Maxwell’s bound fist collided with the other man’s jaw. He heard a crack, and the man staggered, landing against the ropes. His eyes went unfocused. Maxwell followed up with another blow to the sternum. The man blocked, but not fast enough.
He went down.
Maxwell panted. In the break between fights, he sucked on an orange segment. The citrus exploded on his tongue, and he accepted a drink of water. Sweat beaded on his skin.
He fought again, and again. Men, large and small, dropped before him. His knuckles became bloodied; his entire body was one glorious ache. He finally felt free.
When at last he had won enough, he stepped out of the ring, his chest heaving.
Tomorrow, he would be bruised; tonight, he felt nothing but relief.
“Good show,” someone called, waving a wad of notes at him. “You will make me rich yet!”
Maxwell nodded, not deigning to give a response as he slid his shirt over his battered torso, followed by his plain waistcoat and the tattered coat he wore for these outings.
Thus disguised, he made his way up to the main level.
Ordinarily, on occasions such as these, he would have a drink or two, perhaps even a game of cards, before returning to his townhouse. Tonight, however, he had just called for a drink to be brought when he spied familiar dark curls.
There were plenty of new girls working this club, and no doubt making plenty from the men who attended. But this was not a working girl, painted and exposed, flirting with whoever might take her home.
Lady Thalia. Again.
All the peace he had derived from his fight fled as he strode across the room to where she was standing.
“Lady Thalia,” he hissed, spinning her around so she faced him. “What the devil are you doing here again?”
For a moment, he thought she might not recognize him. The last time, it had been dark, and he had been sure she would not.
Now, a frown flickered in her eyes immediately as they traveled over his unkempt appearance.
“I might ask you the same question, Your Grace,” she said pertly.
“No, you might not.” He practically growled the words at her. Something about her made him feel unhinged, as though he might lose what flimsy hold he had on control every time he drifted near her . “I have every right to be here.”
“As do I.”
She tilted her chin. Her dark eyes fluttered as though she were attempting to produce a lie. Eventually, she merely said, “Well, I have business here.”
“What sort of business?” Maxwell snapped his jaw shut.
He knew he had no right to order her around as though she were his ward, like Lydia, and he had no desire for her to be beholden to him in the same manner as Lydia.
But he could not bear the idea of seeing her again, in a place like this, unprotected.
The last time she had come here, she had nearly been assaulted. She might not have registered quite how precarious her position was then, but he knew it well enough.
“That is none of your concern,” Lady Thalia interjected, raising her chin. “If I wished you to know my business, I would make a point of telling you.”
“Do you derive joy from being reckless?”
“Doyouderive joy from interfering in other people’s affairs?” she returned, eyes flashing. He hardly knew when it had happened, but they were now close enough that if he chose so , he could sweep her into his arms. “I prize my independence, and that is something I never intend to yield.”
“This is not independence—it is stupidity.”
“I had not attracted any attention until now, when you have confronted me in public!”
“A lie, even if you do not know it.” He cast a quick glance down her front.
