Seven Years to Sin(57)
“Have you come to give me a token to carry into battle?” he asked, forcing levity into his tone.
She stared at him for a long moment, looking fragile and beautiful in a pelisse of soft green trimmed in a darker color he couldn’t quite determine in the semidarkness. She sighed. “I cannot alter your mind about this, can I?”
Her sorrowful tone prompted him to lean forward. He was struck by the change in her; the weight of unhappiness suppressed the vibrant spirit she was best known for. “Why does a simple boxing match worry you so?”
Her gloved hands clenched and unclenched in her lap. “Regardless of who wins or loses, it will not end well.”
“Hester—”
“Regmont will likely begin the match playfully,” she said without inflection, “but as your skill becomes apparent, he will become more focused. If he cannot best you, he may succumb to his temper. Be careful should that happen. His technique will slip and he will fight to win, perhaps not cleanly.”
A pistol’s report could not have jolted him more violently.
“I would say none of this to anyone else.” Her chin lifted, reinforcing her quiet dignity. “But I suspect you’ll be more deliberate in the ring. Levelheaded. You will follow the rules of the sport, and that, I fear, will preclude you from anticipating the most injurious blows.”
“Succumb to his temper with whom?” He had no right to ask, but he couldn’t withhold the question any longer. “Are you mistreated, Hester?”
“Worry about you,” she admonished, managing a smile that did little to alleviate his suspicions. “You’re the one about to engage in fisticuffs.”
And he was ferociously eager for that engagement to begin, more so now than just a few moments ago when he’d simply been looking forward to it.
She held out the kerchief to him, but yanked it back when he moved to accept. “You have to promise to call on me, if you want this.”
“Extortion,” he said hoarsely, seeing the answer to his question in her evasion. His blood was boiling. She thought he would be deliberate and levelheaded? He was far from it.
“Coercion,” she corrected. “Just so that I may see for myself that you are not unduly damaged.”
Michael’s jaw clenched against undeniable helplessness. There was no way for him to intercede. What a man did with his wife was his own affair. The only recourse available to him was the one he’d set in motion a week ago—a few far-too-brief moments in a boxing ring, during which he could pummel Regmont to his heart’s content. “I promise to visit.”
“Before a week is out,” she persisted, her green eyes narrowed in silent admonishment.
“Yes.” He accepted the kerchief with fierce possessiveness. A beautifully rendered “H” in the corner made the token even more personal. “Thank you.”
“Be careful. Please.”
With a curt nod, he exited the hackney. It pulled away before he’d set foot on the bottom step of Remington’s wide entrance staircase.
“Don’t be fooled by his size.”
Hopping from foot to foot to limber himself, Michael glanced in the direction of the voice speaking at him. He found the Earl of Westfield, an unmarried peer who suffered the same sort of matrimonial attentions he did. Lauded for his good looks and charm, the earl was liked by both men and women. “Nothing about the man fools me.”
“Interesting,” Westfield said thoughtfully. He stepped into the eight-foot-square boxing area, which was delineated by painted lines on the hardwood floor. “Makes me very glad I bet on you.”
“Did you?” Michael’s gaze drifted around the massive room, which was damn near packed with spectators.
“Yes, I am one of the few.” The earl flashed the grin that stole many women’s hearts. “Regmont’s shorter stature makes him quick and nimble. And he has stamina such as I’ve never seen, which is how he wins so often—he can outlast damn near everyone. That’s what the others are wagering on: that you will tire before he does.”
“I should think that would be dependent upon how hard he is hit, and how often.”
Westfield shook his dark head. “For some men, such as myself, losing is an inconvenience we’d rather avoid. For others, like Regmont, it unmans them. His pride will fuel him long after you’ve satisfied whatever grievance you may have against him.”
“This is simple sport, Westfield.”
“Not with the way you’re looking at him. Clearly you nurse a personal score to settle. I don’t care. I just want to win my wager.”
Michael might have smiled at another time, but he was too furious now. Regardless, he knew when to take the advice given to him. He also knew from the broad grin with which Regmont started the fight that the other man believed he would win. Although physical pain was the least of what the earl deserved, Michael decided humiliation would be the longer lasting punishment. He feinted around a few exploratory punches from Regmont, then channeled all his fruitless love for Hester and his hatred for her unworthy husband into a single solid blow.
Regmont crashed, unconscious, onto the hardwood less than a minute into the match.
“It’s very difficult to concentrate when you are staring at me.” Jess looked across the deck to where Alistair sat with his back to a crate. He’d removed his coat and now rested with one leg stretched out before him and the other pulled up to support the papers he worked with. It was a pose she’d seen him adopt in bed while reading or working, and it never failed to rouse her admiration.