Page 4 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
“What’s his name?” Her gaze jumped back over to the man, who gently stroked the back of his knuckles across the side of Madame Laurent’s face as she backed away from him with a smile. Her own cheek tingled in a phantom touch.
Henry must have caught part of their conversation, because he leaned over. “No one knows his name. They call him the Hellion. He started fighting about a year or so ago and hasn’t been beaten yet.”
She nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculous name. There was no time for a follow-up question, because the cheers started again as his challenger made his way to the ring. The man was at least a decade older, and he seemed harder somehow. His frame was thicker, with bulging sinews of muscle roping his chest, and his eyes were tougher. His appearance didn’t seem to faze the Hellion, who beckoned the older man to step through the ropes and join him in the center of the fighting area.
Everything that happened next was a blur in the excitement going on around them. The moment Madame Laurentjoined them on the riser, the crowd exploded in another cheer of excitement. Apparently, this was the indication to those in the back that the fight would officially begin now. A man with an air of authority stood between the men, but his words were lost in the noise. The fighters listened intently, nodding when he finished speaking. He hadn’t even stepped out of the ropes yet when the older man lashed out, catching the Hellion unaware with a fist to his jaw. The younger man absorbed the blow, pulling himself together and swinging his right fist in an impressive blow that staggered his larger opponent. He followed it up with a series of punches that demonstrated his athleticism. The muscles in his back and arms bunched and flexed beneath his smooth skin as he advanced. August was mesmerized by the beauty of it. She had never seen a man move like that before, so in control of every movement. He swung around, stalking back to his side of the area and giving her a clear view of the blood smearing the older man’s face.
“This is barbaric.” She thought she’d mumbled the words under her breath, but the gentleman standing next to her gave her a harsh glare as if he had heard and taken personal offense. A cigarette hung loosely from the side of his mouth, and his gaze was hard with censure. A mild panic seized her as she took in the impeccably groomed dark hair and cold gray eyes that belonged to none other than the Earl of Leigh. Violet had whispered about how striking he was when they had seen him at the opera last week. It was a beauty stained by wickedness, thoughenhancedmight be the word many would choose. She imagined Lucifer himself would take his exact form if he decided to mingle with mortals.
Since they hadn’t been introduced, she hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. Offering him a conciliatory nod of her head, she tightened her grip on her cloak and looked away. This had been a horrible mistake. She quickly did a skim of the other people on the riser but did not recognize anyone else.
Meanwhile, the drama in the ring continued to unfold; the fighters circled each other, feinting right and left and exchanging blows. It was becoming clear that the Hellionhad the advantage as the larger man huffed and puffed with exertion. Despite his lead, the younger wasn’t without injury. A drip of blood from his left brow ran down his face. It did nothing to hinder his look of cocky assurance. In fact, it somehow enhanced it. He’d taken his punches, and he still moved as if he hadn’t been touched. There was something surprisingly attractive about that. She found herself silently urging him to win the match.
She faintly registered the sound of a whistle of some sort, but it was off in the distance. It had nothing to do with the fight before her. The Hellion swung and the large man grimaced, taking a solid punch right in his gut. The look of anger and grim determination he’d worn in the beginning had given way to resignation. Still he fought back, but the Hellion blocked his swing and landed a blow to the other man’s jaw, sending him backward. The crowd roared.
“He’s done it!” Camille squealed, caught up in the excitement. The thrill was contagious, because August smiled despite herself. The crowded riser quaked beneath her feet with the celebrations of the people all around her. They must have all wagered on him, because not one of them seemed to be upset with the way the fight was turning out.
