Page 14 of Intolerable
Cassandra.
Lucien’s sister.
Ruarkhadto forget it had ever occurred. Finally, when he reached the ballroom, regret surfaced in his mind. Unfortunately, it was because he hadn’t kissed her a third time.
Present day…
The blow hit Ruark square in the gut, doubling him back over and sending a wave of pain clear to his spine.
“Where’d you go?” Mort, his pugilism coach and sparring partner, asked as Ruark staggered backward.
“Nowhere. I’ve been right here the whole time, as evidenced by the hit you just landed.” He rubbed his bare hand over his bare abdomen.
“Not physically, you dolt. In your head.” Mort tapped his temple. “You weren’t engaged. Your mind was off somewhere.” Mort was too damn smart. That was one reason Ruark had hired him as his coach three years ago.
Ruark had been locked in the memory of Cassandra’s embrace, a frustratingly regular occurrence over the past several weeks. “I’m just tired. You’re making me work rather hard today.” He wiped his hand over his brow, which was dripping sweat.
“Bah, no harder than usual.” At fifty, Mortimer Dodd was in better shape than most men could ever hope to be. With shoulders as broad as a hundred-year-old oak and the ability to outrun men half his age—including Ruark—he was perfectly suited to train young pugilists hoping to find their fortune in the ring. He was also well-equipped to work with idle noblemen who enjoyed hitting people. No, it was more than that for Ruark. He appreciated the strategy of facing off against an opponent and of pushing himself to the limit.
“You’re distracted,” Mort persisted, his wide forehead and partially bald pate glistening with sweat. “I’ve noticed it the past fortnight at least.”
Ruark snorted as he moved out of the practice ring. “I doubt that. You’re confusing me with someone else probably.”
Mort followed him from the ring. “Keep telling yourself that, Wexford.” The older man’s laugh held an annoying confidence. But he was right. He would no sooner confuse Ruark with another than Ruark would find a new coach. Because Mort was much more than that. In some ways, he was the father Ruark wished he had.
“I might be a little distracted. I agreed to do a favor for a friend, and it’s not working out very well.” Because her father was an ass, and her brother was a pain in one.
Reaching for a towel hanging from a hook on the wall, Mort wiped his face. “What’s her name?”
Ruark pulled another towel from a neighboring hook. “It’s not a woman,” he lied.
“We met three years ago when you came here to my cousin’s club looking to forget something. Rather,someone, as I later learned. I still remember her name, do you?”
Of course he did. Ruark remembered all their names. And their faces. And a myriad of other details. Cassandra was different, however. Any attachment between him and her was purely fabricated for the purposes of encouraging other gentleman to court her. The incident between them was just…an incident. That would not be repeated.
Dammit, he never should have agreed to help her, not when he’d failed to put her, and more importantly, theincident, from his mind. However, the very next time he’d seen her after their encounter, he’d offered his help should she ever need it. Since then, he’d felt beholden.
Really? You hadn’t just wanted to help her? More accurately, you weren’t hoping for a reason to remain connected to her?
“Why are you scowling?” Mort asked, his mouth tilting into a lopsided smile.
Ruark schooled his features as he wiped the towel over the back of his neck. “Because you’re bringing up ancient history.”
“History that likes to repeat, if I remember correctly. Nuala wasn’t the first woman who drew your eye.”
“I obviously revealed too much of myself to you.”
“’Twasn’t me, but the gin.” He winked at Ruark, his grin wide and revealing the gap where one of his upper teeth beyond the canine had been knocked out in a bout. “A truthteller, that is.”
Ruark grunted. “I’m going to change clothes.” He turned and strode toward the dressing room.
“Do what you must to expel her from your mind before our next practice,” Mort called after him. “A good shag’d work things out, I wager.”
As if Ruark could just shag Cassandra and that would be the end of it. That would be the bloody beginning. Hell, he’d been afraid he would have to marry her. When a gentleman compromised a lady, that typically followed. But he hadn’t known she was a lady!
Not that the detail mattered. They hadn’t been seen, so she hadn’t technically been compromised. Besides, it was just a kiss. Two kisses. Plenty of young ladies kissed a beau once or twice. Didn’t they? Or had that just been his experience because he’d let things go a trifle too far with Freya and Nuala before severing their associations?
“Pardon me.”
