by Darcy Burke
“Let’s go,” Hunt urged quietly.
Ryder brushed his hand away. “I’m not leaving till this scum is a wet spot upon the floor.”
“Scum?” Aston threw back his head and laughed yet again. “Oh, my fellow, it was not I who left the delicious Mrs. D high and dry with no virtue to her name.” Aston leaned forward and winked. “Why, that was you. Wasn’t it, lad?”
White flashed before Ryder eyes. His muscles flexed. His hand flew back, and his fist throttled forward. The punch slammed Aston in the mouth, splitting his knuckles.
Instead of sprawling as Ryder expected, Aston smiled, his teeth bloody. “At last.”
Chapter Sixteen
“You son of a bitch.” Hunt launched forward to grab Aston.
Ryder seized Hunt and hauled him back.
“He’s mine,” Ryder hissed, his voice so low, he could barely hear it.
But instead of turning on Aston, Ryder vaulted toward the stage. Without even thinking, he jumped onto the polished wood paneling and grabbed the girl playing his Kathryn from the man’s lap. Pink skirts flew about as he yanked her free. Her muddy brown eyes flared beneath her mask. Regardless of her screams, he tossed her onto his shoulder.
The man in black scrambled from the couch and ran for the edge of the stage.
Ryder carried the girl off the platform. Every step sent his blood firing faster through his veins. Shrieking and flailing her arms, Ryder plopped her down unceremoniously onto a damned tasseled cushion.
Firmly, he grasped her shoulders. “Your acting is sadly deficient. I suggest a new trade.”
She nodded wildly.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and without looking Ryder whipped around and punched.
Aston blocked the blow with his forearm, and the ass was smiling—smiling!
“Pistols!” Ryder challenged. “At dawn.”
Still smiling, Aston shook his head. “Sorry lad, we fight now or never.”
The man was bloody daft. And Ryder was going to put him out of his misery. “With pleasure.” He darted in, driving his fist into Aston’s gut.
Shaking his head, Aston staggered back. “Good punch. Harder next time.” He whipped his coat off and threw it out to the crowd who let up a merry cheer.
Ryder’s gaze followed the flickering red for a moment, and he realized he and Aston were still on stage with the entire group of guests watching as if they were a Punch and Judy Show.
At that exact moment, Aston jabbed him in the nose. The world exploded in sparks and Ryder twisted back to the duke. Hollers and shouts went up from the harem girls and the lords on the cushions below.
“Good show! Best I’ve seen!” some idiot shouted which was followed by a host of giggles.
Ryder tried to ignore it but it was the most grating sound. Aston darted right, pulled his fist back, the tendons on his arm cording. He slammed a punch into Ryder’s abdomen.
Furious he’d let him get in two hits, Ryder blew out a harsh breath. He balanced on the balls of his toes, focused on Aston’s ugly face then jabbed.
The duke’s head jerked back but he came back up, that damn smile still on his face, only this time blood streamed down his chin. “That’s it, Darkwell!” he yelled. “Give me all you’ve got.”
Ryder shook his head at the man’s lunacy, but kept up the attack. Circling right, countering the duke’s movements, he looked for his next in. He was not going to let him go--mad or not. After all, the man besmirched Kathryn and no man was going to walk straight come the next morning after slandering her.
Hunt somehow got up to the edge of the stage. Standing beside it, his black hair glistening like obsidian in the candlelight, he pounded his hands against the platform. “Take him down, Darkwell! Take the pirate bugger down!”
He and Aston kept beating on each other, exchanging punch after punch until they were slinging badly aimed hooks and jabs. With growing frustration, Ryder realized they were evenly matched, and after several minutes both of them were staggering around the stage, swinging at the air and bleeding like bizarre fountains.
Not to mention they were both breathing like overworked bulls.
Everyone in the crowd jumped to their feet, leaning forward to see who would be last. Over the blur and ringing in his ears, Ryder could have sworn he heard someone making bets.
“Drive the poxy bastard into the carpet!” Hunt shouted again.
