Chapter 34

If there’d been anyone in London who hadn’t heard about his marriage before, there wasn’t one now. Nor would there by any more rumors that the marriage had been anything other than a love match. Starting a fight in the middle of a ballroom tended to quell that sort of thing.

As Givendale slammed into Trent, sending him down to the floor where his shoulder drilled into the wooden surface with the force of both men’s weight, it was almost enough to convince himself.

The strength of Givendale’s hit sent the pair sliding across the floor, making finely dressed men and women scatter and squeal. A fist barreled into Trent’s ribs as he scrambled to his feet. Fists flew as Trent adjusted to Givendale’s movements. He took two more punches before taking control of the fight and making sure the weasel wouldn’t be stealing kisses from anyone anytime soon. In return Givendale connected his knee to Trent’s side. Evening clothes with seams, buttons, and other accoutrements weren’t as forgiving as the linen shirt and breeches he normally boxed in. He wasn’t sure if it was the seam of his waistcoat or his flesh tearing, but the pain that lashed through him gave him a pretty good guess.

Trent’s rebuttal was a swift punch to the breadbasket that sent Givendale doubling over, making it simple work to send him to the floor with a less than gentle nudge of Trent’s knee.

A few men came forward to assist Givendale from the premises with less than helpful intentions. Trent winced as more than one foot trod on Givendale’s toes and a couple of fists connected with ribs Trent had already bruised. There would probably be a few butlers getting new instructions when it came to Mr. Givendale. It was well known that at least half the ton marriages were little more than a sham, but woe be to the person who actually got publicly caught, particularly if he was caught by the very man he was making a fool of. Givendale wouldn’t be doing much of anything in the near future, which was a good thing, since that meant he couldn’t call for pistols at dawn.

The fight would be old news before Givendale could call for retribution. Oh, it wouldn’t soon be forgotten, and Trent was sure to be infamous for a long time to come, but Givendale’s suffering would probably be short-lived.

Unless he tried something with Trent’s wife again.

Noise exploded through the ballroom as Givendale and his escorts cleared the door. Trent’s chest heaved with breaths so harsh he thought he might actually be breathing in the noise along with the smell of sweat and blood. He looked down at his still-clenched fist to find a smear of red across his hand. The burning emotional monster still rode him, and he knew he needed to leave.

He looked back at Adelaide for the first time since the confrontation began. She was still where he’d left her, supported on either side by Miranda and Amelia. The fight had moved him halfway across the ballroom, and people were quickly filling in the gap, but he could still make out the stunned face and pale features that hit him harder than anything Givendale had managed to land. What would she think of his forceful answer to the problem of Givendale? If she actually cared for the man, he’d probably just given her the final push that would send her to his side.

She might even go to him tonight to nurse his wounds. It wouldn’t change the fact that she was married to Trent, but it could change everything else.

And to think he’d wanted a courtship. What would he have done if Adelaide had been free to walk away? He could hardly have punched every man who tried to win her heart.

Her horrified blue gaze met his tortured green one through the glare of her spectacles.

He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t go to her, covered in sweat and the blood of the man she might care for more than him.

So he did the only thing he felt he could do.

He looked for Griffith.

He didn’t have to look far. His mountain of a brother was cutting through the crowd to Trent’s side, Ryland immediately behind him. “Get her home for me. Or wherever else she wants to go if she doesn’t want to be there. Just get her out of here safely.”

Ryland placed a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Consider it done.”

The Duke of Marshington looked across the crowd to his wife and jerked his head toward the side door opposite of where Givendale had been taken out. After a brief nod, Miranda began ushering Adelaide through the crowd, slipping quietly along the edge so as not to draw attention to their departure.

Ryland looked at Griffith. “You’ve got him?”

“As long as he can walk.”

Trent scowled at the pair of them, but as long as Adelaide was taken care of, he didn’t care what they did with him. Someone bumped into his back, and fire shot across his shoulder, nearly sending him to his knees.

“Off we go, then.” Griffith wrapped a hand around Trent’s arm and guided him outside with more speed than skill. “My carriage is around the corner.”

Breathing harshly through his teeth, Trent nodded and turned the way Griffith had pointed, his forceful stride eating up the pavement at a pace that actually exceeded that of Griffith’s normal long stride.

