Page 37 of Bedding the Marquess
Gideon had wound up sporting quite the bruise on his jaw, but he seemed to enjoy playing up his injury to have her fawn over him. Despite insisting that he was mad if he believed she was that type of woman, she’d secretly longed to hold a compress to his jaw and kiss his split knuckles like the besotted ninny she was.
As she watched the brothers converse, Caroline could see the direction their conversation was taking from the glitter in Gideon’s eyes—it was an expression she’d witnessed more than once within their group. One man mentioned something that sparked an idea, which then spread like wildfire through the shortsighted minds of the men. Caroline could usually act as an effective voice of reason, but she hesitated in that instance.Gideon and Oliver were speaking more animatedly, more relaxed than she’d seen them do so before. The last thing she wished to do was stop whatever bonding was beginning to take place between them.
“Wrestling is one of the oldest forms of combat. It is highly respected,” Gideon insisted.
“And Emily wouldn’t allow us to fight with fists,” Oliver added matter-of-factly.
She glared at her husband. “Excuse me if I do not wish to see anyone’s face battered beyond recognition.”
Caroline had been relieved when a pugilism exhibition had been removed from the table. Gideon belonged to a pugilist club in London and she’d witnessed his fights a time or two. The last thing she wanted to see was Oliver beaten to a pulp. However, she’d been confident up until the point she overheard Emily whisper, “Go easy,” to her husband. Caroline’s stomach flipped.
The men stripped off their boots and stockings, and then their shirts. “Oh my,” Caroline whispered. The pair of them together were like marble statues of the Greek gods of antiquity. Their pairs of broad shoulders and leanly muscled torsos, tapered waists and strong legs were a sight to behold.
“Oh my, indeed…” murmured Emily, nearly missing the bench as she sat down. Caroline dropped beside her, both women staring in awe at the specimens of masculinity. “Do you suppose their children will be quite so large,” Emily suddenly asked, sounding slightly concerned.
“That was not something I’d considered,” Caroline replied with a grimace, “though I probably should have, given how strong the paternal bloodlines are.” She rested a hand on her stomach, silently begging the babe within to grow to a manageable size before he made his appearance.
“My thoughts precisely.”
“Three rounds—”
“One!” Caroline interrupted Gideon. “One round, only. Less opportunity for injury.”
“One round,” Gideon agreed begrudgingly. “Winner announced by submission or rendering his opponent unable to continue.”
“Unable to continue?” Emily squealed.
“Unconscious—not death,” Oliver clarified for her.
“That doesnotreassure me.”
“It will be fine, Angel,” he said to Emily.
Gnawing on her lip, Emily finally nodded in agreement.
“Ready?” asked Gideon.
The men began to crouch and circle, arms raised in similar fashions, intelligent eyes darting for openings. Then, with explosive speed and force, the men began to grapple. Caroline’s heart nearly burst through her ribcage as the men grunted and strained. Powerful muscles bunched and flexed. Chunks of grass and dirt were torn up beneath their bare feet. She fought the urge to cover her eyes; the sight was as beautiful as it was terrifying. These were men of warrior stock. She could well imagine them fighting alongside their ancestors as they guarded this very castle from invaders. Hands slipped on sweat-slicked flesh. Gritted teeth gnashed as limits were pressed. Gideon’s heel slipped, and the men went down in a rolling, tumbling heap.
Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth as the men flipped positions. Oliver was on top, then Gideon, then Oliver again. Legs lashed about a torso and, with the dirt flying, it was nearly impossible to discern who was who until they stilled. Eventually, Oliver held Gideon’s arm pinned behind his back. Caroline thought the match would be declared over, but Gideon never conceded. He fought with all his might until he was able to gain enough purchase to wrench his arm free and roll beneath his brother. Exhibiting surprising flexibility, Gideon flung up a leg and twisted, catching Oliver about the middle and dropping himto his back. They were locked together in combat, these two men with near identical physical builds and capabilities; however, the match went to Gideon when he began to bend Oliver’s leg at an awkward angle. He tapped Gideon’s shoulder and was immediately released. Both men collapsed to the ground, chests heaving, skin glistening in the afternoon light as they stared up at the blazing summer sun.
The women rushed over to them. “Any injuries?” Caroline asked, half afraid of the answer. Both dark heads shook.
“None,” panted Gideon.
“Then what do you call this?” she asked, touching a long red scrape on her husband’s arm.
“A minor flesh wound.”
“Indeed,” she replied. She was close enough now that she could see the pale marks on Oliver’s torso from injuries long healed. Were all of them earned in his youth on the streets? What hell must he have lived through?
Emily knelt beside her husband and pushed his damp hair back from his face. “You did well.”
“I feel brilliant,” he replied, chest heaving, but already beginning to slow to a more normal pace. His eyes glittered with excitement. “I haven’t experienced that type of exertion in ages.”
She gave him a small smile. “And you will be sore tomorrow to prove it. Come on, let’s get you standing and into a bath.”
“I’ll send some liniment to your bedchamber,” said Gideon as he sat up. “It will help with any soreness.”
