“Leave her alone, Weston. She didn’t come here to have you flirt at her,” Lady Arabella interjected, still facing the makeshift ring.
“No, but you did,” West turned to face her.
“Had I known you would be here, you can be assured I would be anywhere else.”
“Have I ever been anywhere else when your brother was fighting? No,andyou wore that pretty little frock with me in mind. I thank you for it.”
That remark finally provoked her enough, compelling her to face him. “The day I do a singular thing with you in mind is the day the devil repents.”
“It’s a very pretty frock,” he said, ignoring her remark entirely. “I particularly appreciate the neckline.”
Eliza hadn’t truly believed he would cease any lascivious thoughts, but nothing in the way West surveyed Lady Arabella could have been termed polite.
Another grunt echoed from the ring, cheers rising with it and drawing Eliza’s gaze. Benedict had gotten a hit somewhere on his opponent’s body—it was difficult to tell where.
“Are you not supposed to be advising my brother? I very much doubt he requires assistance in objectifying his sister.”
“Nah, not with Miss Eliza here. He’s sorted it now. Your brother doesn’t need my help. You, on the other hand, need to be admired.”
“I need nothing from you.”
Eliza shifted her focus to the fight and left them to their bickering. West was right. Benedict was close to finishing, if not the match, then the round. He allowed a glancing strike to his shoulder before twisting away and returning with a left hook to his opponent’s jaw. The man reeled back before falling to his knees while Benedict flexed his hand, shaking away the blow.
His gaze was fixed on the other man until he flopped to the ground. His comrades peeled him off the floor and dragged him back to a seat.
“Shouldn’t have gone for the jaw,” West said to Benedict as he approached.
“He needs to learn when to stay down.”
“You never did.”
“I don’t fall in the first place,” Benedict said before turning to Eliza. “Are you well?” he asked, voice tender and eyes soft, fretting as though she were the one bruised and battered.
“I… Your hand?” She reached for it and brushed her fingers across the bruised and torn knuckles.
“I’m fine, little violet.” The endearment falling so easily off his lips set her heart fluttering.
“You could have a broken bone.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t hit him that hard—just enough to give him an excuse to forfeit.”
“And the rest of you?”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
A quick glance behind him showed two men trying and failing to stand their defeated friend upright. Before she could blink, a gentleman reached out for Benedict’s free hand and pulled him from Eliza’s side. He lifted their joined hands over his head.
Benedict’s demeanor was disinterested when he reached out to shake his flopped-over opponent’s hand.
Task completed, he returned to Eliza and tucked a loose curl behind her ear with his bruised hand.
“West, can you?—”
“Wait here and retrieve your prize on your behalf?”
“Yes, that,” Benedict said without looking at his friend.
“Yes, but I’ve a finder’s fee—ten percent.”
