by Stacy Reid
“The laws which govern pugilism are not observed here. In fact, prize matches like these are kept in remote areas on the outskirts of town with thousands of spectators,” James said, his gaze on the men entering the ring. “We are not here to witness the sport of boxing.”
And she understood. This was the art of fighting, the grittiness, the fear, and the thrill. “I understand.”
A footman passed by their table and James snagged two glasses of amber liquid and handed her one.
“Remember—” he started to say.
“I know, nurse it, but keep a level head and do not drink.”
The men wrapped thin leather strips that had been soaked in water or perhaps vinegar around their hands. It appeared little protection to her, and Verity almost chuckled nervously as a man loudly announced their identities.
“Viscount Halifax and Marquess Durham.”
Verity’s soul froze, certain she heard the name Marquess Durham. She leaned forward. “These men are lords,” she said faintly.
The earl threw her a surprised glance. “Only men of a certain caliber have a membership.” He frowned. “You seem pale. Are you well?”
Hundreds of lanterns surrounding the ring were turned up, and there he was, the wretched marquess. A sick feeling of dread twisted through her and she battled it down. I am with Lord Maschelly, I am safe. It hovered on the tip of her tongue to tell him, but once again that shame and guilt which had always followed her refused to allow the words to spill. “I am well.” Then she took a sip of the drink, coughing at the fiery burn which slid down her throat.
“Easy,” the earl murmured, lightly touching her elbow.
A strange tingling jolt went up her arm and through her body, filling her with peculiar heat. It so alarmed her she snatched her hand away from him, almost knocking over the glass of whisky.
Lord Maschelly stiffened, and tilted his head looking at her uncertainly. “I apologize, Lady Verity, it shall not happen again.”
His piercing green eyes had become as flat and unreadable as a block of ice. He thought his touch had offended her, when that was simply not the truth. She wanted to tell him so but felt he would not believe her words. Her flinch had been too visceral. Nor could she explain to him, his slight caress had caused her belly to flip and her heart to race.
The starting of the match prevented her from making a response, and she was absurdly grateful for it, sensing she would have done or said something silly and reckless. The fight was rough, and from where she sat, several feet away, she could hear the slaps and thuds as fists met flesh. With each sound she flinched, and she had to steel herself against the instinctive reaction and forced herself to observe the match.
The viscount kicked at Durham’s knees but the man danced with surprising grace and dexterity out of the way.
Lord Maschelly chuckled as if he admired the display of skill, and Verity felt ill. Courage, Verity, going forward, courage.
“Such a move would be illegal if this had been a boxing match,” he explained. “There would be no kicking or hitting below the waist. But not in here. And a fight in real life is very much the same, my lady. No rules. Only what is necessary to win.”
No rules.
The lesson the earl wanted to hammer home resounded with each brutal punch. A sense of helpless fury surged through her, for Verity realized the dreaded marquess was a skilled fighter, and if he were to ever attack her again, how could she escape him? Not that she ever intended to be alone with the vile snake again.
At one moment she shifted, and found the earl watching her with a keenly observant eye. She looked away from him and took another healthy swallow of the whisky.
The match seemed to take forever, when in actuality only a few minutes passed. It was all so barbaric and improper. In quick form, the marquess knocked the viscount flat on his back, and the crowd cheered raucously.
“Another match will be coming soon. Do you wish to watch it?” the earl asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “I believe I understand your lesson.”
He nodded and stood, and Verity followed suit. Ice congealed in her veins when she saw the marquess, more appropriately attired, headed toward them.
“James?” she was so alarmed she called the earl by his name.
His eyes sharpened, studying her with curious intensity. “What is it?”
She swallowed, hating the awful feelings stirring in her stomach, and then both the marquess and the viscount were there.
“Maschelly,” the marquess said jovially. “Just the man I wanted to see. I’ve always wanted a match with one of the bare-knuckle kings. What do you say we arrange—”
Unable to bear hearing the voice which had haunted her dreams for so long, she skirted from around the table, and with hurried steps made her way to the door.
“Vincent?” Lord Maschelly’s tone was sharp, questioning, concerned, but she did not slow.
“Who is the pup?” she heard the marquess ask and she almost cast up her accounts.
Verity broke into a run, passed many startled patrons, and down the stairs. She collided into a footman, and the tray of drinks tipped to the floor with a resounding crash.
She tried to dart around the mess and someone grabbed her. The shock of it pulled a startled scream from her. The hand disappeared, and before she could process what had happened, the man sailed in the air and crashed against a wall with a pained groan.
“No one touches him,” Lord Maschelly commanded, his tone flat and lethal.
Many gazes landed on her, then to the man behind her, but she did not pause, rushing outside as if the devil chased her.
Once there, she took deep breaths of fresh air, hating the tears pricking her eyes. Her throat burned, anger and shame filled her heart, and she stuffed a fist in her mouth choking on a ragged sob.
“Verity,” a soft voice said. “I should have never brought you here. I was a damn idiot.”
