Chapter One

London, England 1848

Samuel Everett was in a foul mood. But that wasn’t anything new. His left leg smarted like a bastard. That wasn’t new either. What was unique about his situation was that he was behind his bar instead of sitting at his corner table, as he preferred most nights. He was pulling pints instead of downing them. It was enough to make a thirsty man growl, and Samuel was very thirsty.

“Where’s Tim?”

Samuel looked up from wiping a pint glass to find Joe Danvers leaning over the bar counter. One wouldn’t be able to guess it now, but Joe used to be so fast, he could smack a ball right at the defense and still make it to the wicket before the fielder could throw down the stumps. He was a hell of a cricketer, and now he was so bloated and red-faced that he could barely hold himself up from the counter with those once-famous legs.

“Tim’s out tonight,” Samuel answered, filling the pint glass he’d just cleaned with fresh ale. “His wife’s going through it again. Said he had to stay by her side.”

He placed the pint glass in front of the old cricketer even though it almost killed him to do it. The last thing Joe needed was more to drink, but who was Samuel to deny him? No longer his captain, Samuel was a genteel proprietor. He owned the Flying Batsman Tavern and Inn, and proprietors needed customers.

Joe scooped the ale up quickly and was about to dump it down his gullet before he remembered his manners and held it up for a salute. “You’re a good one, Sam. Much obliged. I’m sure Tim’s wife appreciates the time you’re giving him.”

“I don’t know about that.” Samuel chuckled, stroking a hand over his smooth chin. “This is their seventh child. I should probably be keeping Tim away from his missus as much as possible.”

Joe laughed in his drink, his grizzled face taking on such a wistful expression that Samuel could almost see the boy inside the beaten man. “Oh, to be so in love. Good for the couple. I remember what that’s like, to be so obsessed with a lass that you couldn’t be away from her for longer than a few hours.”

All this maudlin talk only made Samuel’s leg ache more. “Shut it, you bastard. You know as well as I that the only thing you ever loved was cricket.”

Joe sniffed, and for a terrifying moment, Samuel worried that his old friend might break out into tears. “No,” he said softly. “There was a girl once. A long, long time ago.”

“I call bullshit to that!” a man next to Joe said, slamming into his side. Benny Hardcastle. The only cricketer that Sam knew who valued bowling balls into a man’s crotch more than taking wickets. With his three chins waving as he chortled, Benny had also seen better days. The Flying Batsman was turning into a mausoleum for dreams long gone.

Joe shrugged off the interloper. “Stop fooling with me, Benny,” he grumbled before taking another long swallow of the amber liquid. “I was in love, I was. Still am.”

That was enough to sober Benny—metaphorically. “Oh, you know I didn’t mean anything by it. Go on, Joe. Tell us all about her.”

Samuel could have kissed the old bruiser. With Benny at the helm, Samuel could slide away from the sentimental cricketer without Joe noticing. That was why he preferred to drink in his corner. No one bothered him with old, sappy stories of bygone days there. In the corner, Samuel could drown his own sorrows while he watched everyone else make him rich.

If he had told his eighteen-year-old self that he would one day own a successful inn and tavern on the outskirts of London, he wouldn’t have believed it. Back then, Samuel only had eyes for one thing—sport. Earning a fortune was the farthest thing from his mind. Getting out of Nottinghamshire was the main reason Samuel woke up early in the morning. Proving to his father he could make it as a professional cricketer, and not a bricklayer like him, was a close second.

Luckily, Samuel’s youthful stupidity and lack of forethought had been noticed by a wiser, older gentleman. For some reason Samuel would never understand, Viscount Newton had noticed him on the pitch one day while he’d been playing for the county and taken a liking to him. The older man had created a project out of Samuel, making sure he didn’t piss away his earnings on women and alcohol like his fellow players. The viscount advised Samuel away from the drink and taught him the importance of saving and investing. Till his dying day, Samuel could never thank the man enough. As his teammates continued to play into old age due to debts and lack of options, Samuel had been able to walk—or hobble—away from cricket on his own terms with a tidy nest egg. And he refused to look back. Walking without grimacing was a chore, and one of his eyes was all but dead, but Samuel’s hands were still sound, and he would hold on to his dignity with every ounce of energy in his body.