The footman saw them coming and jumped to open the door. It wasn’t until Trent was faced with climbing into the vehicle that every hit Givendale had managed to land made itself known. A groan vibrated through his gritted teeth as he climbed in and threw himself onto one of the seats.

Griffith unhurriedly climbed in after him, carrying one of the carriage lanterns. As the conveyance began to roll, he set the lantern on the floor. “How bad is it?”

Trent undid the buttons on his waistcoat and pulled the linen shirt from the waist of his trousers. Every move was agony, and he was soon breathing harder from the effort to move sore muscles than he had been after the exertion of the actual fight. His side had a definite, distinct pain.

Air hissed through Griffith’s teeth as Trent pulled the shirt up. “You need a surgeon.”

Trent looked at his side. In the light of the lantern it did look bad. The blood wasn’t running freely though, so he guessed it was more of a scrape than anything else. “I’ll clean it up at home.”

He looked up at his brother’s stern expression. “I promise if it’s worse than a scratch I’ll send for the surgeon myself.”

Griffith crossed his arms over his chest.

Trent flopped onto the seat, leaving his ruined clothes in their state of disarray. “Honestly, Griffith, do you think Mrs. Harris would let me do anything less?”

His brother grunted but said nothing else on the fifteen-minute ride to Trent’s house. He started to get out and help Trent inside, but Trent held up a hand to stop him. “I can make it inside on my own. I won the fight, remember?”

“Did you?” Griffith lifted an eyebrow as he let the question sink in.

Yes, he had won the physical fight with Givendale, but whether or not he’d won the prize remained to be seen. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Trent didn’t wait for a response as he walked into the house with as much grace as possible. His legs weren’t damaged or even very sore, so it was mostly his back and side causing him to walk like an overworked laundress. His hands also hurt, but that didn’t affect his walk any.

When Fenton opened the door, Trent simply held up a hand in a bid for silence as he walked past and stumbled up to his room, shucking his cravat, jacket, and waistcoat as he went.

Trent rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the discomfort as he achieved the sanctuary of his bedchamber. He pulled his shirt over his head and turned to look at his back in the mirror. The light from the lamp played over his skin, picking up the darker colors that were starting to discolor along his ribs.

He washed the blood off, revealing that the wound on his side was indeed a long scrape with a shallow cut near the front that had caused most of the smeared blood. Considering his own stiff movements, he was fairly certain that Givendale wasn’t cleaning himself up tonight.

Trent couldn’t find a lot of sympathy for his opponent. He’d probably be begging God’s forgiveness for that in the morning, but tonight he was caught in the mire of his human fallibility and couldn’t help but be glad he’d gotten the best of the man who seemed intent on ruining his chances for a happy marriage. Not that Trent hadn’t done at least as much damage himself. He clearly didn’t need outside help in that effort.

He stretched his arm once more, wincing at the pain but knowing that he couldn’t let the muscle tense up—that would make the pain much worse.

Despite the energy still flowing through his veins, he tried to convince himself to go to bed. Wandering the room wasn’t helping his sore body, and any moment the pulsing frenzy would leave his system and his energy would fade into nothingness.

He leaned toward the mirror to check his face one more time to make sure the small cut along his cheekbone wasn’t bleeding again.

A soft sound jerked his gaze from his face to the reflected area beyond his right shoulder. He spun around, desperate to see it with his own eyes, but the truth was there in a white cotton gown with a bright blue wrapper.

She hadn’t gone to Givendale.

She had come to him.

She’d told herself not to come, that the day had been too full of emotions and it would be best to save any conversations for the light of a new day. But as she’d lain in bed, waiting for sleep that refused to come, all she could think about was how slowly he’d been moving when he left the ballroom. How stiffly he’d held his body when he met her gaze across the heads of circling bystanders.

Once Miranda had gotten her clear of the ballroom she’d tried to rush around the side of the house to find him, but the crush of curious people had been more than she could stand. Everywhere she went people pressed in, trying to get her to tell them why Trent had felt the need for such a public altercation with Givendale. As if she wanted to talk about something so personal with people who were still near strangers. Ryland put an end to the questions with a glare and ushered her into his carriage, offering to take her wherever she wanted to go for the night.

