Page 41 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

“I’ve found them!” Lucas declared, striding into Colin’s office brandishing several sheets of paper.

Colin jumped to his feet. “The men in the canal company?”

Lucas nodded. “Yes. There are three. It will be delicate work finding out which one is behind the attacks, but we have a starting place now.”

“Brilliant.” He held his hand out for the papers and then scanned them quickly. “My Bow Street contact should be able to help us. ’Tis probably better that ye stay out of things as much as possible.”

“Why? A few well-placed questions, and I may be able to determine who is calling the attacks.”

Colin looked up from the papers. “Because these men have shown themselves to not be above violence. I’ve no one to worry about, but ye. Ye have a family. We cannae let them get involved.”

Lucas’s gut wrenched at that. “Yes. Yes, thank you, Colin. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Colin nodded. “They’ve no connection to ye yet, but it may be only a matter of time. We ought to hold them off as long as possible.”

Lucas expelled a breath. “I never imagined they would get this up in arms. If they truly wish to retain their employees, they need only pay them better. Or give them better working conditions.”

Colin barked a laugh. “Ye are sounding like a regular working man. Keep talking like that, and yer Society won’t welcome ye any longer.”

“Some days I think I would not mind that too much. You said they have no connection to me, but what of the club? Do they know we are involved?”

Colin sighed.

“Do they?”

“When your brother was hurt. Some men were asking questions about the club just as ye left, names of patrons and such. I dinnae tell them anything, o’ course, but I think they recognized yer brother.”

“Charlie?”

Colin nodded.

Lucas swore. “Charlie’s been home since the injuries, though.”

Colin nodded. “Keep him there. ’Tis another reason to keep you out of things as long as possible.

We dinnae want to solidify any connection to your family.

I know this is important ta ye, Lucas, but we have ta be prepared ta pull back on our work if needed.

We started this, as you said, ta help people.

If these men from the canal group keep poking their heads in our business.

.. well, things could get hostile. We would nae be helping if we dinnae stop afore more people get hurt. ”

Lucas ground his teeth, but he nodded.

“We can find other ways ta help if needed.”

Again, Lucas nodded. Then he rapped his knuckles against Colin’s desk. “I should be going. Send me word if something else develops.”

“I will.”

***

Lady Cheltenham and Lydia had just returned from a morning call with Lady Norwich.

Upon their arrival, the marchioness declared a desire to rest and encouraged Lydia to find something to amuse her in the house.

So Lydia was left walking through the ornate portrait hall, trying to pick out family traits among the many Marquesses and Marchionesses of Cheltenham and Earls of Berkeley.

She stopped in front of a portrait of Lord Berkeley.

It hung at eye level in a large, decorative frame.

If she had to guess, it had been done within the last two years.

Her gaze traced the lines around his eyes—he seemed to have more than most men his age.

She cocked her head, admiring the portrait in the way she could not admire the man, letting her eyes linger on the broad expanse of his shoulders and the strong set of his jaw.

Objectively speaking, he was incredibly attractive.

Coupled with his title, it was no wonder he was so well-liked in London, particularly by the female set.

Gracious, anyone hearing her thoughts might think she was jealous. But she was the last woman in London who could marry Lord Berkeley. She could not marry at all.

“Miss Faraday. I apologize, I did not know this room was occupied.”

Lydia jumped back in surprise, head swinging to see Lord Berkeley himself several steps into the room.

He hesitated, looking behind him at the doorway, then came farther in.

Lydia tried not to let her eyes stray back to the portrait, but as if he could sense the struggle, his own gaze shifted to it.

He let out a small chuckle—unusual for him—and quirked an eyebrow at her.

She very nearly blushed at his learning that she’d been staring at a picture of him.

“Enjoying the artwork, are you?”

She turned to teasing to hide her discomfort. “Oh yes.” She clasped her hands behind her back, feigning nonchalance. “Artists are very skilled at accurately representing their subject. Well, except this one, of course.” She tilted her head at Lord Berkeley’s portrait.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“I should think it was obvious.”

Again, that infinitesimal eyebrow lift.

