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“Fighting. Many gentlemen have never been in a fight. They may have learned fencing, and perhaps even boxing. But never real fisticuffs—the kind that draws blood, and hurt, the kind that is necessary to protect dignity and life. When footpads accost them, or anyone else they freeze, and they are taken advantage of badly. You, my lady, are even more ignorant and naive when it comes to what is expected when accosted.”
The truth of his words hammered at her, and memories of how helpless she had been as the marquess pinned her to the earth with his large frame and ripped at her dress made her tremble.
“I take you to the club tonight simply to open your eyes and prepare your mind. If after tonight you wish to continue…then we will.”
Verity stared at the earl, equally shocked and enthralled. Learning to fight had been an idea borne of desperation, which had sounded powerfully freeing. A fighter seemed like one who was courageous and would not fear a simple outing or being in the same room with an odious bully. She had not truly thought of the rudiments or truly even fighting herself. Somehow learning had become a symbol: to show she was once again courageous, and the witty, freedom-loving girl she had once been. But what if she were truly called upon to use her skills. The very idea made Verity feel faint and desperately afraid. And that made her angry for she was tired of feeling fear. “Take me,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to meet his.
His gaze glittered with admiration and it made her feel warm inside. The earl said nothing more but led the way outside to a waiting carriage. They entered, and she sat opposite him and folded her hands in her laps. She closed her eyes briefly, an awareness of her life altering persistently buffeting her senses. Then she smiled. Only forward, Verity…and with courage.
Words her father had said many times to her over the years, especially as she had learned to ride horses, for she had been afraid of the animals. Words her nightmares had obscured for too long. How patient and loving her papa had been. How encouraging. She took his words, wrapped them in her heart and whispered, “And with courage, papa, I promise it.”
Lady Verity smoothed her palms over her thighs once more, a nervous gesture she had repeated at least five times. James had no words of comfort to offer, and he leaned back against the squabs as the carriage rumbled over the cobbled streets of London to their destination. He hadn’t believed she would dare show up for their lessons. That was why he had deliberately informed her of their first meeting a week in advance, enough time for her nerves to desert her, and for the lady to rethink her decision.
Most, if not all, young ladies were ruthlessly groomed to believe in adhering to the strict and proper rules governing polite society. For an unmarried society girl, any suggestions of unique individuality were frowned upon. Yet this lady had the audacity to do so…and he admired her for it. Ardently. The awareness pulled a smile to his lips and an odd lightness lifted his heart.
Not for the first time, James wondered if he was doing the smart thing in taking her to the club. While she was not the typical, wilting, hysterical miss, she was a lady of quality. Tonight would distress her sensibilities. Yet he wanted her to understand the stark reality of what she sought. Understand the risks, the consequences, the violence, and the raw emotions of guilt and acceptance that came with lifting a fist to someone else. Whether in attack or defense, it took a different kind of strength to follow through.
“There is a rumor that you made your fortune in the fighting pits,” she said unexpectedly.
James observed the fright in her eyes, and realized she wanted conversation of some sort to calm her nerves. For a moment he felt flummoxed. Most of the discourse he had with ladies of society were quite bland, uninspired, and was scripted by etiquette and an elevated sense of what was proper and just. This was not such a question. He found her forwardness refreshing, though, given their circumstance he couldn’t expect differently. Even if she only sought to ease her nerves. He wanted to relieve her anxiety. It made him feel contemplative. Tenderness, that most alien and disconcerting of emotions, swelled and roiled through James. “I did make some of my wealth in that manner. The gambling tables and a few investments also helped.”
“You are an earl,” she said with a soft sideways glance.
“That I am, Lady Verity.”
“How did an earl end up with a reputation as one of London’s fiercest fighters? It is most unusual.” At his silence she continued, “If you do not mind my curiosity?”
He’d done what he had to do to save his family: the tenant workers of his land whom he had grown up with, the servants of the house who had pooled their monies together to buy him books, boots in winter, because his father had not given a damn. When he’d inherited the lands and four estates, there hadn’t been money to invest in the latest farming techniques and equipment. Many had stood to lose their livelihood and homes they had lived in for years.
“It had been necessary.”
“Your earldom was impoverished?”
“My father died seven years ago when I was one and twenty. Upon claiming my inheritance, the lawyers informed me my coffers were empty, and a few of the estates heavily burdened by debts and mortgages.”
“That must have been terrible,” she murmured sympathetically. “Were you abroad?”
“No. I was living in the village, working the fields along with the tenant farmers.”
Her lips parted in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
James felt a similar sense of disbelief. He did not share his past with anyone, knowing the ton’s propensity for gossip and cruel speculations into one’s life. He cleared his throat. “You have shared a part of yourself with me, Lady Verity. You are trusting me with your secrets now, and for that reason…for that reason I too will share some of my past. Since I’ve never shared my history with anyone else, I will lay blame at your door if I hear this circulating among the masses.”
Her eyes widened, and her fingers dug into the edges of the padded seat. “I do not gossip, my lord,” she said softly. “I daresay you are not obliged to share.”
James arched a brow and remained quiet.
She tapped her left foot several times, and shifted as if the seats were uncomfortable, then folded her arms across her middle. With a harrumph she said, “Oh, do continue!”
He laughed, impressed that her curiosity had held itself back for at least ten seconds. She glared at him with a perturbed furrow between her brows.
“My father neglected his duty, unable to rise to the occasion because he had been so lost in his grief,” he said gruffly. “He loved my mother more than life itself, and I killed her.”
Lady Verity stiffened but did not interrupt.
“I was a big, ugly brute who took her life during childbirth. My father never forgave me for that, so not only were the estates neglected, but so was I.” James’s earliest memories were of his father screaming to his nurse to take James from his sight. He’d been born too big. And as a brute he should work the fields. It had been unorthodox, shameful, but the old earl had forced his son to work the land alongside his tenant farmers. He’d denied him tutors, and the fine education the men of his line should have been given. He’d hidden him in the country along with his pain and his son’s existence. Society knew there had been an heir, but they’d never met him. “I had no tutors or governesses. I was not sent to Eton or Oxford. I spent most of my life in the village of Cressingham. I was the ugly brute who took everything my father cherished, and he treated me like one.”
Her eyes were red and it was evident to him she struggled with tears. James frowned, for he had not told her of any of the sufferings he had waded through—the vicious fights with the older boys, the pain of never knowing his mother, even how she looked, the hunger to hear a comforting word from his father always denied. “You are far too softhearted,” he muttered.