“W-What carpet!?” Ryder stammered, his legs heavy and his mouth dry as cotton.
Luckily, Aston swayed on his feet. Blood spattered his white shirt, and the grin had gone from his face. If fact, he was blinking furiously, his right eye swelling up like a plum.
Ryder drew up his fists and tried not to let his legs buckle. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made such meat of him, but he was going to take the bastard down.
For Kathryn.
Narrowing his eyes against the swaying room, Ryder darted forward and cracked his fist into Aston’s cheek. . . Just as Aston brought his fist up in an upper cut to Ryder’s chin.
His face throbbed like an exploded grape, and Ryder felt the world spin as he tumbled. Bizarrely, Aston cushioned his fall.
“Not a tie!” Hunt groaned.
The crazed duke started laughing beneath him, occasionally sucking in whistling breaths. He slapped his hand against Ryder’s back. “I take it back. I take it back,” Aston gasped. “Mrs. Darrell. . . is a virtuous woman. . . and my entertainment was uncalled for.”
“Damn right,” Ryder slurred, unsure if all his teeth were still in his head.
Face down, Aston rested his hands on the scuffed wood floor. “Now, get off me. You’re as heavy as an ox.”
“Certainly.” Ryder blinked, fought a groan as pain stabbed his ribs, and shifted onto the floor, which seemed like an infinitely safe place right now. After all, one couldn’t fall when one was sitting on the floor.
Ryder looked about. The music started up again and the crowd returned to their various states of dissipation. Damnation, but the place looked like a painting straight out of Lucifer’s dreams. The lords and harem girls, drunk on the fun from the fight and copious bottles of wine and brandy, were all over each other, limbs writhing in one massive bed of cushions.
Aston rolled into a sitting position, eyeing his bloody shirt. “Good fight, Darkwell.”
Hunt jumped up on the stage and glowered down at the mad duke. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”
Aston wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. It was then Ryder realized his hand was covered in tattoos.
Leaning back on his palms, Aston blew out a satisfied sigh. “Nothing, just one can’t get a decent fight this side of Jamaica. Sorry I prodded you so vigorously, Darkwell. I heard you were a comer, and so I couldn’t help myself.”
Ryder narrowed his eyes. “You arranged the fight, you sick prick?”
Aston wiggled his brows and smiled. “Right on, me hearty.”
The duke struggled to his feat and staggered a bit. He gazed about at the glorious array of sin he too had arranged and let another one of his barrel laughs then winced and clutched his ribs. Panting he stood straight. “Beautiful sight this.”
“You’re crazed,” Hunt stated, keeping his distance from the mad duke.
“No doubt. But I’m happy.” Aston tucked in his shirt tails. And indeed, a blissful smile was pinned on his bloody lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a wench waiting for me.” He gave them a salute and started off. A few feet away he stopped. “Oh, and Darkwell, best of luck with your lass.”
Ryder’s fingers dug into the wood below, threatening to leave splinters under his nails. He scowled. “She’s not my lass.”
Aston nodded, a slow and exaggerated motion. “Of course she isn’t. But I do hope you’ll invite me to the wedding. Next best thing to a good fight is a wedding.” And with that he headed out of the room, his gate as shaky as a man tossed about on the high seas.
Ryder and Hunt watched the man go. And when he was g
one, Ryder shook his head. “What the hell was that?”
Hunt extended his hand and stared after the door Aston slipped through. “A sodding crack pot. We should definitely invite him to be part of the club.”
Groaning, Ryder took the offered arm and let Hunt pull him to his feet. “He is not going to be a member of the club, and he damn well isn’t coming to my wedding.”
Hunt stared blankly at him for a few seconds then said, “But you acknowledge you’re having one?”
Ryder opened his mouth to emphatically protest the ridiculousness of Aston’s words. But he couldn’t stop thinking how if he and Kathryn were married, he’d never have to see something like tonight’s debacle again. So, instead of answering the unpalatable question, he started for the doors, his step as drunk as Aston’s had been.