“The nodding, Lord Berkeley,” she whispered, as if it were a great secret. “You are not nodding in the picture.”

A startled laugh escaped him, and she grinned at being the cause.

“Ah, yes, I see now. I’ll have the portrait taken down. Maybe we can replace it with a painting of the top of my bent head.”

Lydia clapped her hands together. “That would be far preferred. And far more accurate.”

Lord Berkeley shook his head with half a smile. “You, Miss Faraday, are ridiculous.”

“You, Lord Berkeley, could use a little ridiculousness in your life.”

“You mean my clandestine activities do not count?”’

“Are you referencing your sponsorship of a club? I hardly think that is clandestine.”

He made a sound of contemplation. “I suppose you are right.”

“Not enough people tell me that,” she teased, stepping back from his portrait to put some distance between it and herself. “So you fight there as well.” It was not exactly a question. She couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

He looked sidelong at her, still facing the portrait. “At times.”

“Are you accomplished at it?”

“I have won many a fight,” he hedged.

“How many have you lost?”

He hesitated. “Two.”

“Compared to how many you’ve won?”

“Ah . . . more than two. Many more.”

She turned to face him. “Lord Berkeley, you could sing your own praises every once in a while.”

He shook his head, but a small chuckle escaped him.

“Will you show me how?”

His brows rose. “To box?”

She nodded. “Yes, I admit to an interest.”

“There are many people who will teach a young lady to box.”

“Are you one of them?”

“I cannot say I have ever taught a woman to box, no.”

“Well, there is a first time for everything.” She smiled at him, not positive whether she was teasing him or herself. In fact, she was very much aware that she was simply prolonging her time in his company. She should not, but she could not help herself.

He shook his head. “I do not think it would be proper.”

Lydia fingered the side of her pelisse, trying not to let her disappointment show. “I apologize. I did not mean to push the bounds of propriety.”

“Do not apologize. I meant no reprimand. I only... That is...” The strong, stoic man before her was clearly flustered. She found a strange sense of pride in that. “I suppose I can show you a step or two.”

“You do not need to if you do not wish it.” But already, her hopes were rising. It had been some time since she had done something truly enjoyable, and learning to box from Lord Berkeley suddenly seemed the very best way to spend her afternoon.

“I do not mind.”

“Excellent,” she responded, already looking around for a place to set her reticule. “Do you think I should remove my pelisse? Will it impede movement?”

He had not moved. “You wish to learn now ?”

She froze in the act of setting down her bag. “Oh, yes. But if you have something else to do, it can wait.”

He watched her, his intent stare causing a bubbling of sorts in her chest. He suddenly tore his eyes away. “No, now is perfect. I only intend to show you the basics. Now will do as well as any time.”

“Wonderful,” she said, though it came out a little slow; she did not fully believe him that now was perfect.

But he moved aside a bust and lifted a small table out of the way, so he truly must mean what he’d said.

She pulled off her pelisse, putting it on the table he’d moved.

A slight chill in the room sent goose flesh down her arms. That or the way her arm brushed his as she stepped back.

No, it was definitely the chill in the room. Positively frigid.

Lord Berkeley did not remove any items of clothing, for which she was grateful, but he now stood in the middle of the hall in a relaxed stance. It was positively masculine, and her eyes traced the breadth of his shoulders and the way his coat strained across his arms until he spoke.

“There are seven rules agreed upon in modern pugilism, but many of them have to do with the mechanics of a fight, so you need not know them. All you need to remember is that you never hit a downed man, even if he is just on his knees.”

Lydia nodded, keeping her eyes trained on his—with effort. “Understood. I will not hit you after I’ve caused you to fall.”

His lips twitched at that, but his serious, nearly scholarly expression soon returned. “Many consider boxing to be a brutal sport, but it is more than that—it is a science. Not only that, it is also productive for both your mind and body.”

Against her will, Lydia’s eyes trailed back down Lord Berkeley’s shoulders to his waist before she snapped them back up. Not trusting her voice just then, she nodded.

