could never regret, and they wouldn’t have had their precious girls.
But someone should have protected her from marriage to such an uncaring swine. He added her father to the list of dead men he itched to pound to a pulp. The man had been more interested in saving the souls of unknown—and probably unwilling—denizens than the welfare of his only daughter.
Crossing a road, he paused to let a wagon rumble past and realized where he was. Turning a sharp right, he headed down Bond Street to number 13, where he could getexactly what he needed: a furious bout of fisticuffs to work off his anger.
Entering Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, he encountered the great man himself, who bowed. “Lord Tarrant, how may I help you?”
“I need to go a few rounds with one of your men, Jackson, but I’ll warn you now, I’m in a foul mood and need to pound on someone.”
Jackson chuckled and said with dry irony, “You can certainly try. Follow me, my lord.”
***
Forty minutes later James was stripped to the waist, sluicing his heated body down with cold water. Several fast and furious bouts with one of Jackson’s best men had certainly loosened some of the fierce coils of anger inside him. He was feeling calmer and more clearheaded, not to mentioned bruised and aching—but in a good way.
He’d been a fool to walk out on her like that. More than a fool—an insensitive brute. What must she be thinking? At great cost to herself, she’d offered him a very precious, deeply personal gift, and what had he done? Walked out on her. Saying he needed to think it over.
Of course he didn’t need to think it over. Alice was his; she just didn’t know it yet. And if she needed first to prove to herself—or rather, if she needed him to prove to her—that the marriage bed need not be something to be endured, he would do it. With pleasure.
On the way back from Jackson’s, he paused by a little flower girl selling violets and bought a posy. Alice deserved better of course, but right now he needed to get back to her as quickly as possible and make up for the way he’d bungled things.
He found her out in the garden with his daughters and Lucy. They were gathered around a pair of easels.
“Look, Papa. Miss Bamber painted us a painting,” Judy exclaimed.
But James only had eyes for Alice. “I’m sorry I rushed off like that,” he told her quietly and handed her the violets. She thanked him, raised the posy to her face and inhaled the scent. He couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Was she upset with him for rushing off like that? She had every right to be.
