Page 7 of On the Ropes of Scandal (With Love in Their Corner #3)

Later that night

B ecause Phoebe had come out to watch some of the bare-knuckle boxing match, she was behind in her prepping duties for the next morning. Of course, the bakery had closed much earlier in the day, which had allowed her and Aunt Bess to spend the afternoon at their cottage.

Then, her aunt went over to share tea with a friend—as she usually did every day—and that’s when Phoebe had thrown on a cloak and wandered over to the boxing match to observe for a few moments.

Yes, it had been scandalous, and even more so when she unashamedly gawked at the half-naked men in the roped off section of the meadow that was the ring.

Yet she hadn’t looked away, and her focus had landed on Lord Frampton.

Was he easy on the eyes? Of course, and never had she wanted to lick a man’s chest before.

It had been an overwhelming thought when she’d seen him; his flowing light brown hair that captured her attention.

It practically shouted that he was a rogue, and that somehow amused her.

Just before the end of the bout, Phoebe had returned to the bakery to mix bread dough and get it on to rise for the morning.

There was also the kitchen and bakery cases to clean to her aunt’s specifications, because that lady would ask if the tasks had been done, even though this was their usual daily routine.

It took about two hours, but finally, with a yawn, Phoebe blew out the candles, exited the bakery, and locked the door with her worn iron key.

Helping with the baking was sometimes tiring work, and all she wanted to do once she returned to the cottage she shared with her aunt was put her feet up with a hot cuppa and perhaps a book.

However, she’d barely made it two storefronts down from the bakery toward the road that would lead to the path to the tiny cottage, when a man stumbled toward her.

Oh, dear.

“Go home and sleep it off,” she told the man. “I, uh, have a stick and I’m not afraid to use it on you.” Fearing the man was a drunk, Phoebe backtracked and then pressed herself into the bakery’s doorway.

But the man kept coming. Before she had time to cast about and find something to use as a weapon, he collapsed to the ground.

He lay sprawled at her feet with a gash on his forehead, bruises forming on his face, and blood at his temple.

With an outstretched hand, he attempted to touch her as she shrank backward.

“Do you know who I am? Or where I am?” In addition to his other wounds, he suffered busted knuckles too.

“Or what the hell happened to me to make me feel like yesterday’s rubbish? ”

With a frown, she peered through the gathering darkness of the autumn night, and then gasped.

I recognize him! In fact, he was one of the boxers included in the bout earlier.

Of course, he had far more clothes on himself than he did when she’d last seen him.

But the buttons were mismatched, and the cravat was more twisted than tied.

Did he truly rely on a valet, or did he not have the mental faculties to do such small tasks?

“Uh…” Her mind spun as she scrambled to come up with a plausible story. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know who you are?” How did injuries to one’s head work? Did they render a man dumb to everything he’d known before?

“Clearly, I don’t, and I can hardly stand upright without the world tilting,” he said with a fair amount of annoyance in his voice that smacked of the aristocracy. “And it seems I already vomited on myself once. I’d rather not do it again.”

“Understandable.” Surreptitiously, she sniffed as she kneeled by him. He didn’t smell like alcohol, which meant he hadn’t visited any of the taverns in the village, but he did reek from casting up his accounts. “Ew, you need a bath.”

“No doubt.”

Was the urge to retch due to the pain he must be under, or the head wound itself? “And you have no idea what brought you to Cranleigh, in Surrey?”

“No.” When he shook his head, he groaned and then pressed a hand to the wound at the side of his head, and he swallowed hard. “Why the devil does my head hurt and my body ache? Was I attacked?”

“More or less.” It seemed he was suffering from amnesia, probably due to one or more of the blows he’d taken during the match. Would it last? Was it temporary? There was no way to know. How much to tell him? “As the winter approaches, indigents become more and more desperate.”

“Did one of them attack me?”

“I wouldn’t know, since I’ve been here most of the day.”

Then she dared to touch his arm, felt for more serious injuries.

Oh, dear heavens, he smelled delicious too.

A hint of sandalwood with a trace of citrus, leather, and sweaty man.

When one overlooked the aroma of vomit, that was.

