Chapter Seventeen

There was a lightness in his being. Samuel would have assumed he was drunk; his leg only ever felt this relaxed after he’d downed a half a bottle of whatever alcohol he had at hand. But it was the afternoon, and he hadn’t touched the stuff. This feeling—this carefree anticipation—was all because of Myfanwy.

And he was doing everything in his power not to hate himself over it.

At least he hadn’t ruined her. Although that was just playing with semantics. By touching the viscount’s daughter with his working-class hands, he’d ruined her. By speaking to her in his uncouth, vulgar ways, he’d ruined her. And by licking her slit so well that she came in his mouth, Samuel had definitely ruined her. And himself, because he’d be damned if he would quit anytime soon.

Stop thinking about it!he chided himself, hanging his head in his hands.

Samuel hunched behind his desk in his office at the tavern, counting down the minutes until the ladies’ practice was to begin. He’d left (or fled) his room early that morning—too early—and come straight here. He hadn’t wanted to risk Myfanwy waking up in his arms, all delightfully tousled and ready while he sported his morning cockstand. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. Then her ruination would have taken on a whole other meaning.

He’d barely been able to hold himself back last night. The vision of Myfanwy sprawled out before him, writhing and panting while he massaged her pussy, had made his balls fit to burst. Luckily, she came quickly, splintering in half before he had the chance to give her his finger or pet her pearl. She’d been so fucking ready for him. So ready and willing to ignite.

She’d given him so much last night. Samuel felt like a glutton.

But he’d woken up a happy one, and remarkably clear-eyed, since he hadn’t had to drink his pain to sleep.

So, as he sat at his desk, waiting and remembering, ideas flew unbidden into his slightly guilty, remarkably cognizant, and available brain.

Good ideas, too. Very good ideas. And he jotted them all down, determining ways to make them happen.

Which was why when he ambled onto the field five minutes early for practice (though still later than all his players), he wasn’t alone. Joe Danvers and Benny Hardcastle were dutifully at his side and, for the most part, standing mostly straight by their own power.

Still, even with his newfound confidence, the decrease of pain, and the problems he’d solved so early, it took Samuel far longer than he planned to meet Myfanwy’s gaze. Her brown eyes were shielded by her bonnet, but he saw her lips pinch as he came forward, her expression confused and…hurt?

Shit. Why hadn’t he left a note this morning? He’d been so worried about keeping her reputation intact that he’d completely disregarded her heart. Samuel would fix it; by hook or by crook, he would make it right.

“And what do you have in store for us today, Mr. Everett?” a lady asked, stepping forward from her teammates. What was her name again? Not old by any means, this woman still seemed more mature than the others. Samuel could always spot a fellow world-weary traveler.

In an instant, it came to him. “Thank you for asking the question, Lady Everly. I’ve brought in some help.” He slapped his friends on their backs. “This here is Joe Danvers and Benny Hardcastle, two of the most formidable men I ever played with. They’re going to be helping out, bowling and showing you some tactics on the field. This way everyone gets the attention they need. And also…”

Samuel snapped his fingers at Aaron, who was hiding behind Myfanwy’s skirts. Before he’d sent the boy to bed the night before, Samuel ordered him to follow her to practice, though he hadn’t told him why. Now, it was time for the lad to earn his keep. “You,” he said, causing Aaron to hop into view. He was wearing the same filthy, muted clothes, which reminded Samuel about the list he’d made for Annabelle while he killed time this morning. He would have to add more to his shopping excursion.

“You will shag balls. Whenever one goes astray, it’s you who has to fetch it. It’s not Benny or Joe’s job. It’s only yours. Do you understand me? Balls aren’t cheap. I don’t want us losing any.”

Aaron nodded, seemingly growing six inches at the instruction.

Good.

Samuel surveyed his motley crew of a team. The women were fast learners. There wasn’t one tight sleeve among the group. The sun was shining. His leg was just barely throbbing, and Myfanwy had stopped looking at him like she was ready to gut him, throw him in a pot, and roast him for dinner.

It was a lovely day for cricket.

And for starting over.

*

Samuel yanked sohard at his head that he was surprised he didn’t pull out a hank of hair. “No. No. No. Goddammit, no!” He pounded over to Benny, who was working with a short spitfire of a girl on her bowling approach. Anna. He remembered her name was Anna. “She’s not working the dirt, Benny. For fuck’s sake! Teach her how to read the ground. And there’s not near enough red on her skirts. Make sure she’s rubbing the ball harder into her side.”

