Her eyes sprang open. “No!” She’d come to support the man she loved, and so she would, no matter how barbaric the sport was turning out to be.
“Let us know if you change your mind,” Richardson said.
She would not. Her sensibilities might not be as sturdy as most of those present, but she wasn’t about to abandon Raphe to this mob of people who took pleasure in watching two men draw blood from each other. Whatever the outcome, she would be there for him when it was over. No matter how much she longed to sit down and rest her foot. So she stayed, spine straight and eyes staring forward with a new determination to see it all, no matter how difficult this proved at times.
As the fight went on and the fighters began looking equally beaten, one thing became startlingly clear: the Bull might be the larger of the two, but when it came to skill and technique, Raphe was a much better fighter. Watching him, the way he occasionally tricked his opponent into going one way before doubling back and taking advantage, filled Gabriella with a new sort of admiration for him.
But, just as she’d marveled at his ability, she watched him collapse in the next instant as the Bull planted a punch to his face. A hush swept over the crowd, and Gabriella’s heart lurched with uncomfortable alarm as she tried to determine if Raphe was all right or not. But then cheers erupted again and he was back on his feet, ready to commence the next round.
He did so by flooring the Bull with a brutal punch of his own.
Gabriella cheered. Somehow he’d managed to rally himself. But it wasn’t over yet. The Bull would not be taken out so easily, and was on his feet again soon enough. It continued like this, round after round, the two men punching each other until both looked exhausted. Still, the spectators cheered and whistled in support of their favorite.
By the thirty-ninth round, Raphe was looking so battered that Gabriella had already begun making plans for his recuperation, from bed rest to ice packs, and possibly even a few stitches. If it were up to her, there would have been a stop to this madness half an hour ago, at least. But since there was nothing she could do right now, she tried to think of what she could do after.
The Bull staggered forward, swinging his fist, but Raphe managed to dodge it and land one of his own instead. Two more punches followed, and then the final blow by Raphe, straight to the Scotsman’s face. The Bull collapsed like a tree felled by an axe, and the end of the fight was counted off by the man in scarlet.
“We’ve a new champion!” he declared, grabbing Raphe by the wrist and shoving his hand up into the air. “I declare Mr. Matthews the victor!”
Cheers swept through the air, so loud that Gabriella imagined the sound reaching Mayfair. Thank God it was finally over. “Can we go see him now?”
“I—” Coventry began, then stopped with a frown.
“Can you believe it?” a man was saying.
“Bloody hell,” Coventry murmured, his eyes following the individual with obvious concern.
“What is it?” Gabriella asked.
“That’s Mr. Lewis. From the Mayfair Chronicle,” Richardson said.
It was right before Gabriella heard the reporter say, “This will make one hell of a headline! The Duke of Huntley fighting for Carlton Guthrie—I can’t bloody believe it!”
“Might be worth looking into his background,” Lewis’s companion was saying as they moved away. “I’m sure there’s a juicy story there.”
“That’s not good,” Gabriella heard herself say.
“No, it isn’t,” Coventry agreed. “Stay with her ladyship, Richardson. I’m going after them.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to stop them?” Gabriella asked as she and Richardson made their way toward the area where Raphe would be resting.
“I doubt it,” Richardson told her grimly. “Reporters don’t care about anything other than the next big story, and this one is huge.”
“His reputation—”
“Was at risk to begin with, but Huntley knew what coming here today might mean for him and his family. Perhaps you ought to consider what it will mean for you tomorrow, when this story hits the paper.”
“I’ve already done so,” Gabriella told him firmly, “and I’m not going anywhere.
Chapter 33
Raphe felt like a broken man. He’d known the moment he’d seen his opponent that the fight would be his most difficult one yet, but bloody hell! His right arm hung limply from his shoulder, his knuckles raw from punching a surface as hard as granite. His face was throbbing in pain. Not to mention his chest. Dear God, there was a very good chance the Scotsman had broken a rib, or at least cracked one. At any rate, his entire body pulsed and ached as though he’d just been stampeded by a runaway herd of cattle.
Raising his fingers to his lower lip, he flinched in response to the sting, his back straining against the movement. He could still taste the blood, fresh on his tongue. It was a tender spot that would take time to heal.
“Let’s have a look at you, then,” the doctor said after finishing up with the Bull, whose name had been revealed as Thomas MacFrayden. Poor man had to be carried down on the cot that had been prepared for recuperation.
Squinting up at the doctor through partially swollen eyes, Raphe nodded consent. As much as he cursed the day his father had struck a bargain with Guthrie, Raphe had to thank the man for ensuring that he and MacFrayden were treated properly after the fight.
