They'd stood by the Serpentine, a stolen moment like so many they'd shared. He remembered the hammering ache in his chest, the frantic way he'd tried to memorize the details of her before he lost her forever.
"Kiss me, Paul," she'd whispered. "Give me a kiss I'll remember forever, even when you've forgotten me."
Fiercely, he'd said, "Never. I'll never forget you, Rosalind. I swear I'll love you forever."
Guilt pierced Paul for the vow he'd made—as if he'd somehow betrayed both Charity and Rosalind. Which was ridiculous. Rosalind was Countess Monteith, the mother of two young boys. Having moved on—and up—surely she didn't expect him to carry the torch for her indefinitely. She'd probably forgotten him. With a jolt, he discovered that his memory of her had also faded: he could no longer recall the exact shade of her hair or the precise timbre of her voice, the laugh which had enthralled him so.
Truly, his feelings were too confusing to examine in the light of his new circumstances. Confusing and damned disrespectful. Hadn't he promised Charity that his past would not interfere with their future? So why was he thinking about Rosalind at all?
Locking the memories away, he brushed his cheek against Charity's silky hair. His wife was a sensible woman. She'd understand—he'd been a different man back then. Aye, with each day that he spent with her, he was beginning to believe that he was changing for the better. Yet he couldn't quite shake off the sense that he was an imposter: that he was playacting at being a good husband and could forget his lines at any moment. As if he were about to bollix this up ...
"A penny for your thoughts." With sleep-soft eyes, Charity was watching him. She placed a fingertip between his brows. "Why are you frowning?"
He hesitated before saying, "Regret." It wasn't a lie. He regretted so many things.
She stiffened against him. "About what?"
"That our wedding trip has to end," he said—also not a lie—"and that we must come back to the real world." He brought one of her hands to his lips, kissing the palm. "There's much to be done upon our return."
Her shoulders relaxed. She sat up. "Preparing for the tournament, you mean?"
"There's that, and we also have to find a place to live. We won't be staying with my mama forever, you know."
"I know," she said quickly.
"I won't leave for training for another week. I'd like to look at a few places before then, if it suits you." He tapped her on the nose. "Unlike the nursery rhyme, I don't intend to have my wife living in an old shoe."
"I wouldn't mind. As long as you lived there with me," she said.
The sweet, steadfast simplicity of her statement made him feel awestruck and, simultaneously, like more of a heel than ever. An apt metaphor, given the talk of footwear. Yet what else would one call a man who thought about his old paramour in his wife's presence?
"We're going to get properly situated," he said firmly. "I thought Bloomsbury might be a possibility."
"I'd like living near your mama," Charity said.
"Good thing, as we'll be with her for the interim. Which reminds me—we'll have to find you a proper lady's maid. Can't expect Mama's maid to take you on as well." He had a long way to go to prove himself a worthy husband, but by God, he would give her this. "We'll also have accounts set up for you at all the fashionable shops in Town."
"But I don't need—"
"You're my wife, Charity. Trust me to know what you need."
Let me be a good husband to you.
She bit her lip. He guessed that she was thinking about the millinery and whether or not to argue with him now. As he didn't want a repeat performance of their row either, he employed the most expedient strategy. He kissed her until she was pliant in his arms once more.
"See how easy it is when you give me my way?" he murmured.
"You can't settle every argument by kissing me," she said breathlessly.
"Let's try out that hypothesis," he suggested. "First thing back, I'm buying you a diamond tiara."
"Now you're being silly—"
His stratagem proved successful. In fact, their mutual distraction worked so well that he didn't realize that they'd arrived at Sparkler's townhouse until the groom knocked on the carriage door.
As Charity frantically shoved pins back in her hair, he straightened his cravat and looked out. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained gloomy and grey, the streets sloppy with puddles. The Sparkler residence was similarly uninspiring: a narrow, weather-beaten building with windows that peered at visitors like suspicious eyes.
Thank God they were just stopping by to collect a few of Charity's things for their stay at his mama's. At this hour, his father-in-law would be at the shop, so another bonus there.
"Ready, love?" he asked.
Cheeks still flushed, Charity nodded.
