“I’m terrified, James,” MacAvoy said, clinging to his arm. James looked at the hand trembling on his forearm and up at the face of the groom.
“You have to relax. The ceremony will be over in short order, and then we’ll go to Elspeth’s and get you a whiskey or something,” James said with sympathy. His friend was white-faced and shaking. “Come on. It’s time to get ourselves to the nave. I don’t see Mrs. Emory being late to her own wedding.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You don’t want to marry her? Be a real papa to Mary? Bed her mother?” he whispered.
“I do. Dear God, I do,” MacAvoy said.
“Good. That’s what you’re going to say when the priest asks you. I do. Come along now,” James said, pulling his friend toward the door.
James barely got MacAvoy in place and facing the back of the church when the doors opened, letting in a blast of cool March air and bringing Mrs. Emory to walk regally down the aisle, little Mary at her side. He jiggled the ring in his hand, waiting to hand it to MacAvoy and worried the man would be so shaken he’d drop it and James would have to crawl around under the pews looking for it. But for now, he listened to the sermon and heard the Bible’s words. Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge.
Unbidden, Lucinda Vermeal’s face floated before his eyes. He wondered what had made her so very angry that day at her new home, pushing him away from her, urging him to leave her. He didn’t believe he would leave her.
When the time came in the ceremony, MacAvoy’s hand was steady and his color was back as James handed him the ring. It appeared that the groom’s fears were in the anticipation rather than the execution of the marriage. He watched MacAvoy kiss his bride and then pick up Mary and kiss her too. The shy child must have understood the gravity of the ceremony, though, and wrapped her arms around MacAvoy’s neck. James heard her whispered, “Papa.”
James followed the triumphant groom, still holding Mary, with his bride, Mrs. MacAvoy, at his side. That would take some getting used to. MacAvoy was married. James was nodding and smiling to the guests as he walked down the aisle until a set of pale blue eyes flashed at him and looked away. Ah, Lucinda, looking elegant and unapproachable in brown silk with a wide white collar.
Lucinda was not sure how Elspeth did it, making every one of the wedding guests in her home feel comfortable, but she did. She’d commandeered staff from her mother-in-law to manage the household and kitchen duties so that her own staff could enjoy the service at the church and the festivities in her home as one of their own was married. There were laundry maids in their best dresses alongside Mr. Pendergast’s parents, scions of Philadelphia society.
“I understand there’s to be no formal sit-down dinner,” Aunt Louisa said as she removed her bonnet and handed her coat to a servant in the entrance way of the Pendergast home.
“Perhaps she thought it might make some of the guests uncomfortable,” Lucinda said.
“Yes. I think that is why she and Mrs. MacAvoy have chosen something less formal.”
The ballroom had a huge buffet table down the center of the room and small tables for two or four guests scattered around the edge of the room. Muireall Thompson was directing her younger brother, Payden, and their housekeeper’s son, Robert McClintok, on how to fill their plates and juggle a glass of punch as they approached.
“Miss Thompson? Muireall?” Aunt Louisa said with a light laugh. “Do you think they will be successful making it to one of the tables with their food and drink?”
“I’m not sure. Payden has plans to tell his sister that the small plates are ridiculous and wants to know how she expects him to get enough food to fill himself.”
“Mr. Thompson,” Aunt Louisa said as James joined them. “You did an exceptionally good job of keeping the poor groom from fainting. He looked terrified prior to the service.”
“He was, ma’am,” James said and glanced at Lucinda. “But I convinced him to stand his ground.”
She took a deep breath. James Thompson was handsome enough to take her breath away on any day and devastating in the dark suit and green silk vest he wore today. She’d watched him at the altar before the bride arrived, encouraging his friend, talking in a low voice to him. Aunt was right that Mr. MacAvoy had looked pale and nervous. And then he had seen his bride, and the change in him had been startling. His face lit, his eyes devouring the very demure, beautiful, and proper woman, his bride, as she made her way down the aisle. When he’d picked up the little girl and kissed her and the child had laid her head on his shoulder, every female in the church had sighed.
