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“I see.” A little bit of her tension eased, as a man dressed in unrelenting black stood by a large oak door. He bowed slightly, then pushed open the massive door, and they stepped into another opulently fashioned room with soft dark green carpets cushioning their steps. The lights in this room were dimmer, the tables less raucous, and only a handful of ladies sat amongst the lords. And an expectant hush blanketed the room.
Smoke curled around the room, and footmen darted adroitly between the tables delivering drinks. James led her to a corner table which seemed more hidden amongst the shadows than most. Verity pulled out a chair and lowered herself, quite aware of James’s presence as he sat in the chair next to her and stretched his long legs casually before him. It was as if everyone had waited for their presence, for a large roped area in the center of the prodigious room soon became the center of everyone’s attention.
Two men approached the ropes, dipped under, and made way to the center of the ring. Her face heated to see the indecent manner in which they were dressed. Both men were stripped to the waist, their chests, and torsos on alarming display. A few of the women outrageously whistled. Every inch of her body felt on fire with embarrassment.
“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?”
