Page 15 of The Duke of Deceit

But her foolish heart simply ignored it and beat away wildly, enjoying this wholly improper kiss from a notorious rake. A tingling warmth seeped through her, all the way down to her fingertips and toes, and she softened against the squabs behind her as any resolve to stop him dissolved away.

Yet there was nothing seductive about the kiss. Even with Jess’s limited experience with men, she recognized it for what it was—

A warning.

When he finally broke the kiss and sat back, his gaze dropped to her mouth, still open in surprise. He languidly brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Never say never, Jessamyn.”

Then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Chapter Five

Lucien ducked asa hard fist sailed past his head.

Bare from the waist up and covered with sweat, he stepped forward and jabbed two quick punches with his left fist at the brute squared off against him. When the large man staggered back a step, Lucien didn’t pursue. Even marked by bruises and a bloody cut on his lip, he wasn’t ready to end this fight just yet. He hadn’t been beaten enough to exhaust the frustration and unease pounding away inside him tonight.

Around him, the basement of the abandoned Wapping warehouse was alive. A crowd of working-class men and women crowding against the ropes let out both loud cheers and curses, depending upon which fighter they’d placed their blunt. Lamps blazed across the room, and the moving shadows they cast across the gathering only added to the swirl of motion at the periphery of his vision. All kinds of bets had been placed, prostitutes were negotiating their rates, and cheap whiskey was being guzzled from flasks and even cheaper gin from tin mugs. It was a veritable scene from hell.

But Lucien knew from years of training to ignore everything but the subtle movements of the mountain of a man with him in the eight-by-eight foot roped off square of floor. Just as he knew that no one in the cramped basement even considered that he might win. Even as tall, broad-shouldered, and fit as he was,his opponent stood nearly seven-feet tall and could have been confused for a musk ox.

Perfect.

When the man charged forward, Lucien bobbed to the left, then let fly a hard punch with his right arm. His bloodied knuckles caught the brute square in the jaw and snapped back his head. The man stumbled back, then froze, his beefy arms hanging down at his sides and his fists open. The onlookers fell silent as the man swayed on his feet for a few seconds, then fell forward to the floor on his face.

The crowd let out a stunned roar of disbelief, their anger only made worse when Lucien threw up his arms to claim his victory.

His opponent’s knee man rushed forward into the roped area and let out a loud groan of exertion as he rolled the unconscious giant onto his back. He wiped a towel over the man’s face, then began to wave it to fan air over him.

Lucien stepped over him on his way to the rope.

As he snatched up a towel and swiped the sweat off his torso and shoulders, he could still feel anxious threads winding inside him, but at least now they were weaker than before. Perhaps he might even be able to sleep through the night.

Sleep.He nearly laughed at the idea. Because with sleep came dreams, and for the past four days since his encounter with Jessamyn St Claire in the hackney, all his nights had been plagued by dreams of her. The kind of dreams that had him checking the sheets upon awaking to make certain he hadn’t spent himself in the night.

God only knew why she was plaguing him, except that he found himself admiring her. She hadn’t cowered when he’d surprised her in the carriage. Didn’t even scream. No, the gel had given back as good as she got, and that was what had stirred his imagination. Anyone who stood up to him garnered hisrespect, and her beauty—as unconventional as it was—captured his interest.

So he had avoided sleep as much as possible and would continue to do so until this temporary madness abated, which worked to his advantage. After all, he’d been on a tear to rehabilitate his black reputation and make it even darker than before, and he needed every extra hour of the night he could find to do it. Visits to as many brothels as possible, gambling until dawn, getting foxed to the gills—no matter that he stayed in the brothel rooms by himself, broke even at the end of every gambling spree, and only pretended to be stumbling around like a drunken university student—his apparent behavior was true to the image of the scapegrace he’d always presented himself as being. He’d become very good at it.

After all, as Duke of Crewe, he was nothing but a fraud.

Yet he wasn’t certain any of it was working. Jessamyn St Claire had seriously wounded his reputation. He only hoped he could once again become the scourge of London before anyone discovered the truth about how good he truly was. Or those secrets about his father and brother that he needed to keep hidden from the light.

He shook out his shirt that he’d flung across the rope when the match started and yanked it on over his head. He felt not one bit of self-consciousness as he unbuttoned his trousers and tucked in the long tail of his shirt. The women in the crowd were already intimately familiar with all the private bits of men, unlike Jessamyn St Claire.

A grin quirked at his lips. He’d kissed her only to grab her attention and silence her. Yet when his lips had touched hers, the annoying gel had looked as shocked as if he’d just admitted to attempting to kill the king. What would she have done if he’d given her a proper kiss, one that captured her sweetness yetconveyed all the wicked acts he wanted to do with her if she surrendered?

“My blunt, please, Mr. Fulton,” Lucien called out to the event’s organizer as he pulled his braces into place over his shoulders and tied the trouser string at the small of his back. “All of it, too.” He reached for his waistcoat and shrugged into the smooth satin, then quickly buttoned it. “Don’t make me count it and embarrass you.”

The plump man scowled. He spent most of his evenings eagerly promoting these illegal pop-up boxing bouts while also avoiding the authorities, who were keen to close him down and plop him into prison if he didn’t hand over his winnings to convince them to turn a blind eye. Certainly, having a ringer like Lucien come in and knock down his favorite gladiator didn’t help his business.

“Who are you?” Fulton narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “A soldier?”

“Something like that,” Lucien muttered as he slipped on his jacket and coat. He held out his hand. “My earnings, please.”

Fulton slapped a handful of coins onto Lucien’s palm and blew out a curse that said exactly what he thought of the way his evening was going.

“Thank you.” Lucien leaned toward the man and lowered his voice until he could just barely be heard above the grumblings of the still-angry crowd. He handed back the coins with a sleight of hand that made anyone watching think he was simply shaking Fulton’s hand. “Tell everyone you talk to that the Duke of Crewe fought here tonight and brilliantly pummeled his opponent. In fact,” he added with a grin as he straightened away and placed his hat on his head, “tell everyone I also kicked the man while he was down.”

Fulton’s mouth fell open.