Page 16 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

Clem waited for her to ask him what he was doing there, but her gaze was now traveling unhappily around the kitchen. “Mrs. Cherwell would be furious if she could see the mess I have made in here,” she admitted sadly.

“You mentioned her before I think.”

She nodded but did not expand on this as her dull eyes finally finished running over the untidy dresser to land on him once more. A faint pucker appeared between her brows. “What are you doing here, Mr. Dabney?” it finally occurred to her to ask.

Something, he realized, had changed in Miss Theodora Fields since he last saw her. Today, he would not be subjected to any outrageous comments. She was too miserable for that, and for some reason, he did not like to see it. Disappointment did not suit her.

Promptly, he abandoned the dry business proposition he had been about to lay before her. “I didn’t want to let you slip through my fingers, Miss Fields,” he said instead. Her blank expression told him she had not made the connection to her parting shot. “As soon as you walked out that door, I felt it.”

“Felt what?” she asked with a faint frown.

“Regret,” he uttered concisely.

Her forlorn expression slowly transformed before him. She sat up in her seat, her cheeks flushed, and the dull eyes swam into focus. “You did?” she gasped.

He nodded. “Of the bitterest kind.”

A gurgle of laughter escaped her lips. “You’re teasing me,” she said uncertainly.

He shook his head. “No. I think your scheme is inspired. We both get what we want out of it, right?”

“You—my scheme?” She stared as though transfixed, as though she could not quite bring herself to believe his words. “Inspired?” she murmured at last. “You do not mean that?”

“Yes, I do. It was, frankly, so audacious that I could not comprehend its genius at first. You are very bold and direct, Miss Fields. I like that. Especially in a partner.”

She licked he lips. “To marry?” she faltered, sounding entirely scandalized, even though the scheme had been of her own making. “You do not want to see me audition for you first?” She gulped. “Or—?”

“No.” Christ, no. He didn’t want to lie to her face about her abysmal act. He would just let it die a natural death out on the stage. Then he would console and settle her into something else. Anything else. The haphazard clutter of the kitchen caught his eye. Not housekeeping, he winced. No, definitely not housekeeping.

“Mr. Dabney, I-I hardly know what to say!” When his eyes snapped back to hers, he saw they were clearly brimming with tears again. Grateful ones this time, he hoped. She started to stand up, then sank back down into her seat. “How soon do you think—?”

“First things first, we’ll have to get the banns read,” he said simultaneously.

Her eyes widened. She looked, he thought, rather petrified at the prospect, though she was making an effort to conceal it. “Yes, yes, of course.” She hesitated. “My own family are not regular churchgoers. Are you a member of a local congregation?”

“No,” he admitted truthfully, feeling a little taken aback by her own confession. Maybe her family was not as respectable as he had imagined. “There is a church near my lodgings; we should probably get them read there, as we need to … er … keep our cards close to our chests.” She nodded when he looked at her. “Could you slip away and meet me every Sunday for the next however many weeks it takes?” How many was it? Six? Eight? He had only the vaguest idea how it all worked.

She gulped. “Yes, of course. I suppose it will be a morning service. I could always tell Felix I was going to church, which would be perfectly true. He would probably approve of that,” she admitted sounding resentful of the fact.

They both clammed up, eyeing one another with a certain measure of wariness. “We should probably get married there too,” he suggested, the words sounding odd coming out of his own mouth, however casual he tried to make them sound. “It’s in Clapham. St Thomas’.”

“Yes, good thinking,” she agreed in a croak. “Do we both meet with the vicar initially or …?”

Clem inserted a finger under his collar, which suddenly felt rather tight. “No idea,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “Not my area of expertise. I will make enquiries.”

“Perhaps you could send me word to let me know at what time I should meet you?” she said faintly, then inspiration seemed to strike, for her expression brightened. “Maybe we should devise a cipher for our secret correspondence?” she suggested excitedly.

It was his turn to look blank. “A cipher?” he repeated, tipping his head.

“Or,” she said eagerly, “you could write to me under an alias. Such as calling yourself Clementine Darby.”

Clem practically blanched. “Clementine …?”

Catching sight of his expression, she said quickly, “Or any other name you deem fit. You see, if a man was to write to me, it would surely raise eyebrows and my brother would likely take issue with it.”

Clem gazed at her again. To his surprise, he found he was taking issue with the idea of such underhandedness. He frowned. “How did you slip away to visit me in Shoreditch the other week?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“Oh, it was quite easy. My brother was at rehearsals and my sister—well, it actually turned out my sister was eloping, though none of us realized it at the time.”