Benny hesitated, sending Samuel a reproachful look. It had been a long day, and Samuel had worked everybody to their limits—especially his new coaches.

“Should you really be speaking like that to the ladies?” Benny asked in a fearful whisper, his poor, dehydrated face melting into a hangdog expression. “It’s not proper, like.”

Samuel slammed his hands on his hips, scowling at the old bruiser who’d never backed down from a fight in his life and now was afraid of a bunch of Society ladies. “On my pitch, they’re not ladies; they’re cricketers. My cricketers. Now, stop acting like their nursemaid. I hired you to coach, so coach!”

Benny’s three chins wobbled glumly as he nodded, returning to the black-haired girl. Samuel didn’t retreat until he heard Benny instruct Anna on how she had to use the bumps and divots in the ground when she bowled the ball. If she hit one just right, the ball would bounce up at a dizzying angle, surprising the batter and causing them to make a bad swing. Cricket was all about inches. The team that won always used the most to their advantage.

“What about the red on her skirts?” a soft voice asked behind him.

Samuel twirled to find Myfanwy’s friend, Jennifer, at his back. Like Myfanwy, she had found it difficult to make eye contact with him today…though, he suspected, for very different reasons.

“You’ve never rubbed the ball on your skirts before?”

Jennifer shook her head.

“Toss me the ball,” he ordered her, then caught the red leather ball she threw him. He held it up to her, pointing at the seam down the middle. “There are two sides of a cricket ball,” he began, twisting it in his hand. “They both start the match perfectly smooth. But a smart bowler doesn’t want to just bowl the ball; he—she—wants to make it dance.”

Samuel fired the ball straight down into the dirt before picking it back up. “You see, a ball takes a lot of damage during a match, and all those dings and scrapes make it rough, but if the bowler can rub one of its halves on her side, she can maintain the smoothness. And that can affect how much the ball swings in the air. If one side is rough, and the other shiny, the ball can dance so much that a batsman will fall on their arse trying to keep up with it.”

“So that’s why I always see the men with red marks on their trousers,” Jennifer said, seemingly to herself.

“We used to say that if a man finished a game with white trousers, then he’s no real cricketer.” Samuel grunted. “I suppose we’ll have to change the saying to include skirts.”

He tossed her the ball back, and Jennifer smiled as she caught it.

Samuel rocked on his heels, not sure what else she wanted from him. He’d answered her question well enough, but she continued to stand in front of him with stars in her eyes, acting like he’d just announced free drinks for the rest of the night.

Just when Samuel was about to bark an order to send her back to the others, she surprised him.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly, playing with the ball in her hand. “Myfi told me about last night after”—her voice lowered—“the Lucky Fish. I told her it was a bad idea to go, but she rarely listens to me once she makes her mind up.”

A sick dose of discomfort nagged at Samuel’s core. How much had Myfanwy told Jennifer about last night? He glanced over Jennifer’s shoulder to his team. Male cricketers talked about everything under the sun—the more unsavory, the better. Were female cricketers the same? Christ, he hoped not.

Jennifer snagged him from his thoughts. “And thank you for not confronting Sir Bramble,” she said, her face turning red as she pawed a foot into the ground. “He only escorted us there because I asked him to. It wasn’t his fault. He’s… Well, he’s a lovely man.”

Lovely?Christ, he hoped Myfanwy never described him like that to her friends. Virile. Strong. Fast. Hell, he’d even take handsome before he’d accept lovely.

DidMyfanwy think he was any of those things? After the way he’d left her this morning, he wasn’t so sure.

Samuel caught Jennifer waiting for his answer. He cleared his throat, trying to be diplomatic. He couldn’t agree with the girl about Sir Bramble’s actions, but he appreciated her loyalty and didn’t wish to diminish her opinion of the baron. Sir Bramble had his faults—mostly his weakness for the blond chit defending him at present—but he was one of the only decent gentlemen of Samuel’s acquaintance, which was saying a lot.

“You’re right,” he replied sternly. “Myfi is close to impossible to deny. She’s stubborn.”

“In the best possible way.” Jennifer chuckled. She turned to watch her friend across the wide field. “But she’s also lovely, isn’t she?”