He gave the only reply he could think of. “Go to Hell, Hunt. Go to Hell.”
Chapter Seventeen
Kate fingered the infamous list.
It was no longer valuable as anything but a symbol of her own idiocy, and she wished to bloody high heaven that Imogen hadn’t had a jolly old time with Reginald in the closet. At least then, she wouldn’t have a list detailing exactly where the duke could be at any given moment.
For instance, at this very moment, he was likely at his lawyer’s for his weekly meeting regarding his estates.
In an hour’s time, he would go for a ride in Hyde Park. And pathetic though it was, she carried the dratted note about with her as if that somehow made the duke closer.
It was horribly pathetic.
She’d even almost wrote him a letter. . . Five letters, if she was honest, but she’d burned the evidence before Imogen could harangue her for hours on end. In fact, her friend had been annoying beyond all possible reason, walking about with a knowing expression upon her mischievous features.
Kate marched into the breakfast room, tucked the list back into her bodice and picked up a plate. She faced the laden sideboard and took eggs, sausages, a kipper, muffins and bacon. As an afterthought she went back for another sausage. Despite what Imogen said, she wasn’t upset.
Not in the least.
She was a mature woman perfectly capable of handling herself in such a situation.
She sat and poured herself a cup of tea then ladled in four heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dose of cream. Really, she was perfectly fine. She forked a sausage, skewering it with undue relish. She didn’t need a man. She glanced at the sausage and glowered at it.
Indeed, she didn’t.
A man was the last thing she needed. Darkwell had no effect on her. She had already forgotten him. Forgotten the way his dark eyes heated like coals as he looked at her. She’d forgotten his hands upon her body, and she’d certainly forgotten the way he felt as he thrust his cock inside her body.
No, he held no sway over her.
Kate looked down at her plate erupting with food and sighed. She was such a horrid liar. Suddenly, the food before her looked appalling. If she admitted it to herself, she knew exactly what she was doing. She only ever ate like a starving horse when she was upset. One could hardly call five sausages, a serving of eggs the size of a croquet ball and enough bacon to feed a small military force the actions of a perfectly rational person.
She took a sip of tea and grimaced. Sugar raced straight through her body and caused her teeth to grind together. She clunked the teacup back into its saucer and sighed. What was she doing?
She’d reverted back to being a coward, that’s what. When shearrived in London, she’d been determined to be bold, and now she was tucked away in her London townhouse, her mind going over every moment she’d spent with Ryder.
Again. . . and again.
She pushed back from the table and flung her napkin down on the offending plate of food. Lord, she wanted to see him again so badly it hurt. Nibbling on her lower lip, she pulled the list back out and fingered it. He had no idea she had it. So, if she happened to come across him in Hyde Park there’d be no way he’d know that it was anything but a coincidence.
Kate stood hesitating. If she did see him, what would she do?
She’d be calm, collected, and the experienced lady of society she’d always wanted to be.
It only took her a few minutes to put on a suitable gown for a drive through the park and though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she went in search of Imogen who just smiled and picked up a shawl.
It wasn’t fair that a lady couldn’t go out by herself. But Kate was still holding to the merest thread of propriety.
They hurried out into glorious summer air, and Gregory held the carriage door open. Much to Kate’s relief, the top was already down, so she wouldn’t be completely obvious as she gadded about, looking for Ryder.
They headed across the lane and into the park. Imogen sat in silence for several seconds before she finally said, “Very fine weather, isn’t it?”
The sun was out and the trees throughout the park were extremely green under the bright blue sky. However, Kate knew Imogen too well to be seduced by such banal speech. “You shan’t succeed.”
Imogen batted her lashes. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You couldn’t give two figs for the weather. If you’ve something to say, out with it.”
Imogen lifted her hand to her pale bosom edged with robin’s egg lace. “My, my, aren’t we in a lovely mood? I suppose you need a dose of your duke to make you sparkle again.”
