by Darcy Burke
He was holding his own now, not fighting offensively at all, but no longer stumbling. Locke was a massive brute who used his weight to try and corner Ackley. But the younger man’s spry frame worked to his advantage as he danced around his bulkier opponent. Suddenly he sent a quick jab to Locke’s chin. His head snapped back and Ackley drove two more punches into Locke’s middle. Locke then leaned forward a bit, which opened him up to receive several more blows to his face. He tried to react defensively, but Ackley was too fast—and Locke too slow.
Ambrose realized his fists were clenched, and he was subtly moving his arms in silent encouragement of Ackley. With a half smile, he crossed his arms over his chest.
When Locke finally got his head up his eyes were unfocused. He shook his head, but Ackley was merciless. He drove his fist up into the bottom of Locke’s chin and then pummeled his ribs. Locke grunted and tried to push Ackley away. Ackley danced to the side and landed another punishing blow to Locke’s face, this time catching him square in the eye. Locke went down on one knee. Ackley threw his fist into Locke’s nose and Ambrose heard the crack. Blood gushed, and Locke went down all the way.
Ackley, breathing heavily, watched his opponent, but gave him space. The referee started the count to thirty. Locke wasn’t unconscious, but blood ran so freely from his nose that Ambrose doubted he could continue the fight if he wanted to.
The count finished, and Ackley was declared the winner. He nodded to the spectators, but Ambrose didn’t see satisfaction in his gaze. He saw hunger. God, how he remembered feeling that way.
When he’d first come to London after Nigel’s death, he’d done his best to immerse himself in the worst the city could offer. He’d drunk and gambled excessively, but the hollow ache in his chest never dissipated. He’d considered tumbling a woman, but the thought of touching one after what he’d done… he couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to do it.
Then he’d gone to see a fight, and a new lust had been born. He’d seen fights before—in Cornwall—but he’d never wanted to be in one. He’d been so enraptured by what he’d witnessed, he’d promptly started a fight outside the pub. That was the first time his nose had been broken. Still, he’d felt alive in a way he hadn’t in months. He’d glimpsed a future that contained more than despair and unworthiness. Oh, he’d still despised himself for what he’d done—still did now—but he could focus on something besides regret.
Ackley possessed that same desperate, searching look. Add that to his natural talent and clear commitment to winning, he might make a hell of a professional fighter. And Ambrose needed a professional fighter.
He was considering how and when to approach the young man when Lockwood nudged his arm. “Good fight.”
“You lost.”
Lockwood shrugged. “A few pounds, but I was entertained. Ackley’s good. I won’t make the mistake of betting against him again.” He directed his attention to Ambrose, his gaze assessing. “Speaking of wagers, you created quite a stir with your masked ingénue at my party the other night.”
“So it would seem.” He struggled to appear uninterested when he really wanted to demand why Lockwood was mentioning it.
“I heard about your dancing with Lady Philippa—”
Ambrose turned toward him, perhaps too abruptly. “How do you know about that?”
“The paper this morning. You’re quite the interesting topic this week. You had to know dancing with her—with any young deb—would draw notice and speculation. She bears a resemblance to the woman—”
“Don’t.” Heat spiked up Ambrose’s spine, making him anxious and unsettled.
Lockwood held up a hand. “I only mean to warn you that if I might be wondering, others may be too.”
He knew he shouldn’t have danced with her. And if he were smart he’d go to the nearest ball—except his invitations were sparse—and dance with a handful of other debs just to distract the masses.
Ambrose narrowed his eyes and gave a slight nod. “Point taken.” He pivoted away just as Jagger entered the Bucket of Blood, flanked by two impossibly large men.
Lockwood exhaled what sounded like a curse. Ambrose turned his head. Sure enough Lockwood’s already fearsome visage had darkened.
Ambrose leaned toward him. “Do you know him?”
“Barely,” he said through gritted teeth.
Intriguing. “How do you know a criminal like him?”
Lockwood’s tension was palpable. “I like boxing. Apparently he does too. I see him around. More and more it seems.” The animosity in his tone was unmistakable.
“You know anything about him?”
Lockwood tore his gaze away from Jagger and planted it on Ambrose. “Why?”
Ambrose weighed whether or not to tell him the truth, but reasoned there was no point hiding it. Very soon everyone would know. “I’m fighting for him next week.”
His dark grey eyes reflected surprise. “A prizefight? I thought you quit years ago.”
Ambrose had shared all he meant to. He only shrugged and gave an enigmatic smile. “What can I say? I love a good fight.”
Lockwood’s gaze was intense, serious. “Be careful with him. He’s not to be trusted.” And then he cut into the throng and disappeared.
Ambrose turned his attention to Jagger who was now moving directly toward him.
“Sevrin, good to see you here.” Jagger turned to address a younger man trailing him. “Put those up on the walls.”
Ambrose watched the lackey post an advertisement for the prizefight: the Vicious Viscount vs. the Irishman. He considered saying something to Jagger about Ackley’s potential, but decided to wait until after he’d spoken to the young man.