Samuel caught Jennifer spying at him from the corner of her eye, once more eager for his response. He nodded to the group. “Time to get back in line,” he ordered her gruffly. Dutifully, Jennifer did as she was told right away.

Not like another woman Samuel couldn’t get out of his mind.

Because Myfanwy was extraordinarily stubborn. And a pain in his arse.

And lovely. Yes, she was that indeed.

*

“Samuel, wait amoment. I have something I need to talk to you about.”

Samuel was just about to leave the field and return to the tavern when Joe Danvers called him to a stop. The practice had ended a half-hour before, and Samuel had thought that he and Aaron were the only ones left. Samuel had been taking his time with his new employee, explaining how he expected all the equipment to be organized and stored after the training sessions were complete. The boy had been right to boast about his abilities—although Aaron knew next to nothing about cricket, he did know how to work hard. He was caked in sweat, hands as grimy as a gutter, but he’d earned his coin, and Samuel was only too happy to award it to him.

“Go on inside and get something to eat,” he told Aaron as Joe jogged up to him. After his being on it most of the day, Samuel’s leg was faring better than expected; however, he couldn’t say the same about his old teammate. Joe was moving like a newborn colt, all wobbly and uncoordinated. But that wasn’t what alarmed Samuel the most. Joe’s pallor was ghoulishly gray, with just enough green peeking through to make him resemble a dead fish. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was wheezing so raggedly that Samuel worried he was about to keel over. He could definitely catch Joe if he fainted, but carrying him anywhere substantial would be beyond the pale.

“You did well today, Joe,” Samuel said evenly, hoping his calm demeanor would rub off on his friend.

Poor Joe looked close to weeping. “Don’t lie to me, Sam,” he replied, setting off a coughing fit that forced him to bend over until it passed. He wiped his mouth and straightened his spine, leveling Samuel with a weighted look. “I know what I was, and I know what I am. I can’t believe I let myself get this bad. Remember how fast and skinny I used to be?”

Samuel nodded, mirroring his friend’s wistful smile.

“Old man Bauser used to call me Lightning because nothing could stop me.” Joe stared off into the distance as if the past was being performed like a play in front of him. “I liked that. I liked that when people talked about me, they only had good things to say, and nothing could stop me…” His expression guttered like a candle left out all night. “Well, the drink can stop me now. Always does. You know I wake up every morning saying I won’t do it. I actually talk to myself and tell myself not to drink one drop. And I can’t understand it. Hours, hell, minutes later I find myself walking to your tavern, ordering a drink, filling myself up until I can’t remember my own name. It has a hold, I tell you. It’s a dark, dark thing.”

Samuel slapped him on the back. “I know, Joe. I know. But look at what you did today. You were out all afternoon without taking a drop. Congratulate yourself for that.”

Joe shook his head, chucking ruefully. “It’s not enough.”

“It’s a start.”

Joe squinted at the faint light streaming in between the clouds, blowing air slowly from his mouth. “I suppose it is. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It was hell today, hell on earth, plain and simple, but I want to keep coaching…if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you, Joe. We already talked about it. You’ll get a wage and everything—”

“No,” Joe said firmly, putting his hands up between them. “Don’t pay me a thing. Promise me you won’t even sneak a couple of coins in my pocket.”

There. In the dim glow of the sun, in the sharp determination of Joe’s eyes, Samuel finally recognized his old friend.

“You know what I’ll do if I have money—I’ll just drink it away. I only ask for this job and some food at the end of the night, and…well…” He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“What is it? Anything.”

Joe glanced up sheepishly. “You know that sporting goods business you’re starting…the one Sir Bramble is investing in?”

Samuel nodded.

“Put my wages toward that. And then…you know, if I get myself straightened out and respectable, maybe I can help you grow it. Cricket is over for me, but maybe I can still be a part of it in some way.”

Samuel smiled gently at his friend who had seen such highs and lows in his life that he couldn’t comprehend the beauty of the middle. Then he led them away from the tavern, assuring Joe that there would always be a place for him in cricket.

Later that night, as Samuel made his way back to his home—where he hoped Myfanwy was waiting up for him—he rescinded his thought from earlier. Joe Danvers was a lovely man. If Myfanwy ever used that word for Samuel, he would only ever be grateful.