However, there were downsides to owning successful inns. And they were similar to his years as captain of all his various cricket teams. When everything went to shit, all eyes flew to him, and damned if Samuel ever let a team down.

Having said all that, he wasn’t above claiming the spoils of his fame. He hadn’t run onto a cricket pitch in three years, but his name still preceded him most places he went with hushed awe. Samuel Everett…one of the best cricketers to ever play the game. He never wasted money on women because he never had to. Women came to him. Even with his milky eye and spoiled temperament, Samuel remained a man that women were drawn to. Like flies to honey, the female gaze still sought him out, and as long as they didn’t yearn for a sweet word after the fact, he was only so happy to oblige them.

Like the brown-haired woman sitting between two older ladies at the far table in the corner. She’d been giving him come-hither looks for the past hour. Samuel didn’t pretend not to notice. What was the point? Subterfuge wasn’t a language he spoke. Blunt honesty was what made those liaisons palatable. The woman seemed perfect for what he needed at the present. Not too young, not too old—hopefully a widow. Just passing through from I don’t care to who knows where. She would slake a need, and he would dutifully do the same.

Samuel was a professional. More than anything, he understood the value of a transaction. Nothing in life was free—cricket and sex were no exception. If you were going to play, you had to make sure you gave as well as you got. And that was why Samuel could still hear people shouting his name—on the field and in the bedroom.

He offered the woman a lazy half-smile. It felt so rusty, he could almost hear the hinges squeaking around his jaw, but it did the trick. The woman’s cheeks bunched merrily as she grinned, and her eyelashes batted with blatant invitation. Samuel wondered if she was sharing a room with the older ladies or if she had her own. No matter—a woman like that could always be counted on to find a way downstairs after her traveling partners retired. He had a hunch that this wasn’t her first foray into the nighttime habits of inns. And Samuel kept an office in the back that could work in a pinch.

He just had a few more hours. A few more hours of pulling pints and pretending to listen to the old cricketers who desperately wanted to relive their better days. A few more hours of standing on this bastard of a leg before he could sink himself into her plummy flesh, losing the pain and sorrows and responsibilities, if only for a little lonely while—

“Oh, bartender,” a familiar feminine voice sang from down the counter, breaking off his prurient ruminations. In the process of cleaning a new glass, Samuel gripped it so tight he thought it might shatter. “I’m awfully parched and have been waiting for what seems like hours. Are you always so slow to serve your customers?”

Samuel slammed the pint on the wood and limped over to that grating, oh-so-womanly voice. His body must hate him. The cockstand that had started to grow at the thought of his upcoming interlude doubled in size with the emergence of the new voice. The hindrance of a wench was trying to get under her skin, and she had no idea how well she achieved that goal.

He kept his eyes downcast when he reached her, his words coming out guttural and fierce. “Go home.”

He could hear the smile in his ward’s response. “Oh, that’s no way to greet a paying customer.”

His jaw clenched. “Go home, Myfanwy.”

“I was home,” the lady said easily. “But I needed to talk to you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

Myfanwy shrugged. “Where else would you be? Besides, Benjamin told me I should look for you here.”

“My butler would never do that,” he returned icily. Samuel might not be refined, but his butler most certainly was. And Benjamin would never send Miss Myfanwy Wright, a viscount’s daughter, to a pub this late at night—or ever.

Myfanwy shrugged again. He wished she would stop making that motion. The dainty way her shoulders bobbed made Samuel want to lift his head and stare at her, and he wouldn’t be doing that. He’d done it once before—the day she’d shown up at his home with her father’s will in one hand and a valise in the other—and he was still recovering from the magnificent sight.

