As they neared the park gates, Rose caught sight of the duke, astride his enormous gray horse, waiting at the edge of the avenue. He saw her, tipped his hat, and in that moment, the look Lady Rutledge had given her lingered.
Rose knew the next move would not be hers.
She was not afraid. But she was no longer sure of her footing.
CHAPTER 10
“Your left is trailing, Carden!” The shout cracked through the clamor of White’s like a hunting whip.
Felix ducked, twisted, and let his opponent’s fist whistle past his ear before countering with a body blow that thudded satisfyingly against damp linen and muscle. Viscount Trentham, two stone heavier and built like a siege engine, let out a startled grunt and staggered.
Felix stepped back, grinned, and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. Blood spotted the cuff. He relished the salt-iron taste, the honesty of it. Boxing was a welcome reprieve from the peacock’s parade of the London Season, a space where nobody cared about your reputation so long as you could throw a punch and stay upright for twelve rounds.
The ring was a makeshift circle of chairs dragged into the center of the club’s second drawing room; the ornate carpets protected by hastily scuffed duck canvas.
The usual suspects ringed the edge: three minor noblemen, a mob of well-pickled younger sons, and a pair of members of parliament who liked to bet on the odds with a bookmaker’s eye.
Trentham rallied, swinging high and wild. Felix ducked again, stepped inside the man’s reach, and drove his shoulder into the viscount’s ribs. A cheer went up as Trentham wheezed, wrapped Felix in a bear hug, and tried to pin his arms. It was a tactic of desperation and, Felix suspected, a way to buy breath.
Felix heard his own name volleyed around with the usual adjectives: mad, damned, game to the last. He broke free from the clinch, both men panting and slick with sweat.
The ref, a bored baronet’s son, murmured, “Break!” and the two men circled, sizing each other up anew.
Then the commotion at the far end of the room changed tenor. The laughter hiccupped and became nervous. A voice said, “Good God,” and Felix, glancing over Trentham’s shoulder, saw the crowd part with almost military haste.
There, standing just inside the door in a traveling dress three shades too somber for her youth, was Rose.
Felix almost let himself get punched in the nose for the distraction, but he dodged at the last second and took only a glancing hit. The world narrowed to a point around her: her wide eyes, the flush rising along her cheekbones, the little blue hat trembling just so atop her head.
For a moment, she looked so lost in the testosterone fug that Felix feared she would bolt. Then her gaze fixed on him—shirt clinging, bruised and smiling like a devil—and something in her spine straightened.
“Stop!” she cried, the word fracturing the room into utter stillness.
Every man present turned, various stages of bared teeth and dishevelment arrested mid-motion. Trentham looked aghast, red-faced, and dripping.
Felix broke into a full, toothy grin. “You heard the lady,” he said and raised a hand, signaling a halt.
For a moment, Rose simply stood there, blinking. When the reality of fifty men all staring at her settled in, she colored fiercely and nearly retreated back through the door.
Felix strode to the ring’s edge, rolled his shoulders, and yanked a towel from the nearest attendant. He dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow, tossed the towel aside, and crossed to her.
The men, silent now, formed a corridor for his approach.
He stopped a foot in front of her. The scent of her—lilies and, inexplicably, paper and ink—cut through the sour tang of sweat. She stared at him with a mixture of horror and pure, unguarded intrigue.
Felix bowed, the move slightly ruined by his half-undone shirt and bare fists. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Your Grace?”
She floundered. “I—I was told by the butler you’d be here. I did not realize?—”
Felix waited; eyebrows raised. He glanced over her shoulder at the ring. “I would have won,” he said, loud enough for Trentham to hear.
“Unlikely!” Trentham called, holding his ribs.
Felix ignored him. “Is there an emergency? Or did you simply wish to witness this carnage firsthand?”
She stiffened. “There is no emergency. At least, not of that sort.” Her gaze dropped to the blood at his temple, then away. “I needed to speak to you. I didn’t expect to find you like this.”
He grinned. “What, shirtless and sweaty?”
