Page 7 of The Viscount's Unwanted Bride
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “That does not tempt me.”
Theo sighed, and his shoulders sank. Servants cleared the dishes from the table, and Theo pulled himself together enough to prevent any of them from asking questions. Most would be too intimidated by him to dare, but some had been with the family since he was a boy and tended to take more liberties with formality.
He considered returning to work. Lord knew there was enough of it waiting for him. But he didn’t have the heart to delve back into financial records and political essays tonight. A sense of unease itched beneath his skin, and he felt like if he didn’t release some energy, he’d be awake all night.
He ran a hand through his short dark hair before striding out of the dining room and taking the stairs to the second floor, then walking along the corridor to his bedchamber. He summoned his valet, stripped out of his clothes, and redressed in a pair of riding pants and a loose-fitting shirt.
“I’ll be in the boxing room for a while,” he told his valet, Barlow, and the man retrieved a small box and passed it to him. That done, the valet excused himself.
Theo opened the box and withdrew the soft lengths of fabric within. He wrapped them around his knuckles, palms, and wrists in a way he’d done so many times before, making sure that they were well padded before tucking the loose ends into the bands around his wrists.
He stood, stretched his arms above his head, and wandered down the corridor to the small room at the end. He closed the door behind himself and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet to warm them up. He jogged the length of the room a few times to loosen his muscles and then circled around to the heavy bag strung up from a chain in the center of the room.
The bag had been filled with sand and made a satisfying thud as he drew back his fist and slammed it into the fabric. He punched the bag again and again, first only hitting it at head height as if aiming for an opponent’s face but eventually shifting further down and practicing uppercuts and hooks too.
He feinted left and went right, dodged and weaved, keeping light on his feet throughout it all. He used to enjoy sparring with his friends at a gentleman’s boxing club, but few people were willing to get in the ring with someone who was rumored to be a killer, and of those who were, most of them weren’t doing it to be sporting. They wanted to say they had gone a round with him and survived.
He was tired of that, and he didn’t want to give anyone any more reason to talk than they already had.
When his fists ached, he switched pushing the bag with the balls of his feet or pivoting and slamming the bony part of his shin against it. His shins throbbed, but it hurt far less to kick like this than it had when he’d first started out. His body seemed to be adapting to take the punishment.
When he was exhausted and everything hurt, he summoned a maid and asked her to fill a tub with hot water for him. He waited until she was done before returning to his bedchamber. He didn’t need his valet’s assistance to undress, so he shed his clothes and lowered himself into the tub, his muscles twinging in protest.
He washed himself thoroughly, toweled dry, and dressed in a pair of trousers and a shirt intended to be comfortable rather than tidy. He ought to go to sleep, but after expending so much energy, he wasn’t tired yet. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like cozying up with a book, either, so the only viable option was to return to his office and the stack of work that awaited him there.
He poured himself a finger of brandy and took it to his desk, where he settled on the chair and took a sip, savoring the burn as it tracked down the inside of his throat. He lit the candles that stood in a large brass candleholder on the corner of his desk, and they cast light and shadows across the desktop.
The light glinted off the miniature of Elizabeth that sat in a frame less than a foot from the candles. Theo picked the miniature up and studied it. The likeness was remarkable. The portrait had been painted in the first year of their marriage. Her cheeks were plump and pink with youth, and her brown eyes sparkled with joy.
Things had been so good then. In fact, their marriage had been wonderful up until the storm that killed his father. Then it had all gone to hell.
Several unopened letters were piled on the opposite corner of the desk. He set the miniature down, grabbed the letters, and flipped through, noting the return addresses. He froze on the last one. It was a letter from Elizabeth’s parents. With a sinking heart, he opened the paper and read the familiar flowing letters.
His stomach flipped over, and with each word he read, he fought the urge to use one of the candles to light the paper on fire and watch it go up in flames.
Why did they have to keep doing this to him? Why couldn’t they just let him be?
CHAPTER 3
“I’mglad you’re the one coming with me to the Wembley ball rather than Amelia,” Kate said as she and Lady Drake made their way up the stairs and down the corridor to the family wing of the London townhouse to choose her dress for the night.
Lady Drake laughed. “Amelia has many strengths, but most of them exist outside of the ballroom. Since she doesn’t enjoy such affairs and I do, and she has George at home to fuss over, it only makes sense for me to be the one to accompany you.”
Kate muffled a giggle. She loved her sister-in-law, she really did, but Amelia had no patience for dancing or socializing, which meant that nearly every invitation she received was given a polite rejection.
The doorway to Kate’s bedroom was already ajar. Margaret hovered near the wardrobe. She’d let the drapes down so they couldn’t see outside, but Kate knew it must be almost completely dark by now. Her mother perched on the red striped ottoman and patted the cushion beside her, signaling for Kate to join her.
“The blue dress, please, Margaret,” Kate said as she claimed the spot beside Lady Drake.
Margaret searched through the dresses until she found the one Kate had referred to and lifted it out. “This one, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Are you sure that’s the one you want?” Lady Drake asked, examining it with a keen eye. “It’s beautiful, but it’s not the most eye-catching gown in your collection.”
“That’s true, but there will be opportunities to push the boundaries of convention later in the season. Tonight, I simply want to make a good impression.” She knew the pretty shade of blue flattered her complexion and that the dress was different enough from others to attract notice without being provocative or particularly daring. She thought it would do nicely.
“In that case, I have the jewelry you requested.” Lady Drake gestured to Margaret, who picked up a small box that had been resting on the dressing table and handed it to Kate.