It was such a romantic tableau. Nothing like the furor she was feeling for the man standing beside her, crowding her and letting their arms touch. She turned without speaking and walked away. He followed her, as she knew he would. She stopped and spoke over her shoulder.
“Find someone else to follow, Mr. Thompson,” she said and continued walking toward the door to the ballroom, her destination unknown.
“Lucinda. Stop.” He touched her arm. “I want to talk to you.”
“How embarrassing for you,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone.”
She hurried as much as good breeding would allow, attaching herself to Elspeth’s in-laws. She saw James in her peripheral vision, standing in the middle of the room, staring at her, his hands in his pants pockets, looking more gorgeous and manly than any male had a right to.
She would not satisfy him by looking at him. She would not satisfy him in any way, she thought. No more stolen kisses and caresses. She was twenty-four and the only daughter of an incredibly wealthy and influential man. She was not unattractive. She knew that men liked to look at her. She’d been kissed before. Several times. But up until the first time James Thompson laid his lips on hers, she’d have said with all honesty that kisses were nothing to be excited about. Most were boring, some too forward, some too timid, some sloppy. But not so when he kissed her. Her mind ceased functioning when he kissed her. She belatedly realized that Mrs. Pendergast had asked her something, and she had no idea what.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to find my aunt.”
She and Aunt Louisa gave their thanks to Elspeth and her husband, spoke to the bride and groom for a few minutes, and walked down the street side by side, having refused several offers to see them home, although Lucinda noticed a uniformed servant trailing them.
“I was hoping to have a slice of the wedding cake,” Aunt said as they walked.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Louisa. I’m not feeling well. You should have stayed.”
Her aunt laughed. “I’m teasing you, dear. I don’t need a piece of cake. My waistline is disappearing as it is, and Renaldo will be waiting for me soon.”
“Oh.”
“What is the matter? You hurried away from Mr. Thompson, and usually you are pleased to chat with him.”
“I don’t ever want to speak to James Thompson again,” she said breathlessly. It was such a terrible thing to think, especially now, hearing herself say it aloud. She wanted to cry but would not give in until she was safely in her home in her private sitting room.
Aunt stared at her as they walked and finally began to converse on the guests at the wedding and how wonderfully romantic it had been when that little girl hugged the groom. Lucinda listened with half an ear.
Mr. Delgado’s carriage was waiting outside Lucinda’s house. He stepped out of the carriage and helped Aunt Louisa into it after speaking quietly to her and kissing her cheek.
“I would dearly love to see your new home, Miss Vermeal, if you would grant me a tour, but your aunt and I have an appointment to inspect a house that I am thinking of purchasing for my family and they have asked us to arrive earlier than our scheduled time. I was going to send a message to Louisa and see if I could convince her to leave the wedding party. But here you are!” He kissed her hand. “My Louisa was dearly hoping you’d make your home with us, but I understand you’re looking for some . . . independence. But know that you are welcome to come to us anytime, for a short stay or a long one. Your aunt is missing you desperately.”
“Thank you. And another time, Mr. Delgado, I would love to give you a tour.”
Aunt blew her a kiss through the carriage door and Renaldo walked her down the stone pathway, waiting with her until her butler, Brandleford, opened the door. Mr. Delgado bowed over her hand and bid her good day.
She climbed the staircase slowly. Giselle was waiting for her and helped her remove her dress and unpin her hair from the elaborate style she’d worn for the occasion. She let her eyes close as her maid brushed through her hair. Then she dismissed her and stretched out on the chaise in front of the tall windowed doors that led to the balcony outside her rooms. She thought about James Thompson. She could not help herself. She thought about the night of the match and the sound of a fist hitting bone and his slumped and unconscious figure on the floor of the ring. She thought about his calling for her in his incoherent ramblings and let the tears run down her cheeks. She had best harden her heart to him now rather than risk loving him and losing him, even though he was not hers and never would be. And she must not love him! She could not risk it. She intended to rid herself of that ridiculous notion immediately.
