It was Jemima’s turn to frown.
“Where could you possibly need to go?” she asked.
“Out,” he replied and walked out of the room, leaving the rest of them staring after him.
Rebecca’s mind began to race. Where would a man secretly need to go at such a time? There was really only one likely scenario. She hardly wanted to think about it, and yet the thought couldn’t help but rush into her mind. Was he going to meet a woman? They weren’t far from Hungerford… it was likely they had a tavern. Or even a brothel. Her stomach twisted and for a moment she thought she might lose her recently eaten meal all over the table.
“Are you all right?” Jemima asked, cutting through her thoughts, and Rebecca quickly swallowed down the bile that rose in the back of her throat.
“I am, yes, of course,” she said, forcing a smile, telling herself that this was for the best, to put some distance between them. So Valentine desired the company of other women. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.
But it did.
“Actually, I think perhaps something didn’t agree with me,” she said, rising herself, Jemima following suit with a worried look.
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry—”
“Nothing at all to be sorry for,” Rebecca assured her. “Just my fickle stomach is all. I think I might go lie down for a moment.”
“I hope you are well soon,” Jemima said worriedly, and Rebecca nodded, slightly guilty about the fact she was lying to her new friend.
“Thank you,” she said and slipped from the room.
She did feel sick. But she wasn’t going to bed.
She knew she was being ridiculous, that she had no right to be jealous or have any concerns about the duke’s actions, but she couldn’t help herself.
Tomorrow, Rebecca was going after the duke.
13
Valentine swirled his cloak around his body as he stepped out into the slightly chilled air, the foggy mist quickly enveloping him. He hoped it would clear soon for visibility’s sake.
The town of Hungerford was not far — close enough that he needn’t ride. Besides that, a brisk walk would likely do him good and clear his head of all thoughts of a certain dark-haired woman with the sultry red lips of a siren and feline eyes.
Archie seemed to sense his mood and said nothing, simply walking beside him as the supportive friend he had been since he and Val were five years old.
Valentine had never considered himself a refined sort of man, nor one with any particular charms. He certainly never had an issue in attracting a woman, but he was fortunate that he drew them to him with his physical attributes rather than his guile.
Rebecca, however, seemed to see beyond his façade and into the man he truly was — a thought that frightened him more than anything. No one saw him for who he was, except Archie and perhaps Jemima. But even she had always seen him just as Valentine, her brother, the one who would protect her, would provide for her, and be there when she needed him.
Rebecca was different. Not just from all of the people who were close to him, but from any woman he had met. She asked questions that cut deeply to the heart of the matter, was perceptive and observant. When she looked at him, it was as though she could see beyond what he presented to the world and through to his deepest thoughts. It was unnerving.
It also made him want to strip her bare and have her be the vulnerable one.
At any rate… today he had to forget all of that. Forget about her. And focus on his plan. Step one to save himself from debt — make himself easy money.
“Do you think anyone will be here from the ton and recognize you as the Duke of Wyndham?” Archie asked, finally breaking the silence.
“No,” Val shook his head. “Those who know me from Hungerford will see me as a different man from any who might be here from London. You have everything we need?”
“Of course,” Archie said, eyeing him with a look of contempt that Val would think to question him.
“Just making sure.”
“You don’t want to return to London to do this?”
“I'm more likely to be recognized in London. They consider me as one of the Fancy there, and the other nobles have seen me box. Besides that, you know as well as I do that the greatest matches aren’t held there. You know the nobles — they love the idea, but as soon as they might get their hands dirty or a bit of true danger shows it’s ugly face, they disdain it.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Archie said with a shrug.
“And after my last fight in London…”
“I understand,” Archie said, and Valentine was as grateful as always to have a man with him who he didn't need to explain himself to. “What do you think of Brown? Will you be ready for him? You’ve been training with fine gentlemen, a far cry from those who fight knowing that all is on the line.”
“I’m ready for whatever — or whoever — comes at me,” Valentine said confidently. He might not believe he was the right man to become Duke of Wyndham, but here, he had no qualms.
“This will be something of a trial run,” Archie continued. “If you win this, well then, there could be bigger fights — bigger purses. But your name would become better known. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of any duke fighting beyond Jackson’s.”
“I don’t need a bigger fight,” Valentine said quietly. “Just this one. This purse — for now.”
“Ah, right, and then you’re going to marry your fancy lady and run your estates,” Archie said.
“Is that a bit of sarcasm I sense in your tone?”
Archie just smiled as they continued.
“A good bit of luck, that Stonehall is so close to Hungerford,” Archie said with a half-grin.
“I always knew we were family of the duke’s… I just didn’t know how close.”
“You know, it won’t go over well, a duke walking away with the prize money,” Archie said, shaking his head.
“It’s a nothing match,” Valentine countered. “It will hardly attract any attention.”
But just then they came atop the crest of a hill, and below them, they could see horses and carriages lining the field.
