Chapter 9

W hen Tom woke up the following morning, Gwen was gone. It was as if last night had never happened.

They’d fucked two more times after he divested her of her maidenhead. He had scratch marks all over his shoulders and back, not that he minded one bit. Gwen might be a bluestocking, but apparently, she was also a hellcat in bed.

He couldn’t believe he was getting paid a hundred and twenty-five pounds for some of the best sex he’d ever had. Gwen wasn’t just lush; she’d been an eager participant. Even though she hadn’t had the faintest clue what she was doing, when he had shown her something, she had tried it with enthusiasm. Which Tom much preferred to the sort of women who just lay back against the pillow and expected him to do all the work. Gracie had been like that, not that he’d known enough to mind back when he was eighteen.

But Gwen—she was everything a man could possibly want in a bed partner.

A part of him wished she wasn’t a gentleman’s daughter—that she was a milkmaid or worked down at the tavern. That she was someone who might consider him for a husband. He knew with a gnawing certainty that if she was the daughter of a wheelwright, then as soon as he finished his morning training session, he would be having a wash and seeing if he could scrounge up a bunch of daisies.

But she wasn’t the daughter of a wheelwright, or a dairy maid. She was an educated woman, a fucking heiress.

He didn’t stand a chance in hell.

Thing was, he didn’t think it was just the great sex. He slept with beautiful women all the time. He was the fucking heavyweight champion.

But last night had been… different. Gwen hadn’t asked him to choke her, or slap her across the face, for one.

But more than that, she hadn’t made him feel like he was a notch in her bedpost or bragging rights down at the tavern.

He’d felt as though she liked him , not just his muscles. Which was daft. But it had really felt that way. For a minute there, he’d been someone he hadn’t been in about ten years—an ordinary man, making love to a woman.

Rising from the bed, he padded over to the washstand. Pouring some water into the basin, he splashed his face. He’d best not go getting used to it. Light was already streaming around the edges of the curtains. It was another day, and he had to go back to being a brute.

Scooping his trousers off the floor, he noticed a folded piece of paper lying out on the sideboard bearing his name. After quickly dressing, he unfolded it and read:

Dear Tom,

I want to express my profound thankfulness for the great care you showed me last night. I could not have hoped for a more gentle and considerate lover. I do not have adequate words to express how much pleasure I found in what I always imagined would be a painful and unpleasant act. But you exceeded my every expectation. I would go so far as to say it was magical.

But you gave me an even greater gift than the physical pleasure I found last night: you made me feel beautiful. I cannot recall a single other occasion in which I have felt that way. It may sound like a trifling thing, but I can assure you it is not. It is something I will cherish for as long as I live, and that I will remember when I am old and grey.

I will forever be grateful that my first such experience was with a man so exemplary in both kindness and character.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart,

Gwendolyn

Well, shit. That was… that was a bunch of rot. A man exemplary in kindness and character? Him ? He made a living hitting people in the face. Gwen didn’t know the first thing about him. That was obvious.

So, why was there a knot in the center of his chest? And why was the letter suddenly so blurry?

He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, recoiling when it came away wet. Wait, were those… tears ? Was he crying ? He, Tom Talbot? He was a great brute. A heartless monster! He’d knocked men out cold, destroyed their dreams of being a champion, and celebrated over their unconscious bodies. He didn’t cry , and he certainly wasn’t kind!

Yet here he was, sniffling over a letter like some lovelorn schoolboy.

And goddamn it, now that he’d opened this floodgate, all these stupid thoughts were rushing in. About how a young man could earn a living as a brute, but he’d turned twenty-seven last month, and his body was starting to break down. He might have another fight or two left in him, but he probably couldn’t keep this up for another year, much less ten.

He needed to find something else. He’d known that for a while.

But this bloody letter had him thinking that he’d like that something else to not involve punching people in the face.

That he’d like to be remembered someday, perhaps not by everyone, but by someone , for something other than being a brute.

What a load of shite . There wasn’t anything else he was good at, now was there? So, he’d best forget about this stupid fucking letter, best put these stupid thoughts out of his head because there were no other possibilities for him. He quickly dressed, then crumpled the letter, threw it in the bin, and strode out the door.

Less than a minute later, he returned. Muttering curses, Tom retrieved the letter, shoved it in his pocket, and left the room, this time for good.