The offer had broken her heart because she knew that the order had come from Trent. After everything that happened, he was giving her a choice, as much of a choice as he could. Somehow she knew that no matter what she did he would always choose their marriage. He’d proven as much tonight.

So she’d come home and gotten in bed, trying not to listen for the sounds of his groans in the next room, racking her brain for anything she could do that would ease his suffering. Suffering he’d picked up on her behalf.

One of the medical texts she’d glanced through when looking for interesting facts to share with Trent explained that smoothing and manipulating the muscles could ease soreness from the body. She hadn’t read the whole text and so had no idea what methods the book actually called for, but if she could help him, she wanted to try. No one had ever stood up for her, implicitly believed in her like he did. As much as she was coming to crave a deeper affection from him, she would be satisfied if his protection and confidence were all she ever had.

Afraid she’d lose her nerve if she waited for him to answer a knock, and knowing that it was possible he was already asleep, she’d eased the connecting door open.

She expected him to be collapsed into his faded wingback or sprawled across the bed. She wasn’t expecting to see lantern light playing across his muscled and bruised torso. Suddenly offering to rub the soreness from his muscles didn’t seem like such a good idea. Or perhaps it was the most inspired idea she ever had.

“Adelaide?” He crossed the room in three long strides and took her shoulders in his hands. “Adelaide, are you well?”

He’d been knocked so hard that he slid at least six feet across a ballroom floor and he was concerned about her well-being?

“I thought I might . . . That is, I wanted to see if I could help you. I’ve read that massage can ease the pain after, em, after physical altercations.”

Trent’s eyebrows shot up as he smoothed his hands up and down her arms. The silk wrapper and cotton nightgown were no match for the warmth of his hands, and she wanted to sink in to it, suddenly feeling chilled at all the ups and downs she’d experienced today.

His voice was rough, and he had to clear his throat before the words came out clearly. “It can. There’s a surgeon that comes by the fencing club sometimes. He sees to the occasional sore muscle in exchange for free membership.”

“Oh.” Adelaide’s eyes widened, and she blinked. If it was normally performed by a doctor, could she do it wrong and actually end up hurting him more? “Should I call for a surgeon, then?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” He ran his gaze over her, brows pulled in as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do next. He glanced over his shoulder at the bed before closing his eyes and whispering something she couldn’t quite understand. When he opened them again she caught her breath at the intensity she saw in his emerald eyes. It had to be a trick of the lantern light, but for a few moments all of the sentiments of the day seemed to be swirling in his gaze. “If you want to help, I won’t turn you away. But know you don’t have to do this.”

She was surprised to find herself smiling. Even her bones seemed to be shaking inside her from a combination of nerves and the memory of the last time she’d been in this room. Yet somehow, she still wanted to smile. “I want to help.”

He nodded before going to the bed to lie down on his stomach. “Most of the tension seems to be in the left shoulder.”

“Okay. Do I just . . . push on it?” Adelaide moved the lantern to the table beside the bed and found herself wishing she hadn’t. Even scraped and discolored his back was a thing of beauty. And she had volunteered to touch it.

He turned his head to grin at her. “I’m not sure. I’ve never been on that side of it to see what he does. Just try something. I’ll let you know if it hurts.”

“All right, then.” Adelaide rubbed her hands together, her fingers so cold she didn’t dare place them against his skin. She blew on them to warm them up, contemplating his back and trying to decide the best place to start.

“You don’t have to do this, Adelaide. I’ve been punched before. My body will recover.”

“No,” Adelaide said softly, then repeated the word with more conviction. She decided to start at the top and work her way down. Her first touches were so light they barely made an impression in the skin, but as the heat from his body melted the ice in her fingers she began to press harder, running her hands along his shoulders and down his spine.

His first groan had her snatching her hands back as if she’d been burned. She knew she should have called a physician. It was foolish to practice medicine with only a few paragraphs of a medical text for guidance.

“Noooo,” he groaned. “Feels good.”

That was a good groan, then? Pleased, she set her hands to the task once more, almost forgetting that the beneficiary of the exercise was supposed to be him. She was getting such enjoyment out of running her hands along his skin that she stopped thinking and trusted her instincts on where to go next.

After a while his groans were replaced by a soft snore.

She smoothed her hands over his skin one more time, enjoying the texture and avoiding the long scrape. Then she took the lantern back to her room with a smile.