To Seduce a Scoundrel (30 page)

After a dinner during which Ambrose spent more time mentally making love to Philippa than he did eating, he was more than ready to engage Ackley in the tower sparring room.

Oldham had joined them this evening and was now situated on a wide bench. “Mrs. Oldham told me about yer lady friend.”

Ambrose paused in removing his waistcoat. He could well imagine what Mrs. Oldham and the other servants were saying about Philippa, a lone woman from London who wasn’t his wife come to visit him. “She ‘told’ you about her or demanded you ask me about her?”

“Both.”

“She’s merely touring Cornwall.”

Oldham snorted. “What rot.”

Ambrose fixed him with a Saxton-worthy glare. “She’s here for the prizefight and then she’ll be on her way.”

“Indeed?” Ackley had tossed aside his boots and now pulled off his stockings. He looked over at Ambrose, his eyes wide with interest. “She came for the prizefight?” They’d discussed a variety of things at dinner—the weather in Cornwall, the journey from London to Cornwall, and the history of Beckwith—but they hadn’t touched on the prizefight at all. “She came to see me?”

Oldham chuckled. “Though I’ve yet to meet the lady, I’d wager she’s here to see him.” He jabbed his thumb toward Ambrose.

Ackley nodded, albeit glumly, then finished removing his stockings.

Oldham looked at Ambrose expectantly. He sat on the opposite side of the bench and removed his boots and stockings, purposefully ignoring his groundskeeper. He didn’t want to talk about Philippa. Indeed, he wanted to try to forget her for at least an hour.

Ackley went to the table in the corner upon which lay two pairs of boxing gloves. They’d used the mitts for practice, so as not to injure each other overly much. However, tonight Ambrose needed the feel of his bare knuckles, wanted the true challenge of fighting a worthy opponent. But he’d have to be careful. In his frame of mind, he could easily damage Ackley enough to cripple him for a few days and that wouldn’t help him win next week.

Ambrose stood. “Let’s skip using those tonight.” He prowled to the table and clapped Ackley’s shoulder. “I want to see your progress without the gloves. Just be careful.”

Ackley arched a brow. “You’re telling me that? You’re the professional.”

“Professional, eh?” Oldham asked.

“As good a prizefighter as I’ve ever seen,” Ackley vowed. “You should’ve seen him against Nolan a few weeks back.”

Ambrose inwardly squirmed beneath the weight of Ackley’s admiration. “Was that before or after he nearly knocked me out?”

“Don’t minimize your abilities.” Ackley shot Oldham a speaking glance. “He always does that.”

Oldham’s brows elevated. “Does he now?”

This conversation was growing far too personal. Ambrose walked to the center of the scratch he’d drawn on the floor at the start of their first session. “Let us focus on you, Ackley. You’re going to be a far better fighter than me.”

Ackley joined him at the scratch. “Are we still sparring, or will this follow the guidelines of an actual match?”

Ambrose hadn’t considered having a formal bout. In the past, they’d fought, but interrupted the exercise to discuss strategy. However, since they were going bare knuckle, they may as well follow the rest of the rules. “We’ll make this a fight, but the goal isn’t to knock each other down. We’ll go ten minutes, break, then another ten, break, then another ten.” Ambrose pivoted toward Oldham. “Can you give us a signal?”

Oldham put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. “That do?”

“Perfect.” Ambrose turned back toward Ackley and then nodded. Oldham’s piercing whistle filled the high-ceilinged room and reverberated off the stone walls.

Ackley moved quickly—Ambrose had instructed him to deliver the first punch if possible. It set a tone for your opponent. It said, “I’m ready.”

However, Ambrose also expected his right jab. Ackley had forgotten to alter what he started with. If anyone studied his fights over time, they’d learn to expect it.

Ambrose easily deflected the strike and drove his fist into Ackley’s gut. Not full-power, but enough to make him jump back. Ackley nodded, realizing his mistake. They circled each other a moment, but Ambrose took the offensive and drove Ackley back with several swift strikes. He deflected all but the last. His speed and reflexes were improving with each fight. Ambrose was pleased with his progress.