She awoke from vivid and uncomfortable dreams of him when Mrs. Howell touched her shoulder. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, miss, but Mr. Vermeal is downstairs with another gentlemen. I told them you weren’t feeling well, but he said he would come up to your rooms himself to see what his daughter might need.”
Lucinda sat up slowly. “Thank you, Mrs. Howell. Tell Mr. Vermeal I’ll be there in a few moments and have Giselle come to my room.”
A few minutes later, her butler was opening the doors to the front parlor. Her father stood from the chair he’d been seated in, and Carlton Young turned from his place in front of the fireplace and hurried to her, his hands outstretched. She glanced at them and then up at his face until he dropped them.
“Miss Vermeal, it is so wonderful to see you. I have thought of our conversations many times.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Young. Papa, I’m not feeling well. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Your housekeeper informed us you’d just returned from a party of some sort. Where were you?” her father asked rather tersely. “Did you at least have a maid with you?”
“Aunt Louisa accompanied me.”
“May I say you are looking particularly beautiful?” Young said wistfully.
Lucinda ignored him and looked at her father. “I’m really not feeling very well, Papa, and would like to lay down.”
At that moment the door opened, and a young maid came in carrying a coffee tray. Mrs. Howell followed. “I didn’t order refreshments, Mrs. Howell.”
“But I did,” her father said. “Will you pour, Lucinda?”
She turned to her housekeeper. “Would you please bring me a cup of tea with some willow bark stirred in?”
“Yes, miss. Right away,” she said and motioned to the young maid to leave the room.
Lucinda resigned herself to a conversation, although she intended to keep it short, regardless of what her father might think. She poured coffee for both men and did not wait long for Mrs. Howell to bring her tea. She sipped the steaming liquid and tried to relax her shoulders, knowing that her headache was as much a chance event as it was a tense response to seeing James Thompson.
“Your father has plans to show me and my family some of the city tomorrow. I’m hoping you’ll join us. Or perhaps we can plan an outing to dinner or the theater.”
“Of course she’ll accompany us!” her father said.
“Thank you for thinking of me, Mr. Young, but I . . .” Lucinda trailed off when she heard Brandleford speaking louder than usual and a man replying. She jumped from her chair and stared at the door.
“Miss Vermeal,” James Thompson said as he entered the room. “I wanted to make sure that you’d gotten home safely and that you were feeling better.” He looked at her father and Young. “Am I interrupting something, gentlemen?”
“You most certainly are! What do you think you’re doing, barging into my daughter’s home this way? Get out!”
“Papa, please. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Thompson?”
“I’ve met your father on a few memorable occasions but haven’t been introduced to this young pup.” James looked across the room. “Perhaps an introduction, Miss Vermeal.”
“Mr. James Thompson, Mr. Carlton Young. Mr. Young, Mr. Thompson.”
Carlton Young walked across the room swiftly and pumped James’s hand.
“The fighter? James Thompson, the fighter?”
“I am,” James said.
“Lucinda,” her father seethed, “have your butler bring your two largest servants to this room immediately and have this man removed.”
James looked at her father, unsmiling. “If you think a pair of burly servants will do the trick, Mr. Vermeal, then please do try. It should be entertaining, but it might be dangerous for some of the more delicate pieces of furniture in this room.”
“Are you threatening me, Thompson? Do you have any idea who I am?”
“You’re Miss Vermeal’s father. And this is Carlton Young,” James said and glanced at Lucinda. “Miss Vermeal’s suitor.”
“I do not have any suitors, Mr. Thompson. Allow Brandleford to see you out,” she said, now noticing that the butler was still standing in the doorway.
“Will you ever fight again?” Young asked. “I’ve read every article I can find about your fight with Jackson.”
“The rematch will be on the twenty-fourth.”
“It’s scheduled already! I didn’t know if it would ever happen. I think we will still be here in town. I’ll have to talk my father into accompanying me,” Young said.
“I’ll send you two tickets,” James said with a wry smile.
“That would be capital! Just capital!” Young said with a boyish smile and a punch in the air.
