Page 58 of Marry in Secret
Thomas shrugged. He tucked the top of his stockings under the hem of his breeches and firmly retied the ties. It would have to do.
“But Ashendon’s in bare feet. He’ll have the advantage.”
Thomas stood up. “I’m ready.” He strolled to the waiting circle, made up of watching gentlemen. Bets were already being made. From the murmurs that accompanied Thomas’s arrival, it was clear Ashendon was the favorite.
Jackson glanced at his feet. “You don’t want to remove those stockings?”
Thomas shook his head. There were more murmurs, and more bets were laid.
“Gloves or bare knuckles?” Jackson asked. An assistant stood by with boxing gloves. Ashendon waved them away. “Bare knuckles.” He looked at Thomas with a challenge in his eye. Thomas shrugged and the gloves were taken away.
Jackson explained the rules, gave a brisk nod, and a bell sounded.
Fists raised, they circled each other warily. Thomas wasn’t new to fighting. He’d first learned to fight at school,defending his cousin, Gerald, from bullies. Gerald was the elder, but he was delicate and artistic, and a magnet for the nastier types.
Then in the navy, Thomas had been inducted into the rougher kinds of fighting, the kind that waterfront thugs indulged in. Years battling the French—and fighting off occasional pirate attacks—had hardened him further. And then there were the last four years, that had been about one thing only: survival. By any means he could.
Ashendon moved, his fists held high. He swung the first punch: a left-handed feint, followed by a swift uppercut to the jaw.
Thomas blocked it.
Watch an enemy’s eyes, not his body.
Ashendon swung again. Thomas was ready for it. It glanced off him.
Back and forth they danced, feinting, punching, blocking.
The earl fought like a gentleman. Thomas was almost bored. But he went through the motions, his temper under firm control.
“Fight, damn you!” Ashendon snarled.
He gave the earl a hard punch to the nose, and connected. Blood spurted.
“First blood to Beresford.” Money changed hands.
Ashendon checked his nose—not broken—and dashed the blood away. He came at Thomas in a rush. They grappled, punching, hitting, bones against flesh. Thomas heard something rip.
“You bastard, I know what you’re up to,” Ashendon growled in his ear as they grappled. “I’ll stop you, if I have to kill you to do it.” He punched Thomas hard over the eye, opening up an old wound, then disengaged abruptly, shoving Thomas back, sending him into the ring of cheering, laughing spectators.
Thomas wiped the blood from his eye and pushed the spectators roughly away. He stepped forward, the taste of hot, coppery blood in his mouth.
“Had enough?” Ashendon’s chest was heaving but his lips curled in scorn.
Thomas’s fist shot out. Ashendon’s head snapped back. He reeled, spitting out blood but no teeth, then came back, fists swinging.
Punches flew thick and fast.
Thomas’s next blow sent the earl staggering, down on one knee. He rose slowly, wiping away blood and sweat, a ploy to catch his breath.
“Had enough?” Thomas taunted. He’d had enough of this gentlemanly playing at fisticuffs.
The earl’s face darkened. He came at Thomas, fists flying.
Thomas met him head-on.Kill me, will you?He pounded into the earl, bone against flesh, relentless, focused, vicious, punch after punch, smashing hard into him, driving him back.
A bell sounded, loud and insistent.
“Thomas, Thomas, that’s enough.” Ollie’s voice. He tugged at Thomas’s arm.