She spun around. “James…I…I mean Lord Maschelly…” Words deserted her as she stared at him. He seemed fierce and ruthless, as if he had arrived to vanquish whomever or whatever had upset her. He stepped toward her and she jerked back. It was an instinctive movement and she felt wretched for the shuttered look which covered his expression.
“I am not afraid of you,” she burst out passionately. “You…you are the very first gentleman I have felt safe around in years. I cannot explain it because you are so very large and intimidating…but I just do…because you are so real and unpretentious.”
James’s muscles were knotted with a terrible tension. He moved slowly, heavily, toward her as if drawn by a magnet. He saw her struggle to remain still and not jerk from him and it shredded something deep inside of his heart. Who had abused such sweet gentleness and created the wary mistrust staring at him with such large wounded eyes? What had frightened her?
“It was wrong of me to take you here,” he said gruffly, his heart throbbing with guilt…and fear that something might have scared her because he had pushed too soon. His rage had festered like a wound when someone had dared touched her.
“No, thank you. I needed to understand.”
“Do not thank me when I could have gotten you hurt, badly.”
“Do not be melodramatic,” she chided. “The man barely touched me.” She wanted to sound brave and nonchalant, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“May I come closer?”
She lowered her eyes away from his steady gaze. “Yes.”
“What made you run?”
A sob hitched in her throat and an icy resolve filled him. Whatever or whoever had hurt her would be vanquished. It was a risk, touching her, but he needed to see her face. James placed a finger beneath her chin gently and urged her face upward.
She reacted, gripping his finger, but she did not push him away. Instead, she clutched at his finger as if it were a lifeline. Her touch against his knuckles was like the delicate brush of the wings of a butterfly.
Large wounded eyes pe
ered up at him. “Sometimes I hear his laugh in my dreams, deafening and suffocating me.”
And he knew in that moment he would kill the man who had put such shadows in her eyes and pain in her voice.
“Tell me his name.”
She closed her eyes briefly before snapping them open. “I…”
He raked his fingers through his hair, turning its careful disarray into a tangled mess. “He was inside just now. That is why you ran outside. It was unbearable seeing him again.”
Her throat worked on a swallow. “Yes.”
“Tell me his name,” he repeated.
“Why?”
“So I may call him out and put a bullet through his black soul.”
“Do not be foolish! Dueling is illegal!”
“Verity—”
She stepped away from him and he felt bereft at the loss of her touch. “No, and if you shall say such madness, I’ll never reveal who he is to you!”
“I’ll not get caught,” he said on an irritated grunt.
“I’ll not risk you,” she cried, thumping his chest.
Something at once primal and tender shifted inside of him. “Why, Verity?”
The air tightened with an unexpected tension. Her lashes swept down across her cheekbones, hiding her expression from him.
“Look at me,” he said gruffly.
“I do not know. Just know that I’ll not risk your life or reputation over that snake.”
“And are you not doing the same now, wanting to fight, to learn about the uglier side of life?”
Her face was pale but proud. “I need to do this…at any cost, but I am not selfish enough to risk another’s life because of my pains,” she said hoarsely.
She looked so young and vulnerable, he wanted to drag her into the cage of his arms and promise he would slay her fears. Lady Verity pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head when he would have moved to touch her.
He lowered his hand and was about to move away when she stepped closer. There was both delicacy and strength in the face that peered up at him. Meet me halfway, her eyes seemed to beseech him, and sensing he would regret giving into the temptation, James reached out and took her hands within his.
Chapter 7
Verity froze. A man was touching her. And not just any man—James, the earl of Maschelly. For so long she had avoided having any gentleman too close to her, even dancing had become uncomfortable but she had tolerated it to the best of her abilities. She waited for that awful feeling to cramp her stomach, and for the sweat to coat her skin, even though it was such a simple touch, palm to palm, and they both wore evening gloves. None of the usual reaction came, and unaccountably Verity wished they had been skin to skin. Even with the gloves separating a more intimate touch she felt the heat of him, and something even more bewildering, simply because she had not felt so in years—comfort, warmth, protected.
“I can see that I’ve shocked you,” he murmured.
No, my yearning to feel your skin upon mine did. She licked her lips and the eyes which had followed the moment darkened with undefinable emotions.
The earl guided her away from the entrance of the club, and toward the line of parked carriages. Instead of heading for his coach, he tugged her to the side of the building, encasing them in partial shadows. The glow of the gas lamp and the hovering fog shed only a small amount of light, but it was as if his glittering eyes were a beacon onto themselves. Truly, Verity had never seen eyes so wickedly splendid.
“Did you not realize we would be required to touch? When we fight…when you teach me to dance?” he murmured gently.
No…she hadn’t thought that far ahead and she felt ridiculous. “I…”
“Do you fear me touching you?”
Yes…no…. Everything about him was large, and she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and his large hands. This man could crush her so easily. Even more so than the marquess, because Lord Maschelly was unquestionably more virile, powerful, and dangerous.
“I would never hurt you,” he said gruffly. “Never, my lady. I swear it on my honor.”
