Page 14 of When He Was Wicked
She glanced at James who seemed to be assessing her reception to his den of sin. It was as if he expected her to act missish and wail to be returned to her sanctuary. Somehow his air of expectancy inspired her to be spontaneous, naughty…scandalous. She sucked in a harsh breath and pushed away the ridiculous feelings. “So, this is how the sinful half live?” she asked archly.
The air crackled with the intensity of his stare, and she felt the ridiculous urge to remind him she was disguised as a lad. Another surely would not stare at a gentleman in such a disturbingly wicked manner. She glanced away briefly, and upon meeting his gaze, once again his expression was neutral. Had she imagined desire?
Or was it her unpardonable awareness she was foisting on the earl? He was truly irresistible, with those burning dark eyes and endearing smile, and a somewhat crooked nose.
“Follow me and keep close,” he murmured.
They made their way through the tables toward the winding staircase. A few men stopped him, shook his hands, and even discussed James’s support of a motion the Whig party wanted to argue in Parliament at its next session. Those who glancedat her overly long, received an introduction. James’s cousin from the country, in town for a spot of gambling. She kept her head suitably low, her voice deep, and she was deemed as unimportant. They continued up the stairs where they passed Lord Worsley. Looking up as she approached, he quite openly studied her.
A smile curved his lips, and an arched brow was directed at James. Verity’s heart tripped into an alarming beat.
“Worsley,” James greeted coolly. “Has the match started?”
The viscount wrested his curious gaze from her. “About now. You made it in time. Will you challenge the winner? The purse is ten thousand pounds.”
Verity almost expired from shock at the fortune named.
“Excellent. My cousin here, Vincent, is quite eager to witness one of your notorious prizefighting matches.”
“Ah, Vincent is it?”
“Yes,” James returned, and there was a throb of warning in his tone.
The viscount nodded, James continued on, and Verity followed, aware of the Viscount’s stare on her back. “He recognized me,” she said.
“No,” James returned. “Not your identity. Simply that you are a lady.”
“And is that cause for worry?”
“It is not. I would not risk your reputation in such a manner. Anonymity is respected and even expected once we enter these walls.”
“I see.” A little bit of her tension eased, as a man dressed in unrelenting black stood by a large oak door. He bowed slightly, then pushed open the massive door, and they stepped into another opulently fashioned room with soft dark green carpets cushioning their steps. The lights in this room were dimmer, thetables less raucous, and only a handful of ladies sat amongst the lords. And an expectant hush blanketed the room.
Smoke curled around the room, and footmen darted adroitly between the tables delivering drinks. James led her to a corner table which seemed more hidden amongst the shadows than most. Verity pulled out a chair and lowered herself, quite aware of James’s presence as he sat in the chair next to her and stretched his long legs casually before him. It was as if everyone had waited for their presence, for a large roped area in the center of the prodigious room soon became the center of everyone’s attention.
Two men approached the ropes, dipped under, and made way to the center of the ring. Her face heated to see the indecent manner in which they were dressed. Both men were stripped to the waist, their chests, and torsos on alarming display. A few of the women outrageously whistled. Every inch of her body felt on fire with embarrassment.
“The laws which govern pugilism are not observed here. In fact, prize matches like these are kept in remote areas on the outskirts of town with thousands of spectators,” James said, his gaze on the men entering the ring. “We are not here to witness the sport of boxing.”
And she understood. This was the art of fighting, the grittiness, the fear, and the thrill. “I understand.”
A footman passed by their table and James snagged two glasses of amber liquid and handed her one.
“Remember—” he started to say.
“I know, nurse it, but keep a level head and do not drink.”
The men wrapped thin leather strips that had been soaked in water or perhaps vinegar around their hands. It appeared little protection to her, and Verity almost chuckled nervously as a man loudly announced their identities.
“Viscount Halifax and Marquess Durham.”
Verity’s soul froze, certain she heard the name Marquess Durham. She leaned forward. “These men are lords,” she said faintly.
The earl threw her a surprised glance. “Only men of a certain caliber have a membership.” He frowned. “You seem pale. Are you well?”
Hundreds of lanterns surrounding the ring were turned up, and there he was, the wretched marquess. A sick feeling of dread twisted through her and she battled it down.I am with Lord Maschelly, I am safe.It hovered on the tip of her tongue to tell him, but once again that shame and guilt which had always followed her refused to allow the words to spill. “I am well.” Then she took a sip of the drink, coughing at the fiery burn which slid down her throat.
“Easy,” the earl murmured, lightly touching her elbow.
