Page 44 of A Gamble with the Rakish Duke
She took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart. She needed to prepare, to steel herself for what was to come. Oliver was getting closer to the truth, and she didn’t know what he was seeking.
Becoming more intimate with her. Or finding out if she had anything to do with J. Lewis.
She was indeed running out of time.
Chapter Eighteen
“Focus, Westgrave!” one of the men on the sidelines shouted.
The Duke of Westgrave had not been at Devil’s Draw for weeks—months, even. It was evident in the way his followers hooted and cheered on their favorite fighter when he entered the gambling hell.
The air in the space seemed thick and hazy with a mix of brandy, sweat, and smoke. The crowd was restless, itching to see a fight.
The yelling turned into aggravated arguments and then into harsh whispers as Oliver squared off against his opponent. He had meant to be there, to stifle an urge and quieten the growing noise in his head.
The noise included flashes of Alexandra’s face. Her voice whenever she evaded him. The music that haunted him in his sleep.
Oliver cracked his bare knuckles. His jaw was tense, mirroring the knot in his stomach. He needed to regain control of his life and his emotions. That was what he intended to do as he narrowed his eyes at his opponent.
The beginning of the match was easy enough. Straightforward. He landed a quick succession of punches on his opponent’s face. The man’s cheek reddened easily.
It should have been a quick match.
Suddenly, the memory of his kiss with Alexandra flashed in his mind, unbidden. He remembered how sweet her lips were, how fiery she was. She might seem in control, but when he unraveled her, there was passion. Then, she was gone again—mentally and emotionally—escaping into God knew where.
“Watch out!” he heard someone in the crowd shout, but he was too slow this time.
A punch landed squarely on his ribs, jolting him back to the moment. He grunted, clutching his side.
“Focus, Westgrave!” people shouted at him.
He dodged the next punch and delivered a jab to the ribs in return.
The crowd cheered, happy to see his mind back in the match. Unlike with other matches, Oliver felt drained quickly, hisbreath coming in harsh gasps. It was not just from the exertion but also from his inner turmoil.
He knew it all along. He was falling apart.
“I’ve had enough,” he growled, and with a final hook, he ended the match.
His opponent stumbled back, and soon he felt the referee raise his hand to declare his victory. He staggered a little, feeling dizzy. His side also throbbed from the punch he received while he was distracted.
This time, he could not savor his victory.
He realized that he had been missing something.
Or rather, someone.
The townhouse was silent when Oliver arrived. There were no sounds of a piano, and that somehow worsened his grief.
He had won the match, but he felt empty. His knuckles felt raw, and his face stung with a faint bruise he hadn’t anticipated.
I must be growing old.
He chuckled bitterly at the thought.
He headed straight to his study so he could pour himself a drink before going to sleep. His movements were careful, as everything ached. It didn’t use to before.
He remembered all the celebrations that used to follow his victories—more gambling, more drinking. He had not felt alone like he did tonight, but he hoped that the morning light would erase the foolishness of the boxing match.