She couldn’t pull her eyes from him. He walked around the perimeter of the roped-off area with his hands in the air and a smile that lit his entire face. She didn’t precisely know if he’d won yet, but the larger man was lying still on the ground with someone bent over him. Behind her a man yelled to a friend on the other end of the riser. The friend yelled back happily, causing the man to push his way through the mass of bodies, and the crowd swelled and contracted around him. A beefy hand landed solidly in the middle of her back. Unfortunately, August had been too caught up watching the fighter to pay close attention to where she was, so when the crowd swelled outward, she was pushed dangerously close to the edge of the platform. Her shriek was swallowed up in the excitement. She turned to reach for Camille, or Henry, or even the earl, but her fingers closed on air as her heeled boots scrambled for purchase on the wood and she fell back. She was dimly awareof the harsh scrape of the rope against the cloak on her shoulder as she closed her eyes to brace for an impact that never came.
Strong hands caught her under her arms as her back leaned into a solid chest. When she would have fallen to the straw-covered floor, a man had saved her just in time. He half supported her until she could get her legs under her and find solid footing on the ground. Then he turned her to face him with the ropes between them, his arms around her waist to hold her indecently close to him.
She stared up into a pair of deep blue eyes that looked down at her with humor and a proprietary glint that she might have found disturbing under different circumstances. Right this moment she felt too much relief to care about that. His hair had been displaced in the fight and hung down heavy over his brow and on each side of his face. It should have softened him up a bit, but instead it made the angles and planes stand out, making his handsome looks even more striking as a drop of blood trailed down the side of his face from his brow.
“Thank you.” To her utter shame, her voice came out soft and barely discernible.
He grinned, revealing even white teeth and a smile that could have only been born from sin. “I hope you won.” His voice was smooth and deep with a cultured inflection.
She smiled, strangely quite willing to stand here with him. His scent surrounded them, sweat, certainly, but mixed with a faint cologne so that it wasn’t pungent. Her heart pounded in her chest. He was holding her so tightly she wondered if he could feel it. No man had ever made her heart pound before.
“I’m afraid I did not wager.” Her voice rose slightly so that he would be sure to hear her.
“A pity. I assumed you were the gambling sort.”
“Why would you assume that?”
His sensually formed lips made a perfect bow as he smiled. His eyeteeth were pointed, lending his smile a particular wickedness. “Because you’re here, Miss Crenshaw.”
An icy heat prickled down her spine. How did he knowwho she was? Was it so obvious? She glanced at the crowd above them on the riser, but no one seemed to be watching them; they were too busy either congratulating one another or yelling at the downed fighter to get up.
“You Americans are said to be risk-takers. Is it true?” he asked.
She could only nod as movement behind him caught her eye. “Behind you,” she warned as his opponent began to get to his feet. He didn’t loosen his grip, only glanced over his shoulder to watch the big man swaying on his knees.
“Kiss me for luck,” he said as he met her gaze again.
Her eyes widened. How could he demand a kiss now, when his very large and very angry opponent was coming to his feet at this very moment? “He’s almost on his feet.” Fear for him made her voice rise.
“Then hurry.” He spoke the words very near her mouth. His breath—smelling of brandy and peppermint—warmed her skin, bringing nerve endings to life. His hands had loosened at some point, settling on her waist in a casual way that branded her through the layers of her clothing far more effectively than if he still held her tight against him.
“You don’t need luck,” she said through the thickened air between them. He half bent his head over her. When he shook his head, the tip of his nose brushed hers, making the air catch in her lungs.
“No, but I want it, Miss Crenshaw.”
One glance showed the larger man coming toward them. Her heart pounded against her chest like a crazed bird flinging itself against a window. She wanted to push him away and tell him how ridiculous he was being, demanding a kiss right now, but most of all... she wanted to kiss him. She closed the short gap between them and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against hers. A groan vibrated from deep in his throat, moving from him to settle deep in her own chest.
She moved her lips in response to the gentle pressure of his and felt the slightest moisture trace along her bottom lip. She gasped, but instead of leaning into the kiss, he pulled back and released her. His eyes were bright withsatisfaction at the success of the game he’d been playing with her, but it was mingled with something else. Some new awareness that hadn’t been there before. Something that cut through the teasing, hinting at more to come, except there was no time. The opponent’s large chest loomed right behind him.
“Go!” he yelled, and she wasted no time in scurrying away as he turned to spar with the man.
