A strange tingling jolt went up her arm and through her body, filling her with peculiar heat. It so alarmed her she snatched her hand away from him, almost knocking over the glass of whisky.
Lord Maschelly stiffened, and tilted his head looking at her uncertainly. “I apologize, Lady Verity, it shall not happen again.”
His piercing green eyes had become as flat and unreadable as a block of ice. He thought his touch had offended her when that was simply not the truth. She wanted to tell him so but felt he would not believe her words. Her flinch had been too visceral. Nor could she explain to him, his slight caress had caused her belly to flip and her heart to race.
The starting of the match prevented her from making a response, and she was absurdly grateful for it, sensing she would have done or said something silly and reckless. The fight was rough, and from where she sat, several feet away, she could hear the slaps and thuds as fists met flesh. With each soundshe flinched, and she had to steel herself against the instinctive reaction and forced herself to observe the match.
The viscount kicked at Durham’s knees, but the man danced with surprising grace and dexterity out of the way.
Lord Maschelly chuckled as if he admired the display of skill, and Verity felt ill.Courage, Verity, going forward, courage.
“Such a move would be illegal if this had been a boxing match,” he explained. “There would be no kicking or hitting below the waist. But not in here. And a fight in real life is very much the same, my lady. No rules. Only what is necessary to win.”
No rules.
The lesson the earl wanted to hammer home resounded with each brutal punch. A sense of helpless fury surged through her, for Verity realized the dreaded marquess was a skilled fighter, and if he were to ever attack her again, how could she escape him? Not that she ever intended to be alone with the vile snake again.
At one moment she shifted, and found the earl watching her with a keenly observant eye. She looked away from him and took another healthy swallow of the whisky.
The match seemed to take forever, when in actuality only a few minutes passed. It was all so barbaric and improper. In quick form, the marquess knocked the viscount flat on his back, and the crowd cheered raucously.
“Another match will be coming soon. Do you wish to watch it?” the earl asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “I believe I understand your lesson.”
He nodded and stood, and Verity followed suit. Ice congealed in her veins when she saw the marquess, more appropriately attired, headed toward them.
“James?” she was so alarmed she called the earl by his name.
His eyes sharpened, studying her with curious intensity. “What is it?”
She swallowed, hating the awful feelings stirring in her stomach, and then both the marquess and the viscount were there.
“Maschelly,” the marquess said jovially. “Just the man I wanted to see. I’ve always wanted a match with one of the bare-knuckle kings. What do you say we arrange—”
Unable to bear hearing the voice which had haunted her dreams for so long, she skirted from around the table, and with hurried steps made her way to the door.
“Vincent?” Lord Maschelly’s tone was sharp, questioning, concerned, but she did not slow.
“Who is the pup?” she heard the marquess ask and she almost cast up her accounts.
Verity broke into a run, passed many startled patrons, and down the stairs. She collided into a footman, and the tray of drinks tipped to the floor with a resounding crash.
She tried to dart around the mess, and someone grabbed her. The shock of it pulled a startled scream from her. The hand disappeared, and before she could process what had happened, the man sailed in the air and crashed against a wall with a pained groan.
“No one touches him,” Lord Maschelly commanded, his tone flat and lethal.
Many gazes landed on her, then to the man behind her, but she did not pause, rushing outside as if the devil chased her.
Once there, she took deep breaths of fresh air, hating the tears pricking her eyes. Her throat burned, anger and shame filled her heart, and she stuffed a fist in her mouth choking on a ragged sob.
“Verity,” a soft voice said. “I should have never brought you here. I was a damn idiot.”
She spun around. “James…I…I mean Lord Maschelly…” Words deserted her as she stared at him. He seemed fierce and ruthless, as if he had arrived to vanquish whomever or whatever had upset her. He stepped toward her and she jerked back. It was an instinctive movement and she felt wretched for the shuttered look which covered his expression.
“I am not afraid of you,” she burst out passionately. “You…you are the very first gentleman I have felt safe around in years. I cannot explain it because you are so very large and intimidating…but I justdo…because you are so real and unpretentious.”
James’s muscleswere knotted with a terrible tension. He moved slowly, heavily, toward her as if drawn by a magnet. He saw her struggle to remain still and not jerk from him and it shredded something deep inside of his heart. Who had abused such sweet gentleness and created the wary mistrust staring at him with such large wounded eyes? What had frightened her?