Her second fiancé used to work with horses, which had made him a valuable addition to the cavalry.

Some of that scent she remembered when he used to embrace her.

I miss that so much. Not only the physical touch but the companionship, the ability to talk with someone who cared.

He watched her with glittering eyes in the darkness. “What are you not telling me?”

Knots of worry pulled in her belly. “I don’t know anything about you.” Beyond the fact that he was a prize fighter, and from the way he looked, he might have lost the match. That was the truth.

“That I believe.” His eyes narrowed as he peered at her. “Can you help me?”

“Why should I? You’re more than a bit grouchy; you look as if you’ve been through a war, and you don’t have any coin on you.

” That tiny bit of exploration to his chest had confirmed there was nothing in his pockets.

Despite that, need fluttered through her belly with a longing for something she barely understood but thought long dead.

What would it feel like if he were to kiss her, lay her out on a bed with his body pressed atop hers?

Pull yourself together, Phoebe.

When he frowned, she almost lost control over herself, for she wanted to press her lips to his or run her fingers through his glorious hair.

“Your eyes are familiar, almost haunting. So deeply blue, like lake water. Cool, inviting…” He lifted a hand and let his fingers drift over her cheek, leaving tingles behind, along with the lingering scent of blood.

“I remember those eyes, but I don’t remember why or how. I only know I want to.”

The memory of their gazes meeting in the middle of his bout danced into her mind. Though she rather doubted that he was a man given to flowery poetry, she was a bit flattered that her eyes had made such an impression on him. Neither of her fiancés had even mentioned her eyes.

Then, a mad idea occurred to her. It would cause huge waves of scandal if she were found out, but the situation presented seemed so perfect, almost as if fate had handed her this man, with no strings attached. And this was Cranleigh, not London, so how bad could it be? Would anyone truly care?

“Oh, I…” Not able to finish the thought, Phoebe continued to stare at him as her thoughts galloped. “That was sweet of you to say.”

The man on the ground shrugged. “It’s true.”

“A real charmer, aren’t you?” She had followed society’s rules for years, had done everything right, yet she’d lost two fiancés as well as her parents and her only sibling in the span of five years.

She was alone except for her aunt, but that erstwhile lady had her own life and interests beyond the bakery, and she was aging.

Why shouldn’t I do this?

A slow smile curved her lips, and her fingertips rested upon the fallen man’s chest. Why shouldn’t she put forth a couple of tiny white lies in order to carve out a piece of happiness for herself where fate had failed?

He didn’t remember who he was, and all it would take to keep him with her was a simple story.

The villagers and her aunt would be surprised, of course, and that would take another tiny, little lie, but once the shock of it wore off, she could settle into life with this handsome and well-muscled man at her side. One who waxed poetic over her eyes.

To be fair, putting forth this bit of fiction would go beyond tiny lies, but if she kept control over them and kept them small, what harm would it do?

The more she thought about it, the more her heartbeat accelerated.

Did she dare? It might be the only time in her life that she would know what it felt like to have a husband, to discover what occurred within the marriage bed, to be needed for herself.

To carve out happiness after years of doing nothing but grieving for the people who’d left.

This is my chance!

Phoebe tossed caution to the proverbial winds, “Of course my eyes are familiar, you dear man,” she crooned to him, as she peered down into his face.

“I have been worried sick all afternoon wondering what happened to you, and from the looks of it, I’ll wager you were hit in the head with a few bricks.

” All she needed to do was spin a convincing tale that he would believe, and then when they repeated it to her aunt or whoever else wanted to hear it, the story would be far more convincing with that repetition.

“Bricks?” Even his frown was attractive. “What does that mean?”

Damn him. Had the beatings he’d taken made him that curious, or was he truly like that in the life he’d stepped away from? Perhaps she would never know.

“Yes. Don’t you remember that you laid bricks for a living? And you’re quite talented at it.” She gave a nod for emphasis. “You were working on a project this week of making a kiln for the potter who lives at the opposite end of the village.”

God would surely strike her dead for what she was doing, but she didn’t care. She had the life she’d always wanted within her grasp, and a few more delicate strands of conversation would finish the web. Didn’t she deserve that after everything? After all the sadness and disappointment?