“My God,” Valentine said, his mouth hanging open. “What are all of these people doing here?”
They pushed through the crowd to the center of the field, where a man greeted them without a note of recognition, as Valentine pulled his hat low over his eyes. Archie introduced him as Val Vincent, which was the name he had fought under previously in an attempt to distance himself from his family, who were not exactly approving — and they had turned out to be right.
“Bucky Brown here?”
The man nodded.
“Best to keep the two of you separate until you’re ready. Come, I’ll find space for you to prepare yourself.”
Val nodded, and the two of them followed.
His heart was already beginning to pound rapidly, his adrenaline rushing through his veins. This was what he lived for. This was who he was. He had tried to give it up, especially when it had nearly cost him everything, but he was as addicted to this as many men were to drink.
He could hardly wait to get into the ring.
* * *
What in the… Rebecca could hardly believe what she was seeing, as she followed Valentine and his valet. People milled about, seemingly from every walk of life. There were some dressed much finer than she, others dressed in what were clearly working clothes. Music filled the air, though from where Rebecca had no idea. There must be musicians hidden somewhere in the crowd. Open carriages lined what appeared to be a common green, while country people poured in from every direction.
What was Valentine doing here?
Everyone seemed to be clustered around the one main area, and Rebecca inched ever closer, twisting herself this way and that to try to get through the crowd of people to see what was happening. The grass was wet under her boots, the ground miry from the multitudes of feet that had recently tread upon it.
As she attempte
d to keep herself from being pushed over, Rebecca looked around her with rapt attention, unable to tear her eyes away. In the midst of the melee was untrampled grass, near glistening in the noonday sun. A man drew a long stick through the dirt in the middle of the ropes that hung from the stakes that had been embedded into the ground.
She said a prayer that this wasn’t some kind of animal fight. She couldn’t bear to watch such a thing, and she hoped that wasn’t what Valentine was here for. Then a man stood on a box and started shouting rules to the crowd, of what they could and couldn’t do. He pointed out a bag of money hanging from the stake farthest away from Rebecca. Then he called out the names, “Bucky Brown and Val Vincent!”
Val Vincent. Rebecca’s jaw dropped open and just then a man entered from the opposite side, flanked by two men. This must be Bucky Brown.
Then, from the nearer side, entered Valentine with his valet and another man. Valentine’s beautiful body was bare from the waist up, for he was dressed only in his breeches, his back glistening in the bright sun which had burned away the earlier fog. She didn’t even have time to admire him as she was both captivated and horrified by all that was happening and what she realized was about to come.
Valentine and his opponent — Brown, Rebecca reminded herself — each stood on one side of the line, toe-to-toe as they stared one another down before quickly shaking hands.
Despite the rapid beat of her heart that seemed to be hitting the very wall of her chest, Rebecca couldn't help but note that the two of them looked like a pair of Greek statues, so chiseled, so poised as they stood just as still. Finally, they broke away, backing up ever so slightly as they each raised their bare fists in front of them.
“Fight!” the man yelled.
The two pugilists circled each other before each feinted a couple of punches, the other ducking or dashing out of the way. Then Brown’s fist hit Val’s chest, and Rebecca cringed with the impact. They continued to exchange blows on the soft, fleshy parts of themselves before Brown hit Valentine’s jaw with a resounding crack and then connected with his cheekbone. Blood began pouring down Val’s face and into his eye.
Rebecca heard a scream and didn’t realize until moments later that it was her own. Then Valentine, fortunately, lifted his hands in front of him, creating a guard that prevented Brown from coming close again.
They went back and forth, neither striking any great blows until Brown aimed a shot that almost hit Val’s neck; but instead, Val quickly blocked it and then struck a fist into Brown’s cheekbone, drawing a rush of blood. Brown staggered for a moment before collapsing to the ground, and Rebecca held her breath, but he was soon helped back up before the two of them returned to opposite corners of the ring.
Rebecca needed the time to compose herself as much as the fighters did. She had never seen such violence up close. While she knew she had been rather shielded, she could hardly believe that Valentine actually enjoyed such a sport.
The next two rounds were fairly uneventful, though Brown did not look quite as strong as he once had — Val’s last punch had proven to knock some of the bluster from him.
After a couple of rounds, however, Brown regained some of his enthusiasm, and the men began to trade full, powerful blows. The more their faces bled and their knuckles cracked, the sicker Rebecca became. Until suddenly, despite the fact one of his eyes was only half open, Val’s gaze seemed to catch hers. Rebecca could only stare as he looked at her in astonishment, and then suddenly their connection broke with a crack — Brown’s fist connected so solidly with Valentine’s nose that he went down like a sack of potatoes.