As the first stretch wound down, Ambrose wanted to press Ackley. His fingers were also itching to feel more than the light hits they were trading. But he had to remember this wasn’t a fight to drive his demons from his body or to purge Philippa from his mind. Frustration mounting, he dashed to the side and landed a powerful jab to Ackley’s ribs. Then he spun about and sent one to the other side. As Ackley reacted, Ambrose caught him on the chin. He hadn’t meant to hit him hard, but Ackley moved at the same second and Ambrose’s knuckles caught Ackley’s jaw with a resounding thud. His head snapped back. He retreated and shook his head. His eyes narrowed, and he attacked.

Ambrose got his hands up, but Ackley was relentless—just as Ambrose had taught him to be. He drove Ambrose back with his fists and his fast footwork. Ambrose worked to keep up, but staggered backward. God, if he could unleash himself, he’d have Ackley on the floor in a trice. In the span of that thought, Ackley punched him in the gut and again in the cheek. Already off balance from the quick assault, Ambrose fell back and sprawled on the floor.

A loud gasp from the doorway drew everyone’s attention.

Philippa stood staring with her hand over her mouth. Then she immediately rushed forward and knelt beside Ambrose. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” In truth, his cheek throbbed. He wondered if Ackley’s chin pained him the same. Perhaps sparring without gloves had been a poor idea.

“Ackley?” Ambrose asked as he sat up.

Ackley shrugged, though he rubbed his chin. “Fine.”

Oldham whistled.

Ambrose and Ackley both turned to look at him. Oldham shrugged and needlessly said, “Time’s up.”

The touch of Philippa’s hand on his cheek drew Ambrose’s attention. “You’re hurt,” she murmured.

“You’ve seen me much worse.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to help her up.

She put her fingers in his and the contact almost sent him back to the floor—on top of her.

Ackley went to the table and plucked up a towel. Ambrose turned to Philippa, blocking her from the other men. “You can’t be in here. How did you even find us?”

“I asked Mrs. Oldham. Why can’t I be here? I’ve watched you fight before.” Her gaze fell to his chest. He watched her lips part to reveal the dainty pink tip of her tongue. For the second time that day, he cursed his lack of garments in order to shield his erection.

Keeping his back to Oldham and Ackley, he led her to the door. “You have to go.”

She put her back to the doorjamb and stared defiantly up at him. “Persuade me.”

His blood stirred at the idea of persuading her to do any number of things, and not one of them involved leaving his presence. “Will you settle for a tour of Beckwith tomorrow?”

Her dark lashes swept over her glittering eyes and her mouth curved up in a slow smile. “I would.”

He braced his hand on the doorjamb over her head, tormenting himself by leaning over her and inhaling deeply of her soft, feminine scent. “In exchange, you’ll stay out of this tower. Understood?” By God, he’d need a haven from her if he was going to maintain his vow.

She dropped her gaze and when she again looked into his eyes, her smile broadened. “Perfectly.”

Chapter Eighteen

THE following morning Philippa stepped from the solar and squinted into the bright sunshine. The rear yard had once been the castle’s keep, and was now a very large walled garden and pasture area. With the sound of seabirds and the gentle breeze from the ocean, it was a beautifully serene setting.

Mrs. Oldham had instructed her that Ambrose was waiting for her in the stables, which were built into the northeast corner of the keep. Philippa followed a path in that direction, eager to see him.

Last night hadn’t gone as planned—him tossing her out of sparring practice was a setback since she’d intended to spend time with him—but she’d been encouraged by his reaction to her. While vexing him wasn’t her goal, she’d take it above indifference. His emotional response at least showed he felt
something
for her.

The path branched to Beckwith’s stables. She stepped inside where the smell of hay and the nickering of horses greeted her senses. This pleasant moment was instantly overridden by the sound of two male voices raised in argument.

“Milord, ye can’t take a cart!”

“Just hitch the damned thing!”

