A drink appeared in her hand, and Lady Arabella pulled her away from the bar. The man laughed indulgently and called out, “Well played!”
“The boxing is in the back,” Lady Arabella explained, guiding her to a door she hadn’t noticed.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat. The audience crowded in a circle around the center. Jeering cheers filled the room, punctuated by the sickening beats of fists on flesh.
“Come.” Lady Arabella yanked on her arm, angling both of them to the front, cutting through the mass of damp bodies.
And there he was. Benedict, clad inonlyriding breeches, sweat-soaked and covered in bruises. The other man was faring worse, but only slightly. He thrust a fist toward Benedict’s gut and struck with a force that should have knocked Benedict over. Instead, he accepted the impact with a grunt.
Irrational anger raced through Eliza’s blood. He’d made no attempt to sidestep, to block, but merely absorbed the blow—one that would have felled another man, she was certain. His expression was dark, eyes wild. He looked… reckless.
The crowd jeered, ale sloshing and spittle flying. This wasn’t at all what she had imagined. It was brutal, punishing. The smooth chest she’d run her fingers along only the night before was peppered with mottling bruises. Benedict’s lower lip—the very one that had kissed her neck—was now split open and purpled with dried blood. His hands, the fingers that had driven her to such heights of pleasure—were swollen and bruised around the cloth wrappings.
“Ben, what the fuck are you doing?” A tawny-haired man cried from the opposite side of the ring. “You could’ve finished him ages ago!”
Benedict waved off the man. He took a hit to the ribs without raising his arm, only staggering back a step. Her stomach knotted. Why wasn’t he defending himself?
At last, Benedict feigned an uppercut, and when the man moved to block, Benedict landed a hit to the gut, which earned him a pained groan from his opponent and cheers from the crowd.
His opponent half stepped, half slumped over to one side, causing Benedict to cross step in anticipation—giving Eliza her first glimpse at his back.
A jagged breath tore from her throat. White, raised lines—half a dozen in each direction—sliced across the tendons of his back like cruel wings. Older scars, softened by time, white against the reddened, sweat-slicked skin.
His spine straightened, and he whirled around in one smooth motion. The moment his eyes locked onto hers, something feral, desperate flicked across his face before he dragged it back under control.
Seizing the opportunity, his opponent landed a punch to Benedict’s kidney, drawing Benedict back into the fight with a grunt. His stance shifted, straightened, and his fists tightened even as he cross stepped so his back was no longer to her.
“I’d forgotten,” her companion muttered at her side.
Eliza turned to her, unable to read the expression on the lady’s face. “I— Who?”
Lady Arabella shook her head.
The tide of the fight had turned. No more hesitation, no more sluggish defense—but explosive violence. Benedict drove forward with a one-two strike that seemed almost wild, forcing his opponent to scramble backward, unable to defend himself.
The man reared back, one foot catching the other. He collapsed, landing on a wrist with a sickening crack.
Benedict turned to the man from before—the one who knew him—with a hand outstretched. He didn’t bother to confirm the round was finished. Before Eliza could blink, he yanked a shirt over his head, mussing his wet hair, and halved the distance between them.
“Bella,” he growled as he reached them. “I said no.”
Lady Arabella rolled her eyes and squared her shoulders, shaking off the distress that seemed to overcome her at the sightof Benedict’s back. “I never listen to you. This should not be a surprise.”
“It’s not safe.”
“I’m perfectly capable of checking a man at my leisure.”
“In a ballroom. Surrounded by people who fancy themselves respectable. No one here fancies themselves respectable. And to bring Eliza here… If you were a man, Bella, I swear?—”
“She’s quite well, as you can see,” Lady Arabella directed Benedict’s attention to Eliza.
Dark eyes trailed along her frame, not sensual, the way they had been the night before, but searching. “I am. Are you?—”
His hand, damp and swollen, reached out, cupping her cheek. “You’re flushed. Are you overheated? Do you need to sit?”
“Benedict, I’m fine.”
“She’s not flushed over the temperature, you nitwit,” Lady Arabella grumbled.
