Page 105 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

His gaze clashed with her own and Theo could not breathe for a moment at the blazing expression his eyes held. He swallowed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ah Dorabelle,” he sighed, and when he lowered his arm, he looked suddenly sad. “What am I going to do with you? You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not the special one.”

“And I say you are,” she said stubbornly.

When he would only shake his head, she shivered, realizing the mood had soured and the water turned quite cold. “Let’s get out,” Clem said, drawing up his knees. “We’re both catch our deaths.”

TWENTY-SIX

The next morning, Clem woke early and lay gazing up at the ceiling as memories of the previous evening flooded his brain. He was horrified by all that he’d shared. That was what came of getting carried away with this pretense of a partnership. It was not just Dora anymore, tricked into thinking they were confidantes and best of friends. Now he had fooled even himself. He’d fallen into the trap of his own making and needed to claw his way back out.

There would be no more baths together, he decided. And next time she offered to suck his cock, he wouldn’t carry her off to the bedroom and make love to her like some … what? Lovestruck idiot? Instead, he would toss a cushion down for her knees.

He would still be considerate of her, but he wouldn’t get carried away.

There would also be no more of this … intimate talking. It messed around with your head. He’d never had that problem before. He could talk alright, liked to talk, could talk the hind leg off a donkey. He could charm the birds down from the trees, could Clem Dabney.

He never talked of things like his past and his bloody family, though. Just why had he volunteered all that information for Theodora’s perusal and judgement? It wasn’t even as if she’d poked or prodded him into it, not really. He had just bared his soul to her like a regular fucking sapskull.

There would also be no more talk of babies. Yet another thing he could not actually blame on Dora. That was all on him. Well, no more! She wanted a career and he wanted to be rich, damn it, not a bloody father!

He slipped out of bed as soon as it turned six and crept out of the house to start his day as a free agent. The cold morning air cleared his head as he walked briskly through London, and by the time he had reached Shoreditch he had formulated a working plan.

Okay, so he would not be denying himself when it came to the bedroom; he wasn’t fucking stupid, but he was going to keep things on a more basic level. There would be no more of this tender stuff he kept slipping into. He liked Dora. What wasn’t to like? She was sweet and funny, and good in bed, but that was it. When it came the time, he would set her aside and get on with his own life.

Of course, now she had revealed herself as a star of the stage, tucking her away in some obscure cottage to await his pleasure and eventual retirement was not really an option. Maybe they could have one of those wealthy people marriages where they barely saw one another, and when they did, they were freezingly polite to one another?

None of that fucking other people though, he thought uneasily. He could not countenance that. Clem cracked his knuckles. Maybe they could have fancy apartments in the same building, somewhere like Mayfair. Then when he wanted to fuck his wife, he could just nip up two flights of stairs. Simple.

Now he just had to convince everyone else as well as himself.

Clem’s newfound resolve was shaken a few hours hence when Jim rapped upon his door then flung it open. “One of your boxing brethren has shown up,” he announced darkly.

“Oh, yes?” Clem barely glanced up from his list. “Well, I’m not free right now, Jim, you can deal with it. Comp them some free tickets or drinks or whatever you think appropriate.” When Jim hesitated, Clem sat up in his seat. “Unless it’s Ben or Nat Jones,” he said seeing Jim’s uncertainty. “I’ll always see them.”

“No, no, it’s not either of them,” Jim said looking uneasy. “He’s not come to see you specifically neither boss.” Jim cleared his throat. “He’s come to see Miss Dora as it ‘appens.”

Clem’s hand froze in the act of reaching for a pencil. He struggled to get his feelings under control after a moment. “Who?” he asked, in what he hoped passed as a calm enough voice, though there was a definite edge to the barked word.

“Young Ewell,” Jim said grimly.

Clem relaxed at once. Barty Ewell had an eye for the pretty ones. “It’s one of the dancing girls he comes to see, Jim,” he said dryly. Evie or Katy, or something like that, he couldn’t remember which specifically.

“Nope,” Jim responded. “It was Dora’s room he asked the direction for.” Jim cast his eyes up to the ceiling. “Him and that Ruby have cooled off considerably of late.” Ruby that was it. “After pointing out it was none of my business, he said seein’ as I was so curious, he was gonna ask her out to lunch,” Jim continued.

Clem’s pencil snapped. He stared at the two halves in bewilderment for a second then threw them down on his desk. “Lots of people ask her out to lunch these days, Jim,” he pointed out, striving for a bored tone. Striving and missing. His teeth sounded clenched. “The only invitations she takes up are with that impudent guttersnipe of hers.”

“Albert,” Jim supplied. He hesitated. “Why don’t you let her know you’re taking her out?” Jim recommended. “That way there won’t be any misunderstandings or hurt feelings about it.”

Clem shot him a sharp look, but Jim’s expression was blank as ever. What the hell? And why did he have a horrible suspicion Jim was talking about his feelings being hurt? It was definitely time he set such talk to rest.

“Dora is perfectly at liberty to consort with whoever she chooses, Jim,” he said coldly. “Our arrangement is far from a traditional one, as you are no doubt aware.” Returning to his lists, he ignored Jim’s disapproving presence until he heard his footsteps stomp to the door, banging it shut behind him.

Hurt fucking feelings.

Twenty minutes later, he heard a knock on his door and flung down his pen. “Come in!”

It was Dora, smiling at him and looking wholly unaware of the fact that he felt like he’d swallowed a bitter lemon for breakfast. “I was wondering if you would care to accompany me to luncheon today, Clem,” she suggested brightly. “Only one of your friends has called by and made a charming suggestion we visit that new place that has opened on Villon Square, next to the gin palace,” she said naming a place ten minutes away.

She wanted to go to lunch with Barty Ewell. His spirits plummeted so hard he wasn’t sure they didn’t sink through the floorboards. Careful Clem, he admonished himself before answering. “I had no idea you were interested in widening your acquaintance with the boxing world,” he managed to utter with something approaching indifference.