Verity closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She was suddenly acutely conscious of scents and noises drifting to her through the night—the murkiness of the Thames, rotting fruits, but something fresh and clean beneath it all, the warm male fragrance of the man himself. A few carriages rumbled by, yet neither moved. His hand fell away from hers, and upon opening her eyes, she watched in dazed bemusement as he tugged off his gloves and stuffed them in his pockets.
Her heart raced uncontrollably like a runaway carriage. Then he placed two of his warm fingers beneath her chin and nudged. Clearly, he wanted her to meet his eyes once more, and she was afraid to, for Verity felt as if she was falling into something she did not understand. Nothing felt familiar, nothing felt safe. No…the earl felt safe.
A fierce, painful longing surged through her, and oddly the need was to step into his arms. A quiver of uncertainty went through Verity. Why did she feel so with him? A man like the earl was not for her. Even before her attack, she’d had it all planned—the type of fair gentleman she would marry, where they would honeymoon, the kind of wondrous fun they would have. The earl did not fit that old musing, but she felt helpless to stop the curious hunger awakening in her heart.
The tip of her chin tingled. Her skin seemed to burn beneath his fingers, yet she didn’t want to move.
“Are you afraid of me, Lady Verity?” he asked again, and she suspected the answer was of immense importance to him. How fascinating that his awkward touch could be both rough and infinitely gentle. The calluses Lady Susanna had cried prettily about were comforting, real.
The weird sensation jerking in her belly did not feel like fear, but she could not identify it for she had never felt anything like this before.
“I am not afraid of you,” she whispered.
A look of wonder, possibly admiration settled on his face, before smoothing into a bland mask. “Good,” he said and lowered his arm. “Let’s get you home.”
Her thoughts muddled for a few moments. “Are we not starting our lessons tonight?”
“It is late. Almost eleven. And you have learned enough today. I will take you home now.” There was an undercurrent in his tone she was unable to decipher.
“In these clothes?”
“My home first, then off you go. I will send my coach for you on Thursday. Never come to me without your veil.”
She nodded and they made their way to the parked carriage in silence. They sat on opposite seats and the carriage lantern burned low, creating a too intimate atmosphere. Yet neither made the effort to introduce conversation as the coach pulled away. His brief smile hinted at a discomfort. A heart-pounding awareness burned through her. Then a shocking surge of heat quivered through her and Verity desperately tried to force her silly heart to beat to its normal rhythm. She leaned back against the squabs, that single truth rattling her—Lord Maschelly was unsettled by her, liked her perhaps, and he had wisely retreated.
And I must do the same.
Yet at this moment she could not recall precisely why a man like the earl was unsuitable for a lady like her. Verity fiercely reminded herself that their connection was for only one purpose—learn enough so that when she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t ever see the face of her nightmare. That was the only reason she had aligned with a man like Lord Maschelly. And she needed to remember it always lest she deceive her heart to pain.
Dear Aunt Imogen,
I do hope my letter finds you in splendid health. I am trying to enjoy the season as you commanded. Last week I went to the theater and had a few outings in Hyde Park with Lady Caroline and the Duchess Carlyle. They are the best of ladies and we have become dear friends. The weather has been pleasant, and I am sorry to hear of the constant rains in Bedfordshire. I know you love and miss your gardens and I promise you shall be tending them soon. Mamma is well, and she received your last letter with pleasure. Arthur is the same boorish man
that you’d last seen. He has decreed that I marry one Lord Aldridge, but I am adamant to forge my own path. I want what you had, Aunt Imogen, a rare and beautiful love with a man of my choosing. I promise to visit in a few weeks when I tire of the frivolities of the season.
Your loving niece, Verity.
Verity carefully folded the single sheet of paper and added a wafer. She happily wrote to her aunt weekly, for her aunt had vowed to never to return to the foul London air which she blamed for her prolonged illness. The doctors had diagnosed melancholia and overwrought nerves, but Verity believed it had been a broken heart which had ailed Aunt Imogen who had lost her husband a few years before. They hadn’t been blessed with any children in their five and twenty years of marriage, and she hadn’t been the same since his passing.
Aunt Imogen had been the only person who had believed Verity when she had named the marquess a debauched snake. She had been the one to come upon them in the grotto with the marquess’s heavy weight pinning Verity to the damp earth. Aunt Imogen thought she had interrupted a lover’s tryst, until she had seen the state of Verity’s clothing and her bruised cheeks. It still amazed Verity that even with her aunt’s unflinching support, her mother and brother had been so quick to turn a blind eye. The sisters’ close relationship had been altered to mamma’s distress, but Aunt Imogen was not forgiving of their disloyalty.
A knock sounded and she glanced up as her lady’s maid entered. “Her ladyship bids you to attend her in the drawing room, Lady Verity.”
“I shall be along shortly,” she said with a small smile which felt tight.
Her toilette had already been completed for the morning, her hair coiffed in a simple but elegant chignon, and she had donned a simple but graceful long-sleeved dark blue day dress with a scalloped neckline. She did not anticipate spending the day in the presence of her mother. She had escaped it yesterday by calling on Pippa for the better part of that afternoon, and then dining with the Duchess and her wonderful husband. Of course mamma had been happy to let her go, admiring the well-connected company Verity kept.
