Maxwell had been doing his best to keep her from his mind, but now she was thrust there again.
Those eyes. He thought perhaps her eyes were the most appealing thing about her. And her mouth. She had a rather spectacular mouth, and it said some spectacularly audacious things.
He could not forget the way she had asked him not to marry her.
Or the way she had stood up to him in Vauxhall Gardens when he had challenged her about the ridiculous sculptor.
“She and I… We were not well-suited,” he said. “As I explained, we parted amicably, and there is nothing more to it. The past is the past, and there is no need to discuss it.”
Joyce waved a hand from the sofa. “Lydia, dearest, you ought to know better than to ask gentlemen about their romantic affairs. Do not pester the Duke with unnecessary questions.”
She gave him a long, assessing glance from under her lashes. In public, she simpered—a defense mechanism, he was certain. But in private, her words and expressions were honed like a knife, ready to fall in his back at any moment.
It was no secret that she resented his entire family, and he could hardly blame her. For Lydia’s sake, he entertained her in his home and pretended at civility; they both did. But he never forgot that her mind was as quick as it could be sharp, and that she missed nothing.
“Yes, Mama,” Lydia said.
The club was vibrant with sound. Maxwell walked through, his knuckles bandaged, his coat plain and somewhat shabby. He only wore it here, where he preferred to remain anonymous; he would rather word did not get out about his doings here.
Last time, seeing Lady Thalia had been a mistake. Fortunately, she seemed as willing to spread the story of his presence here as much as she wished to spread stories of her own dealings, whatever they may be.
At the thought of the gentleman—if he could be called that—who had accompanied, his teeth clenched.
None of my business.
Two painted women blew kisses at him as he descended the creaking wooden stairs to the floor below, where a ring had been set up in the center of the room. Two men brawled, their bare skin bloodied and shining in the candlelight. Ladies and gentlemen watched, exchanging bets.
This was the world he often felt better suited for. The rules were simple here: fight and win. Or lose.
Maxwell never lost.
Sometimes, he thought he could leave it all behind—the boxing, the underground fights, the ring, and the jeers of the crowd. He was a duke, after all, and nobility did not brawl like commoners for all and sundry to watch. The most gentlemen ought to do is take lessons with Gentleman Jackson.
But every time, Maxwell returned. He craved the unsheathed violence in the air, the thrill that came from every landed blow. Even the pain. There was something soothing about the reliability of pain; he knew precisely what to expect. It never took him by surprise.
Pain made him feel alive.
And most importantly, it made his thoughts quieten. When something happened to make his thoughts spiral into something manageable, he came here.
The fight ended. One of the men needed to be supported out of the ring, and Maxwell stepped up. His opponent was a smaller man, but would likely be nimble. Over the years, Maxwell became accustomed to sizing up other men in such a hurried manner.
If he could get a punch in, it would all be over. Maxwell knew his prowess.
But this man looked as though he would be good at dodging.
Excellent.
Maxwell needed a challenge.
The match began, and Maxwell sank into that place inside himself where the world finally made sense. He pranced on the balls of his feet, raised his fists, and circled.
Like sharks, they waited to see who would make the first move.
And like sharks, when they did, it was bloody.
The other man got in three punches to Maxwell’s torso, pummeling his right side. Pain throbbed about his ribs, a welcome relief.
They danced. For all Maxwell fought in this underground ring, he had been taught by the best. Boxing, like all sports, was a matter of mastering the technique. Strength played into it, of course, but there was no use in strength if one did not have finesse.
