Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Twenty-One

A stony-faced servant escorted Tuck to his chamber, also on the third floor but at the opposite end of the townhome—as far

away from Lizzy as possible.

The spacious room had one of those gloomy, empty feelings, the way rooms get after hardly ever being used. From the shadows

emerged a four-poster bed, its polished mahogany gleaming in the lamplight. Two large windows, draped in beige and indigo,

overlooked the street. Everything else in the room that wasn’t wood was navy—the thick rug, the lace doily on the table beside

the bed, and even the ornate wallpaper. And the furniture, like the bed, from the desk to the wardrobe to the chairs, was

all built from the same dark wood. No paintings. No personalization. Just deafening silence, as if it was only ever disturbed

when maids entered to dust.

He ignored the bed altogether. For once, he sensed sleep wouldn’t come easily. He hated to toss and turn and rubbing one out wasn’t going to help—not now. Even though his stolen moments with Lizzy had left him turned on. Christ, if electricity had been invented, he could probably power half of London. But that wasn’t the point—at least not the only one. He wanted her, but he wanted to hold her more, to feel her body folding into his, to enjoy what it was like to lie there and listen to her breathe.

So instead of spending the night in an empty bed with the absence of Lizzy, he dragged a chair to the window to stare out

over the dark London streets and gather his thoughts.

When he’d had the accident back in Hallow’s Gate, losing control of the car, trapped in that frigid water, lungs burning,

unable to see a goddamn thing—his life had never flashed before his eyes. There’d never been a moment when some grand comfort

enveloped him in peace.

There was only bewildered fear, and a determination that he wouldn’t die, not like that.

He wasn’t embarrassed to admit to panic. Fuck. He’d been under ice. It was the only logical emotion. Death had come so damn

close before retreating in the jumble of darkness and indescribable noise, combined with a dizzy, nauseated loss of balance—up

went down, left turned right. Before he could unscramble his brain, sunlight warmed his skin, cattails bobbed overhead, and

an apple core smacked him in the face and his life changed.

In all that chaos, only Lizzy’s big blue eyes had made any sense.

It wasn’t that he accepted being in this world. But what was the option? To walk around every minute mumbling “I can’t believe

this happened, this is wild”? He was here now. And that meant he had to deal with life as it was, not as he wished it would

be.

He wasn’t meant to be in 1812, but under different circumstances, he might be meant for Lizzy. They had chemistry. He sensed

they both wanted more.

Dust motes floated in the air, directionless. Stuck in the past with a wife he’d caught feelings for—genius-level decision-making. Looked like he was on his way to being the Einstein of clusterfucks.

He stood and cracked his back. There was no one in this whole damn city able to shoot two pucks toward his head, a ritual

he’d made Regals’ forward Gale Knight perform before every game to silence his mind.

The only other way he knew to tamp down his thoughts was to sweat.

Not the same as a hundred-mile-an-hour rubber biscuit flying at your face, but it’d do.

He ripped off his shirt and started doing reps of single-leg, opposite-side reaches, slow and controlled to focus on balance

and ankle stability. Then the half kneel to double jump. Coach always said “reload to explode.” Gotta always have the power

to be ready to make a second jump with the same leg. Squats. High reps for endurance. He groaned. These routines sucked, but

he’d be glad he did them come a 5–3 power play in the third quarter. Because he’d play again. Because he’d get home. Jane

had seemed sure of it. Lizzy believed. And they were both smarter than him. He had to trust the process.

Life had to return to normal eventually—to a world that made sense. In that world, his job was to soak up the electric charge

of the crowd without getting overwhelmed and to keep an eye on game plays while maintaining a laser focus on the puck. If

he ever let one in, he’d have to let it go, funneling all his energy into stopping the next one.

After busting out lunges, side planks, sit-ups, and push-ups, he was breathing hard, sheened in sweat.

Good. That was good.

This next game was a whole new challenge—a fancy ball. He wiped his hand against his damp brow, catching his reflection in the mirror. “You’re not exactly Prince Charming material,” he muttered. Couldn’t tell a waltz from a Texas two-step to save his life. A high school PE teacher had tried to teach him ballroom moves once, and it had been a disaster. He’d gotten a C, the only time he’d ever tanked a grade in that subject.

But tonight wasn’t about stressing his nonexistent dance skills. It was making damn sure Lizzy didn’t regret having him there.

The twenty-first century might be light-years away, but he could still sharpen his mental game. Being around Lizzy Wooddash

meant finding that delicate balance between being on high alert and staying cool. Just when he believed he’d nailed it, memories

of how she tasted—sweet on her tongue, salt between her legs—would hit him like a freight train. This week’s mission: master

the art of being in her presence without getting lost in fantasies of peeling her down to her silk stockings.

The intense workout did the job, and he collapsed into a dreamless sleep. When he woke up, it was light out and he was starving.