Up until then, Samuel had only ever seen Myfanwy from across the field when her father would bring her to his matches. Buttoned up and proper, she’d appeared blandly similar to every other young lady with her bonnet and matching parasol. But that day—up close—as she’d stood dejected yet defiant in his foyer, Samuel was proven woefully wrong. He could still remember the way her small hands trembled as she’d handed him the papers, the way Myfanwy’s lips tightened in a fierce line to keep her tears at bay. Her long auburn hair molded to her frame like an expensive mourning shawl, showing that she’d been too desolate to care how she came to him. She’d come as perfection. Broken, but still perfect.

Samuel had no idea why Viscount Wright had left him as his daughter’s guardian in his will. Quite defenseless, Samuel had allowed her to pass over his threshold that afternoon because she simply wouldn’t allow him to turn her away. He couldn’t be positive—he’d just finished a bottle of gin and might have still been drunk from the night before—but he thought he’d tried to send her back to her aunt’s home; however, the silly woman wouldn’t budge. The Honorable Miss Myfanwy Wright had stormed into his life with all the power of a tornado, and she hadn’t stopped swirling around him ever since. This was why Samuel did his best not to look, not to talk, not to approach as much as possible. With only one stable leg, his balance was bad enough as it was.

In cricket, if you put the ball in play but decided not to run to the opposite wicket, the other team couldn’t get you out. You stayed alive for another chance. When Myfanwy was in his presence, Samuel never ran. He never even swung the bat. One couldn’t be too careful.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her drum her lovely, long fingers on the counter. Her pearl-like nails were short and efficient. Samuel liked that. He liked just about everything to do with her—except her obstinate personality. “I’ve told you before that you cannot be here,” he seethed. “Your father wouldn’t approve.”

“Well, how fortunate I am that he isn’t here to stop me,” Myfanwy countered.

Samuel heard her suck in a breath. After a pause, he replied, “You shouldn’t say such things.”

Myfanwy’s hands flattened against the bar. “I shouldn’t do a lot of things. And yet here I am.”

Yes.Here she was. And as much as Samuel wanted her to leave—knew she should leave this place of tortured men and resolute delusions—he couldn’t force her. He would have to touch her to do that, and that was even worse than looking at her. As weak as Samuel had become, both in mind and body, he’d refrained from ever putting his hands on Myfanwy. Only late at night, when his imagination was at its deadliest and the alcohol was at its worst, did he contemplate the softness of the lady’s skin, the dewiness of her lips, the silkiness of her hair.

“Hey, Sam,” Benny called down the counter, raising an empty pint glass in the air. “When you can?”

Samuel threw the bruiser a curt nod before ducking his head again. His neck always hurt after Myfanwy confronted him. He could never tell if he hated or loved the effect. “Just spit it out, then. Tell me what you want so you can go.”

Myfanwy stiffened away from the counter. He’d offended her. It was for the best.

“Well…” she began slowly.

Samuel tersely waved his hand in between them. “I’m busy,” he snapped. “Get to it.”

Myfanwy exhaled an irritated breath. “Fine.” She leaned against the counter, and it acted as a shelf for a small, lovely bosom. Samuel groaned inside. He finally lifted his gaze to her face, the lesser of two evils, not to stare, just to look…briefly.

Myfanwy’s dark brown eyes widened at his sudden shift, and for a tantalizing moment, words stalled on her tongue. Her full eyelashes fluttered wildly, and Samuel’s irritation grew—and he could feel another part of himself continue to grow at the sight. Her eyelashes had none of the guile and suggestion of the woman in the corner, and yet they appealed to every inch of his lonely body. Covertly, he dropped his arm under the counter and pulled at his trousers.

“Um…right…yes,” Myfanwy said, eventually finding her voice. “As you know, I, along with my single friends, play cricket—”

“Another thing you shouldn’t be doing.”

“—and we had a meeting today.”

Samuel scoffed, shaking his head. “Meetings in cricket…”

“And they—not I, mind you—decided that we need a coach.”

“I could have told you that. Everyone needs a coach.”

“They think it should be you.”

