Page 98 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

“But you must have studied,” she said wonderingly, lifting the book closer to her face.

“A little,” he admitted cautiously. “There was a drawing master at my school, but I never took it seriously.”

“You were at that school a long time, though,” she reminded him quietly.

He shrugged. “Drawing and mathematics were the only lessons I liked.”

“You said your mathematics teacher was an avid follower of boxing, I think,” she said, screwing up her eyes.

Once again, Clem braced himself against the memory. Yes, he had told her that, another time when he was being a condescending prick.“Yes,” he murmured, shoving down his uncomfortable recollections. “It was he gave me my first boxing lessons. Mr. Mapperly. Not that he was an expert, far from it, but he was one of the few decent teachers at that godforsaken place.”

“Was it so very bad a time?” she asked sympathetically, and for a moment, she did not think he would answer her. Then he sighed.

“My accent at that age set me apart from the other boys and I had bitten off half of another boy’s ear before they realized I was no victim. Mr. Mapperley decided it would be beneficial to teach me ‘the gentlemanly art’ of boxing. Eventually he managed to convince the headmaster that pugilism would be more useful to the boys they taught than fencing and we got a new sports master.”

“What was he like?”

“Old Rigby?” Clem answered with a grin. “Well, he had none of Mr. Mapperly’s illusions about it being a gentleman’s sport. He was more of a realist, was Rigby. I could already throw a solid punch, could use my fists far better than any of my fellow pupils, but I learned the rudiments of the science from him, after a fashion.

“Rigby told me Mapperly’s accounts of ‘Gentleman Jim’ and the pamphlets and clippings he collected were mostly horseshit,” Clem admitted. “Not that cared. I read all Mapperly’s scrapbooks cover to cover. He had printed accounts of all the famous fights of the period, and they were better by far than anything else they were trying to force us to read.”

Dora was listening intently. “Did Mr. Mapperly or Mr. Rigby never come to watch you fight after you became a prizefighter?”

He was surprised she had guessed such a thing. “They did,” he admitted. “Rigby was an alcoholic and died a couple of years back, but old Mapperly still writes to me from time to time. He didn’t approve of me buying a concert hall,” he said with a smirk. “Those aren’t gentlemanlike in his book.”

Her eyes met his for a moment before they fell away and returned to his sketches. “You know, you’ve almost made me look …” She broke off to turn another page. “Do I really look like that to you?”

“My poor skills can scarcely do you, or anyone, justice.”

“You’re wrong. You’ve flattered me to an uncommon degree. I daresay you would be vastly popular for society portraits with such a generous interpretation.”

He shook his head. “I don’t see everyone in a generous light, Dora,” he admitted.

She swallowed. “Only me?” she suggested uncertainly, then flushed. “Forget I said that!” she added quickly with an awkward laugh. “Felix would say I was fishing for a compliment!”

Clem could feel his own eyes burning into her. “Dora,” he whispered achingly. He had not touched her the past few days. Well, he had touched, the merest brush of an arm, the whisper of a polite kiss to her cheek. Such touches were not enough. They never had been, where she was concerned. Even when he had thought her a dotty old maid, he had wanted to bed her. And why was that?

“Clem?” She rose from her seat and came across to join him on his couch, dropping down beside him. She shook her head slightly, still holding his notebook clasped in her arms. “When I think,” she marveled, “that all this time I worried you did not even like my short hair.”

“I didn’t at first,” he admitted,” until I became completely obsessed with it.” He reached across and brushed his fingers across the back of her neck. “It’s the shape here”—he hesitated—“at the base of your neck. The line of your neck and shoulder is …” He swallowed, his words roughening. “It’s just exquisite, Dora.” Jesus, was he blushing? He sounded ridiculous. Like some idiot who did not know how to talk to women.

“You really must view me through the eyes of an artist,” Dora continued wonderingly. “My uncle always said I was all arms and legs.”

“I see you with the eyes of a man,” he contradicted her flatly. “A man who likes your body. A lot.”

“Would you draw me from life?” she asked excitedly.

“What?”

“Would you? I have some charcoal somewhere and plenty of cartridge paper.” She started up impetuously and Clem reached out to catch her wrist.

“Dora …”

“Please Clem?”

She looked so hopeful he did not have it in him to refuse her. Besides, he was in a strange mood, had been in one for days. “I’m rusty,” he warned, releasing her.

“You can just do some rough sketches,” she promised. “I promise you I will be thrilled with whatever you produce.” Well, he could believe that. He sighed and shrugged, and Dora’s eyes lit up. “Give me just one minute,” she said, dashing out of the room. He heard their bedroom door bang and picked up his glass, swirling his drink. He should have just pounced on her, he realized belatedly. Sex would have been a far easier way to feel closer to her.