“He is hardly my duke.” Just the opposite in fact. Which, of course, was how she wanted it. She never wanted to feel the way she had when Percy made it clear he had not loved her. His duplicity had only confirmed in her father’s eyes she was a fool.
She had been a fool to give her love to Percy. To give it to any man. In fact, she would never say she loved a man again. Of that, she was certain.
But seemingly that didn’t stop her to risk being a fool again to catch a glimpse of Ryder.
As they trotted down the lane running along the Serpentine, a few carriages rolled by. Whether green or black or blue, they sparkled with a fresh wash. Several had their tops down in the fine weather, exposing their owners. Ladies sat in striped red and cream silk, butter-yellow and lace, embroidered eggshell morning attire, all with hats decked with ribbons and plumes. And with each one that went by, Kate’s heart sank a little.
Lady after lady, from young to old, stared at her as if she were a moving rubbish heap. A particularly smelly rubbish heap. With fish in it. The gentlemen on their fine hunters openly leered at her or looked at her as if she was a set of goods to be bought in a secondhand store.
She was uncertain as to which was more disconcerting. Kate swallowed. She’d known she’d be stared at but she hadn’t realized quite how intently. Nor had she realized how intensely the lords and ladies of the ton would make their displeasure at her presence known.
It was the park, for goodness sake. It wasn’t as if she’d insisted on attending a tea party.
Apparently, more fool her for her optimism.
As they sped along, it became infinitely clear. She was good and truly ruined. Something she had known, but had not truly accepted the full effect of until this moment.
Good God, she was going to have go to Spain, or develop a liking for strudel.
Imogen glanced at a passing carriage of old dragons, their quizzing glasses fixed on Kate, and their mouths pursed in identical frowns of horror. “My, there is quite a chill in the air.”
“Yes.” Kate folded her arms about her middle as though that might stave off the dagger stares.
“Perseverance, dearest Kathryn,” Imogen said cheerfully, though her eyes held a significant amount of doubt. “You must brave it.”
Kate tried to laugh, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Harlot!” someone shouted and Kate turned about trying to see who it was. Whoever it was had already turned, but a young boy on his pony, his face freckled and pudgy from too many sweets, sniggered.
Imogen’s usually merry
expression dimmed. “Ignore it, Kate.”
“Perhaps we should turn back,” she whispered.
Heavens, was this how it was going to be? Could she not even go for a drive? And with a sickening feeling she realized that yes, yes it was going to be this bad. Everyone tried to tell her, but she’d refused to accept the truth.
She was only fit for the likes of the demimondaine now.
A coach pulled up beside them, keeping pace. Its beautifully lacquered black siding reflected the trees, and it too had the top down. The large Carmine crest rested like a miniature shield on the door, the black cross over a white background ominous.
The Countess of Carmine sat, imperiously, a queen of the row. Her black hair was curled upon her head and a magnificent purple hat, bedecked with pale pink flowers and a veil perched atop her perfectly arranged coif. Her purple gown stood out as if she was royalty and her lips, rouged to a rose red, were set in a cruel smile of anticipation.
“Stop your coach,” she called, her voice hard with authority.
Imogen nodded to the coachman. It wasn’t as if they could give chase in Hyde Park. The gossip would be far worse.
Besides, she refused to run away and would not be run off by this woman.
Their carriages slowed. Resting one gloved hand on her carriage door, the countess leaned forward. Other riders, spotting her and the countess, began to gather round, the scent of gossip in the air.
The countess tilted her head and eyed Kate as if she were rotting meat. “Mrs. Darrell, I should give the cut direct but find I must address. . .” Her gaze traveled up and down her coldly. “Your person.”
Imogen started to speak, but Kate put her hand out. She didn’t wish her friend to be implicated in this any more than she had to be. “Pardon me, my lady, but do I have business with you?”
That caught the countess so off guard she stared for a moment, disbelieving that Kate wasn’t cowering under her disapproval. Gathering her momentary shock, she narrowed her eyes. “I do have business with you. I have a duty to instruct you on proper behavior since you seem completely ignorant of it.”