“You here scouting?” Jagger asked.
“A bit.”
“Shouldn’t you be practicing? I expect you to win. I should hate to think of what might happen to your lady if you don’t.”
Ambrose wanted to practice right that moment. By driving his fist into Jagger’s face. A thousand times. “You’ve made yourself clear. I’ll win.”
“Excellent. I’d hate for her escapades with you to become public after the lengths you’ve gone to protect her.”
Was he behind the wager? Ambrose had his hands curled around Jagger’s throat before he could censor himself. The two burly henchmen pulled him away leaving both his hands and his need for satisfaction quite empty.
Jagger pulled at his cravat, his eyes flashing. “Don’t hit him. I need my champion in perfect condition.” He narrowed his gaze. “Besides, I know how to hurt him in other ways.”
The implication was clear. Ambrose fought to keep his hands at his sides as the men let him go. “I’ll win your goddamned fight and you’ll leave my lady alone.”
“After you get me a fighter. Until then, your lady’s a nice piece of insurance.”
Ambrose glared at him a moment before quitting the Bucket of Blood. Jagger’s laughter echoed in his head as he made his way outside into the damp night. He’d taken a hack earlier, but now he walked, letting the darkness close in around him. He’d walked a lot those first long months in London, when his pain and regret had been too much to bear. Now the familiar sensation of moving but going nowhere was back, and he cursed Jagger anew for foisting this fight upon him.
But no, it wasn’t Jagger and it wasn’t the fight. It was Philippa and his desire for her. He couldn’t have a woman, and especially not her.
Much later, he approached the small Black Horse Court off the Haymarket. He stopped short as a liveried footman greeted him in the street. He recognized that livery…
“My lord, Lady Philippa desires a conversation with you.” He gestured to the vehicle parked on the corner. “In that hack. Will you come with me, please?”
The door to Philippa’s hired hack opened, and Sevrin climbed inside.
The lantern highlighted his drawn brows, his dark eyes, and the furious set of his lips. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
She’d expected him to be surprised, but
not angry. “I need your help.”
His eyes widened, and he leaned forward from the opposite seat. “Are you all right?”
His concern warmed her. She’d made the right decision in seeking his help. Without it, she could very well find herself in a loathsome marriage. She may still, but reasoned her chances were far better with an ally like Sevrin weeding the field of suitors. And it had to be him. He was the only man from whom she could expect total honesty. The only man she trusted. Which was why she’d risked coming here. “I’m fine. I’ve come to ask for your assistance with finding a husband.”
He blinked at her. Slowly, he settled back against the squab. “You took a chance coming here. I thought we were trying to preserve your reputation.”
“Which is why I’m in a hired hack. And it’s not as if anyone in polite society knows where you live. Except Saxton.”
“I presume he gave you my direction?” At her nod, he continued. “I’ll give him hell for that.”
“If you must. Now, if you’d let me present my request, we could go our separate ways. May I speak?”
Wordlessly, he gestured for her to go on. Then he folded his arms across his chest, pulling the wool of his coat tight across his broad, muscular shoulders. Lamplight slashed across his imperfectly handsome nose and his sensuous lips.
Heat stole up the back of her neck. “I need to find a husband right away.”
His eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Philippa, I can’t marry you.”
His quick refusal stung, which was ludicrous since she wasn’t even proposing that. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I need your help to find a husband.”
His jaw didn’t drop per se, but it visibly drooped as if he only just kept himself from gaping. “I’m not a matchmaker, I’m a scoundrel.”
Her body shivered at the word scoundrel. Despite his all-around unsuitability—she was still hopelessly attracted to him. Sitting with him here in the dim hack reminded her of their first night together, snuggling close to his warm body on the ride home. She shouldn’t think of such things. He was an inappropriate match even if he were interested in marriage. Which he wasn’t.
She straightened her spine and did her best to ignore how much she liked being with him. “You don’t have to find potential candidates. I have a list. I want you to discover their true natures—the things they don’t show the woman they’re courting.”
He settled back against the squab. “I doubt I would know anyone on this list of yours.”
“Perhaps, but I’m confident you can still glean the information I need.” She arched a brow at him. “As you so kindly reminded me, you’re a scoundrel. I’m sure you’ll be able to identify any kindred spirits on the list.”
“What a cunning female you are.” He grinned, and she felt like they were back at Lockwood House enjoying each other’s company despite the disasters they’d encountered at every turn. They’d performed like a team. She’d never realized how good it felt to have someone with her. Someone watching out for her and keeping her safe. Not just that—someone sharing experiences.
He stretched his arms out along the top of the back of the cushion, putting his stamp on the meager space in the coach. “Now, tell me why you’re in such a hurry all of a sudden.”
“My mother is moving to a new townhouse. She’s leaving Herrick House in less than thirty days.”
“Pardon my shortsightedness, but why does that matter?”
How could he miss the obvious? “Because she’ll be living separately from her husband and conducting a liaison with another man. Just as my father has a very public mistress. Perhaps you saw them at Lady Dunwoody’s ball?”
He nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I did. I’m sorry.”
And now she felt shrewish for thinking he didn’t understand. She took a deep breath and explained the situation with her parents. She couldn’t expect him to react the way she would or the way her friends would. He was a man—a scandalous man—who said he didn’t want to be friends. Regardless, he was listening to her and now displaying—yet again—consideration. Which was precisely why she knew she could trust him to help her, regardless of whatever he said or whatever he’d done in the past.
“So you want to rush into a marriage? That doesn’t sound particularly sensible, and you seem like a sensible girl—” he arched a brow, “—your presence here notwithstanding.”
“I am a sensible girl, which is why I’ve weighed my options and determined this to be the best course of action. I’ve also approached the process of finding a husband with logic and care. Will you help me or not?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer. She’d decided to put her faith, her trust in him. Would he trample it as her parents had, or would he support her?
He fell silent a moment, turning his head to gaze out the window. She watched his hands, which were splayed atop the upper edge of the back of the squab. His position was so very relaxed, yet commanding in the way he took up the entire seat. Again, she recalled nestling against his chest, within the crook of his arm and wished she could move to sit beside him. To draw from his strength and his protection.
He looked at her again and her face heated. Could he read her thoughts? But he only asked, “Who are these men, and what am I supposed to learn about them? Wait, I think I know. You want a lapdog, if memory serves.” His tone was light.
He was going to agree. She released the tension from her shoulders and rolled them back against the squab. “That was your assessment. I’d like a husband I can respect and admire, and who will be faithful.”
“Unlike your father.”
Very astute. “Yes.”
He unfolded his arms and rested them on his knees. His gaze was direct, piercing even. “And what of love? Don’t you want to love your husband?”
The air in the coach seemed to heat, the space between them to decrease. Hearing him talk of love only heightened her arousal. Had he loved someone? What role had love played—if any—in his past, with the girl he’d refused to marry? And why did he care if she loved? “I had hoped to, but that is not a requirement. In fact, it might be best if that emotion weren’t involved at all.”
“I have trouble imagining that for you,” he said softly, his voice a dark caress.
Heat coiled in her belly. He was so perceptive. “I would also prefer a husband I’m attracted to. Someone with whom I might share…” She glanced away lest he see the obvious truth in her eyes—that she was recalling his kisses. “Passion.”
Sevrin shifted in his seat, drawing his coat tighter around his middle. “I see. And how do you plan to discover the depth of a man’s passion?” He sounded strained and he’d leaned forward just the smallest bit.
“I will kiss them, and if they kiss like you—”
“Philippa, don’t.” His tone was dark, dangerous, his eyes hooded. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
Her blood warmed and her skin tingled. The air in the coach crackled with something almost tangible. “I know it’s not terribly appropriate, but you must agree our relationship is anything but appropriate.”
“We don’t have a relationship. I’ve told you—we can’t be friends.”
He could resist all he liked, but they already were. And why was he resisting? Did he prefer emotionless acquaintances? She was beginning to think he needed her and the connection they’d forged at Lockwood House. “Does this mean you won’t help me?”
He scowled at her. “You can’t go around kissing all of the men on this list.”
“I won’t. I’ll narrow it down to two or three and start by kissing one of them.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can see I’m already a bad influence on you.”
“Not at all. You weren’t the first man I kissed.”
He dropped his hand and stared at her.
She hastened to assure him. “You shan’t corrupt me. Unless I’m unable to find someone who is up to your standards. In that case, I may have to curse you.” She smiled at him, but he
only continued to stare, his eyes dark and impenetrable, his frame still as the surface of a frozen pond.
While she waited for him to say something, she realized his gaze was focused on her mouth. The warmth in her veins stoked into something brighter, hotter.
“Give me your list,” he said.
She fumbled through her reticule and withdrew the list of names and handed it to him. He was careful to keep his fingers from touching her as he took the paper. She exhaled in disappointment.
He studied the parchment beneath the glow of the lantern. “I don’t know any of these men personally.”
She had wondered if he would. The only man of stature she’d ever seen him with was Saxton. She supposed she should also count Lockwood, but his title was as useful to his reputation as Sevrin’s was to his. “I think you might be able to find information about the men on my list at White’s. You do go to White’s, don’t you?”
“Occasionally.” He still hadn’t looked up from the list. “D’Echely’s French, surely you can do better than that.” He shook his head and lifted his gaze to hers. “Finchley, isn’t he a young dandy?” She nodded. “Vick and Allred. Isn’t Vick a bit old for you?”
“You can see my options are few. I ruled several gentlemen out during my previous Seasons. However, if you find anyone you think may suit, do tell me.”
His lids drooped, making him look unbearably seductive. “I told you I’m not a matchmaker.”
Her pulse quickened. “You don’t want me to marry someone awful, do you?” She sounded breathless. Which made sense since she felt as if she couldn’t quite fill her lungs.
Their gazes locked. “I’m not sure I want you to marry at all,” he said softly.
Her breath caught and held in her constricted chest.
