“At any rate,” she continued, lifting her gaze to his. The eyes he had been picturing for nearly twelve months snagged his and he realized they were a dark blue, like a fine sapphire. “My name is Jane Kendall.”
“Miss Kendall.”
“Jane,” she corrected.
“Jane,” he said, letting the name sit on his tongue. He motioned his head toward her companion who was now making his way back across the space toward them, drinks in hand. “And who is he?”
“He,” she said with a sigh as she glanced at the gentleman, “is my every Wednesday night.”
“Ah,” he said, and looked at the man. He’d seemed to get caught up by some acquaintance he was now talking to, though he kept looking at Jane and Ripley with a thin-lipped expression. “What kind of man is he?”
She shrugged. “Temporary. As they all are in the end. But he isn’t cruel and he pays well to have someone on his arm. In the end, though, I know it doesn’t really matter who. He just doesn’t want to go home to his wife.”
“I understand,” Ripley said, and glanced down at her. Their gazes met and she sucked in a little breath. Like she could see through him for a moment, see that he truly did understand, from a deep place he normally kept to himself.
He shook his head and reverted to playfulness to break the tension. “And what do you want?”
She didn’t smile, but held his stare for a long moment. “For it to be worth it. The times when there isn’t much pleasure. When I have to pretend it’s what I desire. I want that to be worth it in the end.”
His lips parted at that honesty, one he was having a hard time matching. It turned out he didn’t have to. She broke the intensity of their connection as she smiled, this time with falsity, at someone just behind him.
“There you are, Gregory, you naughty boy. You took so long with the drinks.”
Ripley turned and realized her lover had returned. His lips were still pursed a little as he looked Ripley up and down. “You seem to have entertained yourself just fine.”
She took one of the glasses from her companion’s hand and motioned toward Ripley. “I think you are a follower of pugilism, my dear. You must know Campbell Ripley. The?—”
“Dragon,” her companion said, annoyance fleeing. “I thought you looked familiar. I was in the crowd when you beat Tank Lewis.”
Ripley inclined a head. “He was a great fighter. His recent death was a tragic loss.”
Death in the ring, no less. Ripley’s chest tightened. There were good ends for men like him, but there were a great deal of bad ones, too. He supposed it was the same for women like Jane.
“Oh yes, I heard he died. Seems he found a fighter that was even more of a match than you. Wish I could have been there to see it.” He extended a hand. “Gregory Vaughn at your service. I’m cousin to the Duke of Bowerly.”
Ripley supposed that was meant to impress him. It did the opposite and he removed his hand from the gentleman’s as quickly as he could. “I think I’ve interrupted your evening enough. Thank you for allowing me to meet your…friend, Jane. I hope we’ll bump into each other again.”
She met his eyes. “I hope we shall, as well. Good night.”
“Good night,” he returned, and watched as she guided away the pompous arse who would have the pleasure of her company. He watched her for a very long time as she glided through the crowd. When she glanced back at him over her shoulder just once, his heart stuttered.
It was remarkable just how attracted he was to a woman he’d seen twice in the span of twelve months. Talking to her, learning her name and the color of her eyes had only made that attraction stronger, not weaker. There was something fascinating about her. Something of strength that called to his own. It was born from pain, he knew that like he knew his own face in the mirror.
He shook his head. Lord, he was being so maudlin. That definitely meant he needed a fuck and to forget the pretty woman whose presence had so disrupted him not once, but twice. But even as he began to scan the room for quarry, he knew somewhere deep in his locked-up heart that it wouldn’t be quite so easy to do that. Even though it should be.
1810
The third time Ripley had met Jane they saved a life. Well, that wasn’t quite true, either. It wasn’t the third time they’d met. They had seen each other often in the four years that passed since he learned her name. Over that time he’d watched her in hells like the Donville Masquerade as she danced by in the arms of various men unworthy of her smile, even temporarily.
She’d come to some of his fights, both with lovers and on her on. He grew accustomed to finding her in the crowd there, smiling at him as his hand was lifted. Or offering silent support when it wasn’t.
She’d even attended his final fight a year before. He’d retired, taken his money and started up a boxing club for gentlemen in the heart of one of the best neighborhoods in the city. They flocked to him, begging him to teach them skills he’d taken a lifetime of pain to develop. And he took their money and had made himself richer than he ever had from any prize earned from a match, even his championships.
But even though he and Jane had danced around the edges of each other, they’d never gotten close. He avoided her, truth be told, beyond brief conversations and those bewitching smiles. It seemed she did the same. And why not? Neither of them was a fool, after all. She very likely could see the danger getting close could create as easily as he could.
So she had become a friendly acquaintance. And if he looked for her in every hell and pub he went to? Well, that was just him passing the time.
Just as he was that night at the Painted Pony, a hell that was far more rundown than the Donville Masquerade. There were fewer rules here, too. Women weren’t as protected. A fact proven when Ripley stepped outside to take a piss and there in the alley was a man, pinning a lady up against a wall. His hand was on her throat, her eye was already swelling and she was clawing at his hand, trying to push him away. From the torn state of her gown, it was evident he had already attempted or even succeeded at getting what wasn’t freely offered.
