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Goodness. Was it time to go home?
“And ’es up again.”
Botheration.
“And bleedin’ down again.”
Good grief.
Bursters, clippers, teasers and lots of claret, which could conceivably have been either wine or blood, who knew?
The fight continued and she had absolutely no idea what was happening.
What she did understand was that she liked this side of Seth Hawkins, without artifice and full of good cheer. Masculine, to be sure, yet not once had his arm departed from her lower waist. She enjoyed his rough-edged words and grumbling chest, the way his hand tightened when Dusty was toppled.
“Matilda?” That deep voice shivered her earlobe, if such a thing was possible.
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you try just watching their feet?” And with a gentle tug, he drew her from her burrow. “Focus on their footwork.”
She did as requested, ignoring the jabbing fists and grunts of pain.
“Oh, it’s like they are dancing.”
“Good. And who do you think will win?”
She studied the fighters. Striped Stockings was lighter and niftier, dancing a lot. Plain White Stockings also bounced around but with more economical movement. “Plain,” she announced. “Stripy will wear himself out.”
“I agree. Dusty has the mettle but he’s too raw. He’ll learn…”
“Like you did?” And she met his eyes.
“Yes, exactly like I did.”
“How many contests did you fight?”
“Too many smaller ones to mention. But like this?” He glanced towards the combatants. “Ten. And many men cannot do more than twelve majors. It…affects things.”
“I shouldn’t like to imagine you in the ring.”
“’Twas my life, Matilda. For a decade.” His hazel eyes returned, serious and focused. “To escape violence in my youth. To buy shoes for Chloe. To have food on the table.”
“Not for the glory?”
“A man cannot stand before applauding thousands and not feel some sense of thrill, but ultimately no, and…” A roar and she lost him, his fist tightening at her waist. “Uff, Dusty got a mitten to the ivories.”
From then on, Matilda concentrated upon the footwork of these men. She still disliked the hitting part but admired their tenacity and whatever drove them to continue.
From the safety of this carriage roof, she could survey the rackety devotees at her leisure.
Mostly of the male persuasion, they flapped hats and bellowed. Two staggering rogues attempted to enter the inner ring only to be whacked back with sticks, and Matilda’s eyes widened as a woman was hoisted to a man’s shoulders, stockings and more on display for all to see.
No perfumed society ladies sat watching, but upon the carts and carriages a few neat women peeped from behind splayed fingers – mothers, sisters and wives, she supposed.
Another rumble swept the crowd, and she glanced to the ring to see Stripy on the ground, arms and legs akimbo.
“Has he lost?”