He stepped down first, reaching up for her. As her boots touched the ground, the door of the house swung open.
A woman—the housekeeper, he presumed—came running out, her cap askew and frizzy strands sticking out from beneath. "Oh, Miss Charity, thank God you're back!"
Charity tensed against him. "What's amiss, Mrs. Doppler?"
"It's your father," the woman said, twisting her apron. "He's in a bad way. Again."
TWENTY-FIVE
"Are you certain he'll recover, Dr. Harrison?" Charity asked anxiously.
"Aye, he's lucky this time. But as you know, Mrs. Fines, this isn't the first instance your father has had a spell," the portly mustached man replied. "Yet he refuses to take my advice to work less and rest more."
"Nonsense," her papa argued weakly from the bed. He looked so grey and frail that Charity's heart lurched, and she rushed over to prevent him from getting up. "Have a shipment of silver plate coming in today," he said between labored breaths. "I must inspect it."
"Please, Father," she pleaded, "you must rest."
"For God's sake, Sparkler, don't push your luck." Dr. Harrison's brows lowered in a censorious manner as he set a small brown glass bottle on the bedside table. "Mrs. Fines, make sure your father takes a spoonful of medicine at noon and bedtime—it'll help him rest, which is what he needs if he wishes to recover."
"Don't need that snake oil," her father said, "or a damned quack."
Dr. Harrison's moustache bristled. Charity wanted to apologize, but she had to concentrate on keeping her struggling parent in bed. Through his worn sleep shirt, she could feel the fragility of her father's bones.
Before she could beg him once again to be still, her husband intervened. With a single hand, Paul pushed her father back into bed and held him there. Gently, but firmly.
"You're not helping anyone, sir," Paul said. "You'll be of no use at the shop in your present condition. You're certainly not helping yourself by committing suicide through overwork. Then there's Charity, who'll be heartbroken if you die. Since she hates shopping, I'll have to pitch in and get her a proper mourning wardrobe. Do you really wish to put everyone through all that trouble?"
Charity looked nervously at her papa.
"That's absurd!" Father sputtered. "The shop needs me. Who will tend to it if I don't?"
"Put that way, how can I refuse? I'd be honored to keep an eye on Sparkler's during your recovery." Paul frowned. "Well,
honored
is doing it a bit brown. As I've said before, I'm willing and able to do what is necessary."
"
You?
What could you possibly do?"
Charity winced at her father's scathing disdain. "Paul is offering to help—"
"He's done plenty already. Ruined you and the future of Sparkler's. Everything would be fine if you'd just married Garrity as I'd planned."
The muscle ticked along Paul's jaw. "She's my wife now, Sparkler, and you'd better get used to that."
"Please, Paul, my father doesn't mean—"
"I mean every word. You're a good-for-nothing
rake
…"—her papa's words came out slurred—"and you'll never amount to more."
Though his color was high, Paul gave a sardonic bow. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."
"Bloody … fop …" Father's eyes closed, and a snore escaped him.
Charity sagged against Paul, whose frame quivered with tension.
"I put some laudanum in his tea earlier," Dr. Harrison said, "and next time I'd advise you to use an even stronger dose. Stubborn old goat."
"My father doesn't mean to be surly," Charity said quickly. "Please know that he—
we
, that is—truly appreciate your expertise, Dr. Harrison."
The doctor gave a gruff nod. "Ever since you were a girl, you've been the sensible one of this household. Now keep giving your father the medicine like I told you, and for God's sake, stay by his side and make sure he doesn't overexert himself for at least a fortnight. His heart can't handle it. You do understand what I'm saying, even if he doesn't?"
Fear seeped through Charity. "Yes, doctor. I'll take good care of him."
After Dr. Harrison departed, Paul took her in his arms.
"Don't worry, sweeting," he murmured. "Everything will be alright."
"But look at him, Paul." The pallor of her father's face made her throat burn. "He can't go on working the way he has, but Sparkler's means everything to him. He won't stop."
"We'll have to make him stop then."
"How?" she said in frustration.
"Once he knows that Sparkler's is in good hands, he'll be able to rest easier. And you will too, I hope. Leave everything to me."
