Page 9 of The Last Chance
“Having a house full of men proved unsettling. I couldn’t help but fear one might be hiding in the dark somewhere.” She showed him the old musket propped against the armoire, the one thing she’d taken before the bank repossessed her home in Cheapside. “I began searching the cellar and worked my way upstairs.”
Mr Chance stood, brushing dust off his knees, much to her embarrassment. A faint smile touched his lips as his gaze moved to the musket. “Few people surprise me, madam. One could not accuse you of lacking courage.”
“That’s the third nice thing you’ve said to me tonight.”
“I’ll try not to make a habit of it. On that point, can I make something clear before we proceed any further?”
“Yes.” She stiffened her spine, sensing his next words might slice to the bone.
“If I offer advice, don’t take it as a personal slur. I knew you were ill-equipped to deal with a house full of excited men. That has no bearing on your character.”
“It’s hard to take your advice when you’re always critical.” She found his stubborn stance frustrating. “No woman wants to feel like a fool.”
“You’re no fool. But this arrangement won’t work.”
Despite her dire predicament, she disagreed. “With proper vetting and a man of Sigmund’s skill guarding the door, it could. Lord Featherstone asked Miss Wickford to ride out with him tomorrow.”
Mr Chance gazed heavenward and sighed. “Why do you care? Why play matchmaker and force alliances? You told my sister you believe one’s destiny is written in the stars.”
“Some people need help to find love.” Miss Frampton had watched all her sisters marry but, with three failed seasons spent hiding behind potted ferns, had given up hope of meeting her match. “As a man, I wouldn’t expect you to understand what it means to have a lack of prospects.”
He fell quiet before offering, “Some people aren’t made for marriage. And being my usual cynical self, you cannot trust the motives of the men who might frequent your club.”
Joanna let a mocking chuckle slip. “There are good men in the world. Your siblings love their spouses dearly. I mean to weed out the reprobates and fulfil my ladies’ dreams.”
If one found love, it was worth it. Although Miss Moorland wasn’t looking for marriage but to pursue a career in medicine, hence her interest in the local doctor, Mr Gentry.
“As I recall, you want a man who likes standing in the rain.”
She was surprised he remembered her comment. “I said I won’t settle for less than a man who waits in the rain just to spend a minute in my company. I see nothing wrong with that. Actions speak louder than words.”
The fact he had come to her aid said she could trust him.
Coping with his need for control was the main obstacle.
“Is foolish behaviour not a sign of weakness?” he countered.
“Is it foolish to show a woman how much you value her company?” She had never seen his paramour enter the club but presumed he had one. Such a virile man did not spend his nights alone. “Perhaps tomorrow you might draw your mistress a bath and feed her supper.”
The thought roused heat in her belly. What must it be like to have such a powerful man at one’s mercy? She doubted there was a woman alive capable of bringing the formidable Aaron Chance to his knees.
His gaze rose to meet hers, pinning her to the spot with unwavering intensity. “You shouldn’t make presumptions. This is the longest I’ve spent alone with a woman in eight years. I’m too busy for romantic entanglements.”
Eight years?
Joanna frowned. The statement proved more confounding than the identity of Lord Howard’s killer, who was probably another lady he had wronged. One whose father collected weapons from the Far East.
“Why?” was all she could think to say.
“Many reasons. None which have any bearing on our current predicament.” He straightened, his impenetrable mask firmly in place. “I should go home and change my clothes. Do you have a spare door key? I’d rather not hammer the knocker and wake the street when I return.”
Joanna moved to her nightstand and took a key from her small jewellery box. She dropped it into Mr Chance’s outstretched palm, noticing the callouses and the bruise on his finger.
“You’ve been preparing for your upcoming event,” she said, wondering why he found hitting other men so rewarding. “I’m told some contenders travel from as far afield as Manchester to demonstrate their pugilistic skills.”
He closed his fingers over the iron key and slipped it into his trouser pocket. “The farther afield, the larger the wagers.”
She didn’t glance at the toned muscles she knew lay beneath his fine lawn shirt. She’d dared to enter his basement once. The image of him standing shirtless in the ring remained ingrained in her memory. As were the plethora of scars littering his body, the marks like the lines of a tragic tale she longed to hear.
