“Unless you’re afraid of getting blood on your pretty outfit,” Nathaniel goaded.
“Not at all,” Thornecliff replied, lifting a hand to tug at his perfect, elaborately knotted cravat. “I’ll simply remove it. Shall we?”
Madame Leda looked alarmed for a moment when she saw them coming, both unmasked and swiftly stripping down to their trousers. Nathaniel knew he should apologize for bringing this mess into her tavern, but every step closer to the ring brought him further into the state where he could barely think in complete sentences, much less speak them.
The world narrowed down to the upcoming fight, the present moment, the opponent ducking under the rope at Nathaniel’s side with irritating grace. Seeing them, the spectators gave a full-throated yell of excitement that swelled to near pandemonium when Thornecliffe offered them a lazy smile and a desultory salute.
This was a man who deserved a beating, if Nathaniel had ever seen one.
Madame Leda looked as though she was grinding her back teeth. But, never one to allow anything to stand in the way of professional showmanship, she launched into a rousing introduction, calling it a clash of the Titans and making much of the fact that for the first time ever, The Nemesis would see two dukes going head-to-head in the ring.
There goes the family name, Nathaniel thought sardonically as his body moved instinctively into a strong defensive stance.
But what good was his name if he didn’t use it to protect the people he loved? He was proud to fight for Lucy, and he thought—hoped—Bess would approve.
Her opinion of him was the only one Nathaniel cared about.
And then the fight began.
Nathaniel assumed he’d have time to assess his opponent, that they’d circle each other for a bit, feinting and testing out each other’s defenses.
But instead, Thornecliff came at him instantly, moving in close and delivering a swift, devastating combination of blows that landed with surgical precision on the sorest, most battered parts of Nathaniel’s upper body.
With a shout of anger, he shoved at Thornecliff, who glided back on feet lighter than a dancer’s, black eyes intent.
He’s good, Nathaniel thought, anticipation surging through him. Under all those finely stitched coats and divinely decorated waistcoats, Thornecliff had the body of a fighter.
His muscles gleamed in the low light of the tavern, unmarred by the scars and scrapes that littered Nathaniel’s ruin of a body, the proof of his many wins written on his skin—but that only meant Thornecliff had fewer obvious weaknesses to exploit.
Nathaniel had a bit of reach on him, but it didn’t matter when Thornecliff closed in again for another rapid-fire exchange of blows that did more to madden Nathaniel than his last five fights put together.
This time, Thornecliff didn’t wait for Nathaniel to push him back—he darted away and circled to Nathaniel’s right. His bad side.
How the fuck does he know? Nathaniel wondered, snarling as another mean punch seemed to come out of nowhere, his compromised hearing not tracking the other man’s movements well.
He’d never fought anyone quite like Thornecliff.
No hesitation, all offense and quick footwork. And when Nathaniel ducked a right hook and managed to catch him a vicious elbow right to his filthy, scandal-mongering mouth, Thornecliff’s only response was a wide, feral smile through the blood on his teeth.
Grimly determined, Nathaniel lowered his head and bulled his way through the fight. He let Thornecliff land blow after blow, keeping his guard up and his feet inching forward until he finally managed to catch him against the ropes with an uppercut that carried the full weight of his torso and back.
Thornecliff staggered back, finally off balance, and Nathaniel ignored the stiff protest of his screaming body to press his advantage. He hammered at Thornecliff’s sides and ribs, the man’s bitten off curses like music in his one good ear.
“Wish you’d never opened your fucking mouth now, don’t you?” he growled.
Thornecliff laughed, the sound savage and dark. “I don’t tell half of what I know. For instance—the name of the woman you publicly claimed right here in this tavern.”
The world whited out. One minute, Nathaniel was beating Thornecliff bloody—the next, he found himself on the ground after a swipe of Thornecliff’s foot took his legs out from under him.
Nathaniel surged back to his feet, the thunderous noise of the crowd rolling over him in waves.
Enraged beyond reason, he bellowed and charged Thornecliff like a rabid bear—no technique, no finesse, just pure rage.
The battle fury of his distant Norse ancestors enveloped him, draining away all pain and stiffness from his muscles, lending him fresh strength.
He barreled into Thornecliff like a boulder shot from a war catapult.
He would pull this snake’s tongue from his head, Nathaniel vowed silently, grappling an exultantly grinning Thornecliff down to the floor. He would send him straight to hell.