Top priority: determine the breakfast situation. Pulling the door open, he almost collided with Henry, who appeared to have

been skulking in the hallway. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Henry made a face. “I was about to knock.” He peered over Tuck’s shoulder as if he could take in the contents of the room.

“I’m going to assume you are not prepared to be outfitted in appropriate evening dress for a ball?”

“Define appropriate.” How was this stuck-up clown related to Lizzy? They had similar eyes, but where hers were curious and

intelligent, his were clouded in judgment and disdain.

“Let’s start with the basics.” Henry pointed to Tuck’s feet. “Boots won’t do. Gentlemen may not enter a ballroom in boots. You could break a lady’s foot at worst or ruin the floor at best. And you’ll need better-quality knee breeches and stockings. Those are hopelessly out of fashion.”

Tuck prayed that neither Georgie nor the ghost of Edward ever heard the slander.

“Gads.” Henry pinched his nose. “Of course, it’s going to be up to me to manage all your colony ill manners so you don’t show

up like a barbarian and undo the inroads this family has made.”

“What kind of roads are we talking about?”

“The Wooddash family lacks one of the ancient names. My father’s grandparents were not nobles, nor did they possess grand

country estates. Across generations, we’ve diligently nurtured respectability and wealth. Both Lizzy and I hold a duty to

perpetuate that progress. She has chosen to attach her fortunes to a person of obscure identity and no social standing; thus

the responsibility falls on me.” His smile was tight and humorless. “Thank you for this weight. Nevertheless, you require

proper shoes and anything but buckskin. Not for your sake, but for mine. Now get dressed and fetch a hat. We are going out.”

“Why for your sake?” Tuck inquired, attempting to tie his cravat as best he could. He struggled on a good day, and this was

definitely not that. “I’m not quite grasping your thinking.”

“Make haste, Taylor.” Henry beckoned him to follow. “I’m not about to ruin my prospects of marrying Olivia Abbot Davies, who

has a dowry of thirty thousand pounds.”

“That’s good, I take it?”

“My dear man, you know it’s very good,” Henry exclaimed. “Considering you’ll be lucky if Father bestows upon you a shilling, I can see your envy. I’ve been courting her throughout the season, offering charming compliments, always observing her ribbons and such. She possesses a robust constitution and will undoubtedly secure me my heir and spare. Moreover, she speaks little and thinks even less. What more could a man desire in a wife? And with my position and society connections, she’ll have no complaints.”

“Lucky Olivia Abbot Davies.” He shuddered to think of Lizzy surrounded by men like her brother.

“Indeed.” If Henry registered Tuck’s sarcasm, he didn’t let it show. “Now let’s go to my club.”

It felt like a lifetime later, but was realistically only a few days. Tuck waited in the wide marble foyer staring up at the

stairs, willing Lizzy to appear. It wasn’t that his desire to attend the ball had increased—if anything, it was the direct

opposite. But he’d spent the past days at Henry’s club or in the empty house as she attended dress fittings or made social

calls, and he missed her. He missed her gaze, the way she’d look at him with a combination of fondness and exasperation. He

missed her smell, like a summer garden.

He missed the fact that being around her made him come up with dumb shit like thinking she smelled like a garden.

This fact should bother him a lot more than it did. In fact, it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world that he had

a wife who lived in a different time. But he wasn’t sure what this meant either.

He fidgeted with his tailcoat, double-breasted with a high collar that scratched his neck, stopping above his waist in the

front and hanging down his back. Henry had found friends—if that’s what the smug pack of bastards could be called—to loan

him clothing. Tuck was dressed for a ball, but he felt so far outside of himself that he had to rock in his low-heeled buckled

shoes to keep grounded.

Where was Lizzy?

Then she was at the top of the stairs. Tuck knew next to nothing about fashion, but her pale blue dress only made her eyes deeper, like a mountain lake that he knew would be too cold to swim in, but it didn’t matter because reason had no place here. He would jump, and he would endure whatever discomfort because, for real, if he had to drown, it might as well happen here in Lizzy and all her lace and feathers. He’d never seen anyone look this beautiful, and it almost made him angry—not angry at her—just at the world that this person could appear in his life and be so totally unable to stay by his side.

“Hello,” she said softly, taking another step down. Her cheeks were bright.

“You look beautiful,” he blurted, voice more jagged than he wanted.

She looked startled, but her eyes measured him. “Y-you too.”

He glanced down, smoothing his silk waistcoat. “Guess I don’t clean up so bad.”

She lost her footing on the next stair. Her mouth formed a silent O of surprise, and then he was rising to catch her, grunting

as her weight made an impact, but he could still steady her.

She stared up at him in shock, pupils dilated, still in his arms as if they had nowhere else to be for the rest of tonight.

