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Helena heard him, but instead of firing back a retort, she quickly rose, relishing the excuse to leave the table. As she got to her feet, though, the world began to spin, and she pressed one hand to her upset stomach as her other hand reached for the table’s edge.

Suddenly, she felt Luke’s body pressed completely to her back as his arms came around her waist to haul her back up. Disgust poured through her as she brought weak hands up to stop him, and she heard him chuckle.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked, his tone almost taunting as he continued to press her tightly to him. “Perhaps you should lie down instead. Come, I will assist you.”

“No,” Helena burst out, struggling more against his hold. “Let go of me!”

He had been doing that a lot lately — insisting she let him take her to lie down when she stumbled, which had also been happening quite frequently.

What is happening to me? Why am I feeling so weak of late?

“Helena?” Teresa’s voice called from the dining room door, saving her.

Luke released her just as the doors opened and James and Teresa strode back in.

“She is not feeling well,” Luke stated, looking completely unflustered as he took his seat again. “Perhaps you should take her to bed. She needs her rest.”

Helena glared at him as Teresa and James each took one of her arms and walked with her out of the room.

“Helena, are you alright?” Teresa whispered as they headed toward the stairs.

“Yes,” she lied, feeling her heart hurt even more. “Just help me upstairs, please. The sooner we are packed, the better I will feel.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“You nearly killed him!” Duncan growled, latching onto Morgan’s sweaty biceps.

Morgan pushed Duncan off him, a warning growl erupting from his chest.

“I have heeded all of your suggestions regarding my fighting, brother, but tonight I refuse,” he snarled back.

“Tonight?Justtonight? Morgan, Morgan listen to me, you have left a trail of bloody, beaten bodies behind you since last week. If you do not get a hold of yourself youwillmurder someone, and I know you do not want that!”

“Do not be so sure, brother,” Morgan huffed, his mood growing even darker as he imagined Luke’s face.

He knew it was not Luke that he was picturing when he fought with his opponents in the ring; he was fighting with himself. Anger and disappointment had stopped him from attending Helena’s small party before she left to take a holiday with Teresa and her brother to Luke’s estate in Ashfield, but it was his monumental self-loathing that had fueled his need to bloody faces.

It had begun the morning after her party. As he woke up alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes, he realized that, in trying to avoid the pain of seeing her, he had lost out on other, more precious moments.

He had missed the chance to promise her that he would always be there for her whenever she needed him, even if it was in only a brotherly capacity. The chance to wish her a happy marriage, even though they both knew otherwise. He had missed the opportunity to touch his lips to her skin and taste her one more time.

He knew Helena would be back to London for her wedding next month, but he already decided that he could not attend. This had been his last chance. At everything. And he had missed it.

Morgan’s ability to reach for humor had completely abandoned him thereafter. His foul temper had scared the servants, caused meetings to be cancelled, and infused his brothers with worry. Morgan had successfully avoided contact with Ambrose. Their relationship had become rocky after he had decided to show Ambrose the letter from Whittlerthe day after Helena left for Ashfield.

Ambrose had undergone an apoplectic fit when Morgan revealed his suspicions that Luke was a nefarious character. He had yelled at Morgan in Luke’s defense, insisting that the letter could have belonged to the house’s previous owner, and that their fathers’ murder case had been closed. His response was like a slap to Morgan’s face, and after drinking the numbness away, he had started to fight on a nightly basis. After that incident, Ambrose had stopped contacting him.

Ezra, however, was like a demonic weasel thereafter, appearing out of nowhere in his usual all-black attire, and greeting him with a disappointing frown. When Morgan walked up to him, ready to curse him out of the door, Ezra raised his brow, and in his usual lifeless tone, simply asked, “you can gamble in my hell, but I cannot gamble in yours?”

Morgan had frozen and given Ezra a distrustful stare.

“You seriously think I care what you do in your free time?” Ezra sighed. “I heard about a good fighter. Came to place my bets. Finding out that I am betting on you does not concern me provided that you keep winning.”

Morgan held out his forearm to Ezra and his brother pressed his own against it. Without another word, Morgan had returned to the fight, and they had not spoken since.

Thereafter, Ezra attended the fights on a nightly basis, bringing along other men from their side of town, and always a few more than the night before. Ezra was taking their bets on Morgan’s fights and was making many of them rich men. Tonight though, the crowd was equally half peasant, half gentry but all of them were betting on him. At the rate Morgan was going, he was going to make them all rich men.

“You ready, mate?” the announcer shouted into the back room.