“First you will need to find equilibrium in your stance.” He moved into an easy position with his knees apart and one leg forward. He leaned a bit toward her, arms up.

Lydia mimicked the stance and held herself stiffly as his eyes ran down her form. Her chest grew warm with the attention.

“Close, but you want to keep your stomach out of reach from your opponent. And move your left leg forward more.” She adjusted, and he nodded.

“Yes. Like that. Now, your upper arms will be used primarily to stop head blows; your forearms, for face or stomach blows; and your elbows parry blows to your ribs.”

She tried to absorb all the information. “Does it hurt terribly to be hit?”

He shrugged, an action far more relaxed than she would have thought possible for him. “Not in the moment, usually. But the goal is to get hit as little as possible.”

“And do you attain that goal often?”

“Often enough.” His lips lifted in a crooked smile, and it did strange things to her heart. So she refocused on the lesson.

“What do I do next?”

“A fine flush hit is preferred to anything else. Keep your arms like this and your thumb here.” He demonstrated, and she repeated.

“Try tucking your elbow in more.”

She tried again.

“Ah, perhaps...” He trailed off, studying her with a hint of amusement in his expression.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“Well, yes, in all honesty.”

“But I am doing exactly what you are.”

“I certainly hope I do not look like that when I fight.”

She raised a brow both in defense but also in surprise at his thinly veiled insult. She would not have thought him capable. Her hands dropped to her sides. “What am I doing wrong?”

He hesitated but then came out of his own stance and over to her side. Lydia held her breath, trying not to allow the proximity to affect her. She was not particularly successful. Maybe this little lesson was not so brilliant after all.

He stepped up close beside her, hands pausing for a moment before they reached out to her.

One hand wrapped around her, grasping her opposite elbow and sending tendrils of warmth up her arm that made it hard to focus.

“Here, hold this closer to your side.” His other hand found her wrist. She swallowed at the contact.

“And turn your hand like this.” He rotated her fist with light hands.

His breath swirled the hairs around her ear and sent a shiver down her spine.

The entire side of her body was now growing warm, and without thinking, she attempted to throw another punch.

It went too far up and not far out, catching Lord Berkeley in the jaw. His head reared back, but then he looked down at her, eyes creased in entertainment. “That had some good force behind it.”

She tried to laugh off her embarrassment. “It does not seem to have affected you overmuch.”

“Yes, well, I am built of solid stuff. Still, it was rather impressive. Now we need only work on your aim.”

He was still standing close to her side, smiling down at her in a way wholly encompassing and intoxicating.

Something in the air seemed to shift about them.

Where before they had seemed to be dancing around each other—the unpaired couple in a country dance, within the same figure but never together—suddenly, they were partners, inhabiting one another’s space.

She forgot all about her need to forgo marriage.

Forgot that this man was far above her in status.

Forgot that he was meant to be just her friend.

And she began to turn toward him, her hands lowering back to her sides.

He seemed to be leaning too, closing the distance between them and sending sparks of energy through the final inches separating them.

His hands met her arms, their touch feather-light.

His green eyes bored into hers, the depth of them drawing her in. Further, further.

Until he suddenly stopped, gazing down at her with an intensity like fire. His throat worked as he swallowed. Then, in an instant, he stiffened, taking several steps backward and pulling his gaze from hers. “Well done, Miss Faraday. We will make you a pugilist yet.”

She blinked, trying to dispel the haze that surrounded her. Embarrassment flooded in. “Thank you, Lord Berkeley. You are a capable teacher.”

He nodded, stepping back even farther. “You are welcome. I have just recalled a meeting though, and I am afraid I must be going.”

“Of course. I would not wish to keep you.” Her words were rote, stilted.

He pivoted, moving around the displaced table and making for the door with impressive speed. “Good day, Miss Faraday.” He did not remain long enough for her to return the nicety, and somehow, she was fairly certain she would not see him for another several days yet.

Hopefully it would be enough time for her to refocus on her goal of remaining unmarried. Because for a moment there, the pull to Lord Berkeley had felt stronger than the pull to the security and control that her inheritance would give. And that was far more dangerous than she could afford.