She didn’t just smell like a summer garden now; it was as if she were the full Garden of Eden and he wanted knowledge.

“Please put me down,” she whispered.

He cocked a brow, let his gaze travel leisurely to her mouth and linger. “And if I don’t?” He wasn’t serious. But he wanted

to see what she’d do.

“I wouldn’t want to make a spectacle. So maybe I’d purse my lips. And then when you got close, I’d...” She arched up, snapping

her teeth.

“Christ.” He startled, settling her back on her feet. “You’re a wild animal.”

“Don’t test me.”

Henry had left from his club and her parents had departed separately, no doubt to avoid having to talk to him. En route, he

squared off with her.

“I want to ask some questions.”

“Very well.” She sniffed. “Go.”

“Do I need to bow? Henry discussed bowing, but I wasn’t really listening.”

“Yesssss...” she said slowly. “But only sometimes, and when in doubt? Make it small. You aren’t a metronome.”

“What else should I know?”

“I enjoy dancing. We will be dancing. If you don’t know the steps, I’ll tell you what to do. I can take the lead.”

“This I believe. But—”

“But nothing,” she continued with a wry smile. “Tonight, you will dance, make little bows, nibble delicious food, and make

small talk.”

“How small?”

“About things of teeny-tiny significance. The ballroom’s flower arrangements. The crispness of the biscuits. The temperature

in the room. Nothing at all. Mouths moving, pushing air. You will chuckle at every word I say and keep fetching me drinks.

That’s enough that my friends will be wildly jealous of my very handsome, witty, and wonderful husband, and ensure no one

will engage in malicious gossip.”

“Your friends will be there?”

“More like acquaintances. Georgie and Jane are true friends—people I can go to and be honest and myself and they will answer me in turn. The friends here are city friends. We have a laugh but don’t have a great deal in common. I worry sometimes that they are forced to pay social calls because of my family.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, my stepfather has investments, of course. He is a true gentleman. However, he has a small business everyone intensely

cares about, and that is the paper, the Evening Ledger .”

“I saw him reading that when we met.”

“It has the most prosaic content (shipping and trade, legal notices), the useful (news and events), and the popular (society

gossip).

“Mr.Alby has no doubt already printed a joyful announcement on our marriage. If I had to make a wager, I’d say it went out

today to spin my failure into a success.”

“I’m a failure?” That was a new one.

“You’re not part of the ton. So some people find it odd and unpleasant when a surprise tumbles in, much like a body down the

stairs.”

“Are you saying I was an unpleasant surprise?”

She yelped as he flicked the underside of her chin gently with his thumb.

“The paper. Do you ever write for it?”

The smile left her face. “I used to ask. A few times I begged, I’m not proud. But no, Mr.Alby was adamant that I not write.

He said a husband wouldn’t want a wife who thought she was too clever. I disobeyed, naturally.”

He nodded solemnly. “Obviously.”

“When I was twenty, I drafted up a short satire. Nothing earth-shattering. It was called ‘The Grand Society of Peculiar Pretensions.’”

“I’m impressed already.”

“My nom de plume was Sir Jestington Jotsworth. Clearly false.”

“Sure.”

“But that was part of the humor. The stories followed a certain Lady Serendipity and her aristocratic cadre. It poked at eccentricities

and was generally preposterous, but in the spirit of fun. It became popular. Mr.Alby would even read excerpts at dinner.

Mamma and Henry often ended up in stitches.”

Tuck’s heart twanged as her eyes took on a faraway look, remembering a moment when she had caused joy for her family, even

if they didn’t know—she had, and that warm memory had lingered.

“Anyway, Mr.Alby found out eventually. I was careless and left a draft out on my desk while I had breakfast. A servant brought

it to my stepfather and let’s just say he was no longer amused. I was forbidden to write, and to punctuate the point, he sold

my pony.”

“What!”

“I had a white pony named Petalwhisk. I loved her and so he sold her as my punishment for going against the family’s wishes.”

Slow, strong rage gathered in Tuck’s gut. How could anyone purposefully cause this woman pain, let alone a parent? And to

sell a girl’s fucking pet because she wrote some smart stories?

She giggled.

“This isn’t funny.”

“No. It’s not. I’ve lived it and I know indeed how bleak it feels. But you... I believe you growled.”

“Huh.”

She giggled again. “You did. You growled sitting there.”

The carriage came to a halt. “We’re here.”

A stream of people poured into a well-lit townhome. The footman hadn’t even opened the door and the sound of the people outside

still filled the space.

“No growling allowed in there.”

“We’ll see. Depends if anyone thinks about hurting you.”

Her gaze found his. “You act as if we’ll be among beasts.”

He took her hand in his; even if it was small, it was still strong. How many years had this woman walked among these people

and never been allowed to be her full self? He liked holding her hand. He liked it so much he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able

to let go.