"But the tournament. You're supposed to leave for training next week—"
"I'll make alternate arrangements with Traymore. I can train in London if I have to. Jackson's Saloon is as good a place as any," he said decisively.
She stared at him in wonder. He would do that ... for her?
She'd always believed that he was a hero; now she knew he was the
noblest
of men. Yet she couldn't allow him to risk his chance at winning—at achieving the one thing that mattered most to him—out of marital duty.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "The Championship is too important. You'll need your focus—"
"How well will I focus if I leave my wife in the middle of a crisis?" he chided. "You need to be by your father's side, sweeting, and you'll have your hands full when he wakes. Which reminds me: I'll let Mama know that we shan't be staying with her. It'll be easier for you to nurse him with us here."
Despite the terrible situation, Charity's heart swelled. He was the kindest, most generous of husbands. Yet the toughest, most virile. She loved him
so much
.
His softness. His hardness. All of him.
Lifting one of his hands, she kissed the callused knuckles. "No one has ever been so good to me," she said fervently. "Thank you, Paul."
"'Tis my pleasure to take care of my wife," he said in a husky tone. "Now kiss me properly before I toddle off and see what's what at the shop."
She did, and the warmth of their kiss banished some of her chill.
*****
Paul arrived at Sparkler's just as a pair of customers was leaving. The ladies were dressed in fashionable gowns and chattering as they came down the pavement.
"Dreary place, isn't it?" the one with the yellow plume in her bonnet said.
"It had the feel of a warehouse," the other said with a shudder. "No style whatsoever."
Yellow Plume said with a laugh, "And that clerk? He belongs in a museum, not a jewelry shop."
"Well, we've had our misadventure, and it shan't bear repeating." Her friend sniffed. "Back to familiar waters?"
"Rundell's had a lovely diadem in the window," Yellow Plume agreed.
Paul bowed politely as they passed, ignoring their arch looks. Once their carriage rolled off, he stepped into Sparkler's and saw with dismay that the biddies were right. The shop looked as shabby as it had on his last visit—worse, in fact, for now several large boxes were stacked haphazardly upon the counters. The clerk, Mr. Jameson, worked at removing the contents. If the old man were in a race against a tortoise, Paul would give the reptile the edge.
"Good day, Mr. Fines." The clerk's face scrunched into a smile that displayed his plentiful wrinkles and not so plentiful teeth. "Wasn't expecting you. Honeymoon over already?"
He could say that again.
What in bloody hell had Paul gotten himself into? With a feeling of panic, he said, "Sparkler's held up. I'm here in his stead."
"That's mighty kind of you, sir. Could use a hand. Shipment of plate arrived just now and I was working on ..." Jameson frowned. "Wait a minute, what do you mean held up? How late is the master going to be?"
Paul gave the explanation.
"Mr. Sparkler will be out
indefinitely
? And Miss Char—I mean, Mrs. Fines—will be with him?" Jameson looked as if the rug—if there'd been one over the worn floorboards—had been pulled from beneath him. "But I'm just a
clerk
. How on earth will I manage the entire shop?"
"You won't." Paul rubbed the back of his neck. "I believe that pleasure is to be mine."
"You?" A notch worked between Jameson's grizzled brows.
He shared the other's disbelief. He hardly knew what he was doing here. Never mind the fact that he'd stopped off at Traymore's club directly before, informing the other of the altered plans for training. While the viscount hadn't been pleased, he'd grudgingly accepted Paul's decision.
"But you will make
absolutely
certain that you're ready to fight in five weeks?" Traymore had said. "I've got money on you, Fines, and more than that, my pride's on the line. I don't like backing a losing proposition."
"I won't lose," Paul had said firmly.
Now he had to wrestle down his growing doubts and trepidation. With the work to be done here,
would
he have time to train sufficiently? Would he be in top condition, be strong and fast enough to win?
Yet what choice did he have?
The shop's in terrible shape, old Sparkler even worse. There's no way I can leave Charity. Not now—when she needs me the most.
For her sake, he would have to find a way to balance training with the demands of the store. If he had to, he would get his practice in before dawn and spar again after the shop closed. Whatever it took, he would do it.