“Not like a coach would help a bunch of gently bred—” Samuel stopped. And stared, completely forgetting what it would do to him. Luckily, he was too incensed to fall under his insane ward’s spell. Well…to completely fall under her spell.

Now, it was Samuel’s lashes doing all the fluttering. “What… How… Why… I don’t…?”

A tiny smile formed on Myfanwy’s plush pink lips. “Funny. I said the exact same thing.”

There was nothing funny about this. Samuel planted his palms on the counter and bent over it as menacingly as he could, making sure his white eye was on full display. It wasn’t totally useless; he could make out forms and shapes, but that was of little help nowadays. What did help was the way it made people cower away from him.

Only, it wasn’t doing that now. If anything, Myfanwy only peered more intently at the offending orb. “I already know what you’re going to say,” she said.

“Then why did you ask?”

Her mouth pinched, showing an adorable dimple on the one side. “Because my team told me to. We took a vote, and I lost. We are a very democratic club.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that,” Samuel said, sliding away. He couldn’t take being that close to her. Even in the musty, hoppy, sweaty fumes of the pub, Myfanwy’s perfume captured him. It was soft and sweet and reminded him of the jasmine that grew wild back home around his mother’s garden. “But it looks like you lost again.”

She backed away as well. “It’s not really a loss if I knew I was going to lose.”

Samuel’s laugh was bitter. “A loss is always a loss, whether you expect it or not. And you call yourself a cricketer.”

Myfanwy rolled her eyes and dumped her reticule on the counter, furiously searching inside the tiny thing. Mesmerized and confused, Samuel watched her for long seconds. How could such a paltry bag hide anything inside?

“So, you won’t even consider it?” she asked. The tip of her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth while she continued to dig. “We’re not bad, you know. We’re actually quite good.”

“From what I hear, you’re on quite the losing streak.”

She stopped rummaging and regarded him squarely. “What do you know about it?”

Samuel shrugged, glancing over her head as if this conversation meant absolutely nothing to him. Cricketers usually made good actors. “A lot of players come into the tavern. I hear things.”

Her smile was sly. “You mean you listen for things.”

“Hardly.”

“And what do you hear when you aren’t listening?”

Benny called out to him again, and Samuel held up his hand for his friend to wait. He settled his forearms on the counter. Myfanwy studied him warily. Samuel never had a sweet tooth, but he thought he could live a happy life swimming in the chocolate of her eyes. “I hear your little team—”

“Don’t call us little.”

“—has gotten positively wrecked by—”

“Hardly wrecked.”

“—the matrons for the past three years.”

Myfanwy tsked, and, again, the tip of her tongue peeked out of her mouth. Samuel shifted his stance once more. He needed her to leave. Now.

He adopted a steely tone. “And that’s not all I hear.”

There. That got the reaction he was hoping for. Myfanwy’s tanned cheeks flushed. Like all the other female cricketers, no doubt she wore a hat when she played to ward off freckles and sun, and yet her complexion was as smooth and rich as a field of wheat.

“I also heard that after your last match, one of your teammates made a rather desultory comment…something along the lines of wishing that she was married so she could finally be on the winning side.”

Myfanwy’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed menacingly, and her throat rippled from a swallow. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do. I also read it in the papers. Sad quote, it was. Seems like you’re having a difficult time keeping your players happy. Your losing is driving them to the marital yoke.”

As he held her stare, the lights seemed to dim and the conversations that had been swirling around them lowered to a distant pitch. Immediately, Samuel was reminded why he didn’t—couldn’t—engage with this woman. Everything else fell away to nothing whenever she was near.

Myfanwy broke their moment, pillaging her ridiculous bag again. At long last, she found what she’d been looking for and pulled out a single coin. Unceremoniously she lobbed it on the counter and backed away.

“For your time,” she said, escaping toward the exit.

Samuel sneered at the offending item. “I don’t need your money,” he yelled after her.

Myfanwy didn’t turn back. “Maybe not, but you need something,” she returned.