Philippa strode to where Ambrose was towering over a much shorter, stockier man with a shiny, bald pate. The head groom, perhaps.

Upon seeing Philippa, the man smiled broadly, revealing a gap between his front teeth that, well, a cart could drive through. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning,” she said warmly, though she shot an inquisitive glance at Ambrose who was currently glowering at his retainer. “Is there a problem?”

“Not if you don’t mind bumping around Beckwith in a cart.” The retainer eyed her riding habit. “I’d wager you’re a horsewoman, my lady.”

She inclined her head. “I am, thank you. What’s this about a cart?” She looked between the two men.

“His lordship is planning to take ye on a tour of his fine estate in a cart. That would be acceptable if ye stuck to the dirt track, but to truly appreciate the beauty of Beckwith and the Roseland Peninsula, ye’ll want to go on
horseback
.” He threw the last word at Ambrose like a dagger.

Philippa thought it more than fair to torture Ambrose just a bit, given his treatment of her. “Oh, but I understand his lordship doesn’t ride.”

The groom gaped, first at her and then at Ambrose. “What? I understood why ye might be avoiding Orpheus, but ye don’t ride at all anymore?”

Anymore
. Which meant he’d ridden once. Why had he stopped?

Ambrose glared at his retainer. “Saddle Demetrius.”

The smaller man looked a bit surprised, but nodded before turning to Philippa. “And I’ll saddle Matilda for you, my lady. I’m Welch, by the way.”

“Thank you, Welch,” she said, her gaze straying to Ambrose.

Welch took himself off to the other end of the stable.

A vein pulsed in Ambrose’s neck. He looked furious, but also something else. His face had gone a bit pale.

“We don’t need to ride if you don’t wish to,” she said softly. He was clearly upset about having to ride, and she didn’t want him to be.

“No, I’ll ride.” His lips barely moved, and he didn’t look at her.

“Really, we can take the cart,” she insisted. “Or walk.”

“Come, let’s help Welch.” He didn’t wait for her, but started down the row of stalls. As he passed one in particular, the horse within neighed and danced. Philippa came abreast of the animal and paused. He was a gorgeous black Arabian, and even now he whinnied and strained over the door to watch Ambrose though he’d already passed.

Gingerly, she reached out to stroke his nose. “There, you beautiful lad. You’re all right, aren’t you?”

The Arabian nuzzled her briefly, but stomped his feet.

Philippa startled as Ambrose—he’d apparently doubled back—gripped her wrist and pulled her hand from the horse. The Arabian neighed loudly and pushed forward, toward Ambrose, but Ambrose dragged Philippa away. “Don’t touch that animal.”

His tone was so sharp, so fierce, his hold on her wrist so tight, Philippa merely nodded.

Ambrose let her go and turned abruptly, passing Welch who was leading a dark brown mare.

Welch shook his head behind Ambrose’s back and handed the reins to Philippa. “Here’s Matilda. There’s a block in the yard if ye’d like to mount up.”

She nodded, thinking it best to give Ambrose a few minutes to recover. She’d never seen him so rattled, not even when he’d faced Jagger and his men the night they’d met.

She led Matilda outside and found the block. Five minutes later, Ambrose came out of the stable leading a spirited gray gelding.

He paused for a moment in the yard and Philippa held her breath. How long had it been since he’d ridden? Perhaps not since he’d left Beckwith.

He swung himself onto the horse’s back and walked the animal toward her. Whether it was five years or five minutes since Ambrose’s last ride, Philippa couldn’t tell. He appeared as natural on horseback as she felt. He also looked unbearably handsome in a dark blue coat and buff breeches, a stylish beaver pulled low over his brow, shading his eyes.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded. They guided their mounts out of the keep. Last night he’d talked of the wall they were repairing and the gate they were building. It looked as if there was quite a bit of work to be done, certainly more than could be accomplished in the next week. Would he leave before it was finished? Or would he stay beyond the fight? She had so many questions to ask him, and not because she wanted to judge. She only wanted to
know
.