Page 5 of When He Was Wicked
What need did he have of such appellation? Yet the memory of how everyone looked at him, mistrustful as if he were a brute who did not belong to their society, was very reminiscent of his father’s disdain. The memory of Lady Susanna’s horrified refusal felt like acid against his skin.
Seven years amongst his society and he still did not feel as if he had a place.
James scowled, tugging at the loose cravat around his throat. It felt like a goddamn noose growing tighter and tighter with each reflection.
A gentleman.
And what made a man a gentleman? He peered down at his fist, wincing at the callouses and spidery network of old fighting cuts and fresh bruises.
And she believed she could help refine his hard edges more, did she? It wasn’t an equitable bargain at all, but he was still tempted. For he did wish to marry and secure his heir for the earldom. He had fought too long and brutally, done so many things to save his estates to leave it all to chance. It had been his plan for several months now, and he had been foolish to invest his attention in a lady who only saw him as a hulking brute. The same way his father had seen him, for it had been James’s size upon birth which had taken his mother’s life, and his father never once let him forget it.
If this lady could help him refine those sharp edges, just perhaps they could strike a bargain. But what kind of man would merrily help a young lady of society on the path to ruin? For there was no other outcome if she persisted on such a path.
Aladylearning to fight.
James scoffed, he considered, and his curious fascination grew in unchecked leaps and bounds. Women were amongst the most vulnerable in society. So they should be the most protected, but what if by way of indifference, selfishness, or lack of family they were not protected?
In such a case James could affirm the confidence that one gains from being able to defend oneself. There was logic in her reasoning. But what of her reputation? Though degrees of ruination and respectability were solely ascribed by those with elevated opinions of thehaut monde. When in truth, neither the lady’s virtue nor character would be sullied. And it seemed she was of a similar leaning in placing little stock in theton’sopinions. James very soon became reconciled to the notion of assisting her, for he truly hated the helplessness which had echoed in her voice.
But where to find her? The foolish woman had not thought to leave a card or any clues to her identity that he could pursue. Is it that she planned to pay him another clandestine nighttime visit? Making an impulsive decision, he surged to his feet and faltered at the naked woman draped in the doorway.
Bloody hell, he forgot she awaited him in his chamber upstairs, and a woman like Countess Marissa Michaels was not to be ignored and forgotten.
“Darling, I actually fell asleep waiting,” she said with a small pout, meant to be enticing.
James suddenly felt tired of the games that were an intricate part of his lifestyle. Shame and anger also burned through him in equal measure. The Countess was married, and he'd promised himself years ago never to take a married woman to his bed. Simply because he believed in the sanctity of some vows. And a marriage, promising to be faithful to each other’s body, desires, hopes and dreams, that felt like something worth protecting. While he’d felt the awful sting from the brutal rejection of his father, James had weirdly admired the man’s dedication to his beloved countess. He had grieved her until the end of his days.
It seemed his unknown lady had saved him from a folly he shouldn’t have needed rescuing from. James set his glass down on the table and prowled over to the countess. With a smile, she tossed her curly mane of blonde hair, allowed the dark blue silken robe to part perfectly down the middle, revealing her delectable body, hinting at the wild night of passion that could be spent between her legs.
James’s mind or body did not stir, and he belatedly realized perhaps he hadn’t needed rescuing. And that he had lingered in the library drinking, even though a woman willing to indulge in debauchery had awaited him in his chamber.
“Forgive me, Marissa,” he said with a rueful smile upon reaching her. He lightly touched her cheek with the back of hishand, not wanting to abrade her skin with his rough callouses. “You are a lovely woman, but you should not be here. I will arrange for you to be discreetly taken home to your lord.”
Her blue eyes spat fire before narrowing. “Who is she?”
He swallowed back the sigh of impatience. “Marissa—”
“I heard voices. A woman’s one. I saw from the upstairs window as she left, and I waited for you to come up to me. Who is she?”
James lowered his hand. “No one of your concern. She has nothing to do with me realizing this is a mistake. Now let me take you home.”
Her eyes searched his and then she sighed. “We will not have anaffaire de coeur, will we?”
“No,” he said with another smile to lessen the sting. “It was a moment of insanity which passed before we both did something foolish.”
“I am entirely aware of what I wanted to do…of what I still want to do,” she purred, running a finger over his bottom lip.
His lack of reaction was quite evident, and with a disdainful sniff, she twirled around and marched away from him. Almost an hour later the lady was finally presentable and ready to depart. James arranged for a carriage to take her home, but she haughtily informed him that she would be going to Lady Trenton's ball. He bid her good evening, had his valet draw a bath, and soaked his bruised body for a very long time before retiring to bed.
Shortly after dawn, he finally abandoned bed to call upon his good friend Viscount Shaw who resided in Mayfair with his lovely viscountess. The butler delivered James to a drawing room with a lit fire and then went to summon his master.
They had met in one of the many fighting pits that peppered London. Not the fancy places like Gentleman Jackson’s, but those rings where men laid bets on the outcome of a fight as ifthey were in a gambling den. Many lords trained at Gentleman Jackson’s and took their skills to the underground ring—where fighters did not follow the London Prize Ring rules, hoping to make enough money to pay off their debts or become solvent again. Many did not find honor in it, for it was raw and gritty, the blood and the pain a reality that was hard to shy from. James had been desperate years ago when he had taken to those rings, and those rings had given him money, a backbone made of steel, many cuts and bruises, and lasting friendships he had never thought he would find. For a time, many had also referred to him as the bare-knuckle king for never losing a bout.
Almost half an hour later, the drawing room door was pushed open and Sebastian Rutledge, Viscount Shaw strolled inside. The man did not look pleased to see him.
James stood, tugged off his gloves, dipped into his pocket for two thin leather straps and started to bind his hands.
Sebastian scowled. "You pulled me from the wonderful warmth of my wife's arms for a bout of boxing at 6 a.m.?" he growled, looking ready to knock out James’s light.
