Page 25 of Earl of St. Seville

“We have arrived, my lord.”

Sin should thank her for seeing him to his lodgings and depart. Return to the solitude of his room in the Albany to see to his injuries and ponder how he’d lost his first match.

“You know that brute strength alone is not enough to succeed as a pugilist.” She set her narrowed glare on him, the animosity clear in her tone as if his very attempt at boxing offended her. She turned back toward the window before uttering her next words. “You are a fool if you think your sheer stature is enough to secure a spot as a prizefighter.”

“I have never been one to think anything comes easily, my lady,” he retorted. Except he’d done exactly that coming to London. “Though my brute strength—as you call it—does provide some advantage during my matches.”

She chuckled, the sound deep and rich with zero hesitation. “If you say so.”

“Are you saying my size and muscles are a disadvantage?”

“No.” She paused, and Sin thought she might not continue, but she sighed. “As loath as I am to admit it, I learned much from my mother. Your size gives your opponent a bigger target, making accuracy not as important. Also, your heavy frame decreases your agility.”

Working the estate, his raw strength had always been enough. Never had he shirked from the physical demands of his land and people. Even in his youth, Sin could lift the weight of three farm hands. He’d relied on his strength more than he now cared to admit in front of this small, scowling female. “I have spent many years training at my estate. While I was not familiar with London’s prizefighting rules, I am not an utter simpleton with regards to pugilism.”

She huffed. “Obviously, you did not receive the correct type of training.”

The carriage door swung open, and Lady Patience held out her hand, her driver assisting her down to the walk in front of the Albany. Thankfully, the street was nearly abandoned this late, most men already having departed for their evening entertainments and the hour too early for them to be returning home.

He had little choice but to follow her as she marched up to the front door of the Albany and nodded to the footman who opened it. The servant visibly paled at the sight of Lady Patience as she whisked into the building. It could not be uncommon for the fairer sex to visit the lodging house, but one so obviously of the peerages was probably rare.

She paused inside the foyer and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Which way, my lord?”

“Pardon?” he gulped.

“To your room,” she said slowly. “Which way?”

When Sin didn’t immediately respond, Lady Patience pivoted toward the footman with a wide smile. “Sir, as you can see, the Earl of St. Seville has been injured—possibly suffering from an addled brain—and I must get him to his room.”

“Up the main stairs, third door on the left, my lady.” He bowed low. “Do pull the bell cord if you or my lord are in need of anything further.”

“Very good,” Lady Patience inclined her head to the servant, and Sin watched as the man blushed and hurried off down the hall.

Sin stood in stunned silence as she started for the stairs, her chin held high. Anyone who saw her—and once again, he was thankful that no one but the footman was present to see them enter—would think she owned the Albany.

Pausing, she glanced back at him, and Sin’s heart about leapt from his chest.

She intended to venture to his room. Certainly, she did not mean to go so far as to enter his private chambers?

“Do you need assistance to master the stairs, my lord?” Her tone was too cordial, especially when one factored in his deceptions. She was almost teasing him. “I can call the servant back if you think it is needed.”

Sin cast off the shock and disbelief of Lady Patience entering his lodging house and trailed her up the stairs, doing his best to keep his eyes from her hips and bottom, which were at eye level. Perhaps Povolti had managed to rattle his mind with his hits, after all. A headache was, as Patience had stated, not long from setting upon him.

They walked side by side, his hand grazing hers only once as they traversed the wide hall and halted before his door.

“This is my room.” Sin immediately regretted his obvious proclamation. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for assisting me to my lodging.”

“Do you have a friend you can call upon?”

“I am new to London, but do not worry.” He glanced down at his boots. “This will not be my first occasion tending my own wounds.”

“The jarring blow to your head may cause delayed impairments or mask a more serious injury.” She leaned up on her tiptoes and stared into his eyes. “Are you dizzy? Is your stomach roiling? Are you overly tired?”

Sin wanted to laugh. No one had made such a fuss over him since he was in knee breeches. “I am not dizzy nor is my stomach unsettled. As far as my exhaustion, I find myself in a rare state of extreme awareness.”

He would rather perish than admit that his keen alert nature had naught to do with the prizefight and everything to do with the simple fact that Lady Patience—her deep brown hair swept up into a loose knot—was standing directly outside his bedchamber door.

“Nevertheless,” she chastised, her tone severe. “I will remain until I am confident you are well enough for sleep.”