The conversation was making her nauseous in addition to having a pounding head. She could not get the picture of him, bruised and bleeding, fighting his sisters and aunt on the night of the last match, out of her head, yet she could not bear to think about it.
“My concern is Miss Vermeal’s health,” James said and turned to her, pinning her with his eyes. “Are you feeling better?”
She was breathless suddenly and could feel a flush climbing her neck. She could not allow him any advantage. “I am going to lie down. Good day, Papa, Mr. Young, Mr. Thompson,” she whispered and hurried through the door. She heard shouting behind her and forced herself to continue on to her rooms, to safety, to peace.
Dinner that evening was its usual loud affair, James thought as he ate the carved turkey on his plate. Kirsty and Payden were arguing, and Muireall was describing MacAvoy’s wedding to Aunt Murdoch as she’d been feeling poorly with chills and a stuffed head and had not attended.
“Miss Vermeal was running from you as if a pack of wild dogs were at her heals today,” Kirsty said as she waved her fork at him. “What have you done?”
He shrugged as if it was no concern of his when all the while he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Or that Young boy sniffing around her. “I really don’t know. I went to her new house last week, and she told me to leave and never come back.”
“Girls are stupid,” Payden said.
“What did you say to her, James?” Kirsty asked.
“We were talking about different things, everyday matters, you know,” James said, unwilling to share his declaration that he had plans for the two of them with his chatty family. He would never hear the end of it.
“I’m interested to hear your plans, boy,” Aunt Murdoch said. “Have you even been looking for a job?”
“I’ve got some savings.”
“I’m sure you do. But you’re a man, and you need a worthwhile profession. Otherwise, your pride would suffer, although pride is not something you’re in short supply of,” Aunt Murdoch continued with a laugh and then a cough.
“True enough,” he said. “And anyway, I can’t work a job while I’m training. MacAvoy’s got me working out six or seven hours a day.”
Kirsty’s silverware dropped to her plate. “What did you say?”
“About what? Your fork handle is in your gravy.”
“Is the fight scheduled, then?” Payden asked, leaning across the table.
“What are you training for, James?” Muireall asked, staring at him in her most prim fashion, her lips pursed and her fingers tight around her glass.
“The rematch. It’s scheduled for the twenty-fourth.”
Aunt Murdoch was shaking her head. “I’ll not do it, boy. I’ll not patch you up this time.”
“I’ll never speak to you again! Do you hear me? Never, ever!” Kirsty said with tears in her eyes as she ran out of the room.
“What’s gotten into her?” he asked.
“Payden, please go help Mrs. McClintok with the dishes and the cleaning up,” Muireall said.
Aunt Murdoch stood and got her cane from where it was leaning against the sideboard. She shook her head. “I won’t do it, James,” she said as she left.
“What has gotten into everyone?” he asked. “It’s not like you didn’t know this day would come. I was never going to let a draw hang over my record.”
“I am so angry with you right now I can barely speak,” Muireall whispered hoarsely. “No wonder Miss Vermeal has nothing to say to you.”
“Do you think she’s upset about me fighting?”
“You’re a fool, James. She cares deeply about you, as do all of us. We watched you struggle to breathe, be stitched up, with Payden and Robbie seeing to your most personal needs for weeks.”
James flushed. “There’s no need to bring—”
“There is every need. Will you commit her or myself or Kirsty to caring for you for the rest of your life? Will you have us feeding you and wiping your bottom and relying on Payden to lead the family before he is ready?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, anger building in his gut. “You’re saying I’ll lose this match? That Jackson will pummel me until I’m a blabbering idiot?”
She shook her head. “Do not make this a matter of competition. This is your life. We held it in our hands and in our prayers not that long ago. Don’t ask us to do it again.”
Muireall stood, and he watched her slowly climb the stairs in the hallway. They were angry he was going to fight again? What did they expect him to do? This was what he did! Who he was! What alternative was there anyway? Be a mason or a cemetery worker or a mill flunky? But he knew what he could do. He could take up the offer that Alexander had presented him. He could stay out of the ring and make a good living—more than a good living, he suspected.