Page 111 of His Grace, the Duke
Not a stone’s throw from All Saint’s Church, the bazar organizers had commandeered the use of an old warehouse. A makeshift boxing ring had been set up in the middle of the floor, with risers on three sides providing seating. The crowd was growing with each fight. They may not be professional boxers, but Hartington was right: Some of these wiry sailors really knew how to swing their fists.
Tom danced on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms. He’d shed his shirt, his tattoos now on full display. Burke couldn’t deny he found them sensual. It hadn’t escaped his notice how Rosalie would trace them with her fingers, her tongue. Burke secretly ached to do the same.
Tearing his hungry eyes from Tom’s chest, he looked at the ring just as the wiry sailor with a black mustache landed a facer on an opponent twice his size. Mustache danced away as the big man dropped to his knees, then flopped forward onhis face, out cold. The crowd erupted in cheers as the bell rang, ending the match.
“I’m up next,” Tom called over the roar.
Across the room, Hartington appeared to more cheers. Burke hated that scar on his face. Damn, but the mandidlook dashing. If Rosalie or Tom glanced at him just one more time with even the politest bit of interest in their eyes, he was going to tie them both to his bed and ravage them until they begged for mercy.
This isn’t jealousy . . . it’s territoriality.
“Have you seen him fight before?” he asked Tom as they pushed their way towards the ring.
“Aye, he’s strong as an ox,” Tom replied. “But he’s slow. I’ll use it.” He slipped between the ropes, giving a nod to the referee: a burly man stripped down to his waistcoat with a thick yellow mustache and beady dark eyes. Then he turned back to face Burke, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Where are they?”
Burke glanced over his shoulder, letting his well-honed sense for finding James draw his eye to the end of the third row. “There.” He pointed to where James sat on the crowded bench, wedged between Rosalie and Elizabeth. Olivia sat on Rosalie’s other side.
“Christ, she looks gorgeous today,” Tom muttered. “Blue is her color. I thought it was pink, but I am a man reformed—”
Burke snapped his fingers in his face. “Focus. For the next fifteen minutes, she doesn’t exist.”
Tom huffed. “You think Hart will last five rounds against me?”
“Never. You’re going to flatten him in three.”
Across the ring, Hartington slipped through the ropes. Like Tom, he wore only a pair of white sailor’s breeches. Hiswaist was wrapped in a gold sash. And now he was shirtless, his broad chest glistening with oil as he swung his fists.
Burke’s heart stopped as his eye landed on the anchor tattoo emblazoned on the captain’s chest. It was a mirror to the one on Tom... carved over their hearts.
Mine.
The word flooded through him, drowning out all other thoughts. Fuck territoriality. This was jealousy. This was rage. Burke ached with it. He burned with the need to claim Tom in front of the captain. Hell, in front of this entire crowd.
“Easy, Burke,” Tom muttered with a grin. Of course, he knew what had him upset.
Burke glared at him, eyes aflame. “Make him bleed... or I will.”
52
Burke
The first tworounds were over in a blink. Tom and Hartington each landed a few good jabs. Hartington was broader in the shoulders and taller. But Tom had a better center and better control in his swing. If he could stay on his feet, Burke was sure he’d win.
The bell rang, ending the second round, and Tom and Hartington split apart. Burke waited with a towel, tossing it to Tom as he approached. Other than battered knuckles, a cut lip, and being out of breath, Tom was faring well against the behemoth. He tossed the towel back to Burke, sagging against the ropes. His sides were heaving, and his chest and arms glistened with sweat.
“Christ, I forgot how hard he hits. His fists are like bloody iron.”
“You’re doing well,” Burke replied, handing over a cup of water.
Tom drained it in three gulps.
Across the way, Hartington leaned against the ropes. Hehad a cut on his brow. A mate had a towel pressed over it, trying to staunch the bleeding.
“He drops his left shoulder when he’s about to hit hard with the right,” Burke muttered.
“Aye, I noticed,” Tom replied through deep breaths. “I can take him down next round. God, I can’t wait to humiliate him,” he said with a chuckle. “He hates to lose.” He bounced on the balls of his feet, taking a few practice punches in the air.
Burke stood there, dazed, as an idea fine as smoke drifted through his mind.
