Chapter 11
If he’d been offered ten thousand pounds to guess who would step into his ring next, he would not have imagined it would be she.
But when the room quieted and he turned from a collection of men on the other side of the ropes to see what had distracted them, he knew it would be she. Even as he was sure it couldn’t possibly be.
There she was, standing tall and proud and strong at the center of the ring, Drake’s blood splattered at her feet, as though she were in a tea shop. Or a haberdashery. As though it was perfectly ordinary for a masked woman to enter a boxing ring, in the middle of a men’s club.
She was barking mad.
And then she spoke, issuing her challenge in her calm, clear way, as though she were perfectly within her rights to do so. As though the entire club wouldn’t explode with the scandal.
Which it did, in a cacophony of harrumphs and guffaws and affronted grunts that quickly devolved into a chattering masculine din. Under cover of noise, Temple collected himself and approached her, his opponent in every way, and yet not his opponent at all.
He raised a brow.
She did not move, and he wished the mask gone so he could read her expression.
It could be gone. Instantly, if he willed it.
He could call her bluff, unmask her in front of the lion’s share of the most powerful men in London, and resume the life that had been frozen in time for twelve years.
And the one that had been frozen in time for less than a week.
But then he would not see how far she would go.
He tilted his head and spoke so only she could hear. “A bold move.”
She matched his movement, her lips curving gently. Teasing him. Tempting him. “Whores must be bold, I’m told.”
And with that, he understood. She was furious.
As well she should be. He’d called her a whore. Guilt threaded through him, somehow discernable from frustration and fascination.
She did not let him find the right reply. Which was best, as he wasn’t sure he could. Instead, she added, “As should an opening gambit, don’t you think?”
Guilt was chased away by the words. By the challenge in them. By the excitement that thrummed through him every time they faced each other. This was more powerful than any bout he’d ever had. “You think I will allow you to win?”
The curve became a smile. “I think you haven’t a choice.”
“You’ve miscalculated.”
“How so?”
He had her. “My ring, my rules.” He raised a hand to the room, and the collection of men—two hundred, perhaps more—went quiet. Her eyes went wide behind the mask at the way he controlled the space and its inhabitants.
“Gentlemen!” he called to the room at large. “It seems tonight’s entertainment is not complete.” He stepped closer to her, and the soft scent of lemons curled around him—clean where this place was filthy. Light where it was dark. She did not belong here. And somehow, she did.
Perhaps it was simply that he did not wish her to leave, even as he knew she should.
She was close enough to touch, and he pulled her close to him, sliding one leg between hers, loving the way her silk skirts clung to his trousers. Loving the feel of her in his arm, firm and right. Hating it, too, the way she seemed to consume his thoughts when she was near him. The way she distracted him from his goal.
Retribution.
He pulled her close, and she gasped, her bare hands coming up to rest on his bare chest, her touch cool and smooth against his sweat-dampened skin. He lowered his voice for her ears only. “You have made your bed.”
She stilled at the words, as though they meant something to her, for a half second. Maybe less. “Then by all means, Your Grace, it is time I lie in it.”
The words surprised him, the thread of daring and conflict and something more in them. He wondered if the imagery that clattered through his mind echoed in hers—both of them in bed. Naked. Entwined.
Glorious.
Equal.
He turned to the crowd, hating the hungry gazes fixed upon her even as he knew they were necessary. “Shall I check her for weapons?”
A roar of approval came from the assembly of men, and he reached for her skirts, knowing the knife she carried so religiously would not be far. She gasped as his hands slid over her torso and hip, recognized the sound as one of pleasure. He met her gaze. “I never thought you an exhibitionist.”
She pursed her lips. “I would not begin to do so now.”
“Hmm,” he let the sound ooze over her. “Your actions tonight suggest otherwise.” In the pocket of her skirts, his fingers found the book that cataloged their story in pounds and shillings and pence.
She felt the touch and met his gaze. “Be careful, Your Grace, lest tonight cost you more than you think.”
He couldn’t help his smile as he found the hilt of her knife. Ubiquitous. “Hebert made you a pocket?”