Page 9 of A Very Roguish Boxing Day
Thatwas why she was going to bid on Tom Talbot.
Because it was the responsible thing to do.
His loose linen shirt slipped, exposing one rippling shoulder to Gwen’s hungry gaze.
Something between her legs gave a damp pulse.
Oh, all right.Perhaps practicality wasn’t theonlyfactor at play.
Gwendolyn buried her hands in the folds of her cloak, anxious for the bidding to begin.
Chapter5
Tom Talbot watched from the wings while the third-to-last bachelor was purchased for the grand total of seventy-two pounds.
He was up next.He’d been attending these bachelor auctions put on by the Thalia for a few years now.It was a good way to earn a few quid, and the job was a damn sight more pleasant than Tom’s usual line of work.
There wasn’t much Tom wouldn’t do to earn a few quid.One day, he would do a lesson with some rich toff and lie through his teeth that this soft-handed cove who was so lazy he couldn’t even get dressed without a servant on hand to help him hadreal potential.The next, he would agree to allow Linington and Sonsto put his likeness on their tins of Extra Deluxe Talcum Powder in exchange for a handsome fee.This meant that his face was the first thing that came to mind whenever someone got a nasty rash around the old elephant and castle, but that was all right.Some people said you couldn’t put a price on dignity.Not Tom.His price was fifty pounds.
Tom needed to sock away as much coin as he could, something that had been driven home during a bout against Donovan McLaren two years ago.He’d managed to hang on, to win.But McLaren had landed a wicked left hook to Tom’s temple, and that was when his ears started ringing.
He needed to get out of the boxing trade.Talk to an old boxer—if you could find one—and ringing in your ears was the least of your problems, for all that it drove Tom mad.Some of them were completely off the hook.Didn’t know their own names, didn’t recognize their own children.
Tom was determined to quit before that was him.But that brought up the question of what he was going to do next.He was big and strong, so he could unload crates from ships or lug kegs of ale, but that sort of work didn’t pay very well.There was also the possibility of working the door at one of the gaming hells, tossing anyone who got drunk and belligerent out on their arses.
The problem was that sort of job attracted men who thought they were tough the way a butcher shop attracted flies in the summertime.And what better way to prove just how tough they were than by starting something with the former heavyweight champ?
In fact, anytime Tom was out in public, the odds that some drunken fool would come up to him and take a swing were stupidly high, which presented a problem of its own.If he swung back, he was liable to get brought up on an assault charge.After nine years of doing little other than boxing, his notion of a light, cautionary tap would lay most men out.
He did his best to make a joke, to diffuse the situation, to wrap the idiot up in a bear hug and deliver him back to his equally inebriated friends.But he was fucking sick of it, sick of not being able to go down to the pub and have a bloody pint without it turning into a story for some stupid cunt to bore all his friends with, about the time he got into it with the champ.
He wished he could go back to Stockbridge, the little village in Hampshire where he’d grown up.There, he was just Tommy Talbot, son of one blacksmith and younger brother of another.But there wasn’t any work for him in Stockbridge.Hell, his brother, Neil, had been forced to move to Southampton after Tom’s niece, Liza, was born because there wasn’t enough smith work for him, not with another mouth to feed.
Then there was the fact that the countryside was too bloody quiet.His ears had never bothered him more than when he and Neil had gone back to visit their Nan last Christmas.He hadn’t realized how helpful the constant buzz of London was in distracting him from his ringing ears until all of that beautiful shouting and cursing had been gone.
So, he didn’t want to stay in the city, but he’d lose his mind in the country.He needed to stop boxing, but he wasn’t good at anything else.He’d been saving his shillings while he tried to figure out what he would do next.
Which he would.
Eventually.
Madame Heron was doing his introduction.Tom started loosening up.The only other man left, Gabriel Davenport, clapped him on the shoulder.Tom didn’t know Davenport.He was an army officer recently returned to England.He was also a lord—Viscount Fairbourne.But he’d only inherited the title from some distant relation a few weeks ago and seemed a lot more army than aristo, meaning that Tom liked him just fine.
“Good luck,” Fairbourne said, squeezing his shoulder.
Tom gave him a nod.“Thanks, mate.You, too.”
Then Madame Heron said his name, and he strode out onto the stage, preparing to perform the routine he’d done a half-dozen times on this stage before.
He started by ripping his shirt right down the middle.Or at least, that’s what it looked like.In truth, the shirt had a seam running all the way down the front, which Tom had stitched together loosely for precisely this occasion.He’d used it each of the six times he’d been on this stage, and he meant to keep using it for as long as Madame Heron would have him.He didn’t have shillings to waste destroying a shirt.
But the effect was good, and the ladies in the audience gave an awestruckOoh!
As he tossed the shirt aside, Madame Heron said, “As I’m sure you know, Tom Talbot is the reigning heavyweight champion.Believe me, ladies, you won’t find another specimen like this!Tommy, love, show us the goods, won’t you?”
Tom knew what to do.He flexed his arms, flexed his chest, flexed everything.He went through a series of classic strongman poses, doing his best to whip the ladies into a frenzy.
It sounded like it was working.Oohs and aahs turned into cheers until it was time for his grand finale.He turned around, brought his fists up to his ears, and flexed everything back there as hard as he could, including his arse.The cheering turned rabid, and Tom thanked his lucky stars those birds weren’t armed with pitchforks, because he wouldn’t have stood a chance, heavyweight champion or not.