Tears began to fill Rebecca’s eyes as she sank back into the crowd of people, who were happy to push around her so they would have a better view themselves. She heard another crack but didn’t see what had happened, for she had averted her eyes, unable to watch anymore. She knew she was being ridiculous, but the thought that Val — beautiful, passionate Val — was subjecting himself to such a terrible sport for the entertainment of the blood-hungry crowd and a few coins nearly tore her apart.
Until finally she was out of the crowd and into the open air, where she took deep breaths to calm herself.
So this was what he had to do. She wondered if she would prefer his visit to Hungerford was for the purpose of finding a woman. Would that have been better? For then at least he would be doing something beautiful, even if it were not with her.
This did explain so much. Why his father had been disappointed in him, why he so hated his new role of duke. If this was what fueled him, then his new life would have no room for it, would not coincide. For as much as the nobility, particularly the Fancy, treated men such as fighters as though they were to be celebrated, prizefighters themselves were not of the noble class. It just wasn’t done.
Rebecca couldn’t stay and watch. Yet she couldn’t leave either. Not until she knew what had happened, how Val was. So she crouched on her heels in a miserable ball at the outskirts of the crowd for what felt like hours.
Until finally the people seemed to turn as one and she had to scurry out of the way to avoid being trampled. She waited, not altogether patiently, for Val to appear, but he didn’t come. Once she was sure the middle field had to be empty, that most had departed, she hesitantly walked toward it.
And brought her hand to her throat at the sight before her.
14
Val had no idea how he had gotten home. The last thing he had remembered was seeing Rebecca’s face in the crowd. Then Brown’s fist had intervened and everything had gone black. How many rounds had he gone?
He tried to pry open an eye, but only a crack of light filtered in for a moment. Then something very wet and cold was dropped upon it and he could no longer see at all.
“Archie, take the bloody cloth off my eye,” he ordered, though what he had meant to come out in a commanding tone sounded more like a weak groan.
“Archie is not here at the moment,” came a silky, feminine voice.
“Rebecca?” He really wished she wasn’t here right now — this was not exactly how he would wish a woman to see him.
“You are covered in blood, gashes, and bruises,” she said, though her tone was far from sympathetic but rather accusatory. “What were you thinking?”
“Just another day making a living,” he mumbled as he sat up. He refused to lie there like an invalid.
He reached up, pulling the cold cloth off his eye, and he was able to open it slightly wider. He looked around him, recognizing the gold motifs on the wall as those from his sitting room. Old family portraits of years past, featuring people who were so distant relatives they hardly mattered stared back at him as though they were judging him. He was reclined on the worn red chesterfield, while Rebecca sat on her knees on the floor next to him.
“I’m back at Stonehall?”
“You are,” she said, wringing out a piece of linen in a bowl of water — very red, bloody water. His blood, obviously. “Thanks to your valet. Or should I call him your second?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Yes, well, he had to walk all the way home to fetch a horse. Were you honestly so sure of yourself that you thought you would be able to walk home?”
Yes, he had been, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to tell her that at the moment.
“I suppose I lost, then?”
One corner of her lip twitched, and he sensed that she would have liked to have laughed at him, but was still angry. Though, he thought with a twinge of ire himself, what he chose to do with his time shouldn’t matter to her. He was a fighter — always had been — and if she didn’t like that, well, she should leave him be.
“Yes, you most certainly lost.”
“I never lose.”
“You did today.”
“It was your fault.”
“What?” her hazel-green eyes flew up to meet his. “How in the world could this possibly be my fault?”
“I saw you.”
“I wasn’t there.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t lie to me,” he said, and her eyes narrowed in response, though she said nothing. “You were there, in the crowd. I saw you and I was distracted. Brown would never have bested me otherwise.”
“You think highly of yourself.”
“I know that I am a skilled fighter. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
He was about to answer that yes, of course he enjoyed it. But then he paused for a moment. Did he enjoy it?
He enjoyed the thrill that rushed through him. He liked using his body, the physical exertion of it. He loved being good at something, knowing there was something he was proficient at, could excel at.
Except he hadn’t. Not tonight. And it crushed him.
“It’s part of me,” he answered her, lifting the cloth from her hand and wiping the scrape on his cheek, though he rubbed it too hard and winced at the sting of it.
“Don’t be so stubborn,” she said, taking the cloth back and wiping his brow once more. He had to admit that it was nice to be cared for, though he wasn’t about to tell her that.
“Why were you there?” he asked, propping himself up on an elbow to better see her, but she dipped her gaze sideways to the bowl on the long table in the middle of the room.
“I told you I wasn’t.”
“Rebecca.”
She sniffed, not entirely pleased about answering him.
“I was curious.”
“Of the match? How did you know about it?”
She was silent, and he could tell that she was holding something back from him, not interested in sharing.
Finally, she sighed and flung the linen down in exasperation as she looked up at him.
“I was following you, all right? I wanted to know what would be so pressing that you had to go into the village. I thought… I thought…”
“You thought what?” he asked, more gently now in the hopes that his tone would encourage her to speak.
Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 9
