“I wasn’t sure you would be in here waiting. Are we going to the club? Or one of those wicked haunts of ill-repute it is rumored you’ve visited frequently in the night.”
The figure seated opposite her shifted and piercing green eyes settled on her. “What have you heard about me and from whom?”
“Ladies talk?”
“Genteel ladies gossip of places of ill-repute? I am impressed.”
She laughed lightly, aware of the increasing beats of her heart. “Why…why are we going?”
“There is a match I would like you to see.”
How unusual. Before she could question him further, he asked, “Did you have nightmares last night?”
“No,” she answered, turning her face away from his disquieting scrutiny. “My dreams were of a different sort altogether.”
He stretched his long legs casually before him, and their boots touched. “Dare I ask?”
“An answer won’t be forthcoming.”
“Ah…those kinds of dreams.”
This bit was drawled with such wickedness she gasped and turned to him. The gleam in his gaze contained a sensuous flame, flustering Verity. The man looked at her enigmatically, and she sensed tonight would be different to all their other encounters.
The coach stopped, and he closed his eyes briefly. "Do you trust me, Verity."
“I do.” Her answer was swift and uncompromising.
A spark of indefinable emotions lit in his extraordinary eyes.
"Have I ever told you, James, that you…your eyes are beautiful?"
A flash of teeth as he grinned. “Might I have a poem too?”
She choked on a laugh. “No. I am deplorable at that.”
They exited the carriage and made their way to the club. She felt nervous, and she could not understand why. It was James. A coiled readiness seemed infused in every line of his body, and though his lips and eyes smiled, there was something hard and frightening behind the joviality. She sensed the bonhomie had been for her, to relax her perhaps.
They entered the club, walking down a familiar long hallway to the interior of the gambling den. Raucous sounds of laughter, clinks of glasses, and snatches of conversations filled the air. They did not linger, wading through the excitement in the air, pushing past many lords and disguised ladies and made their way upstairs and to that fighting room.
Unaccountably, nerves jumped low in her belly with each step that took her closer to that large door. The bulky man guarding the entrance bowed, then let them in. It was the same as the first time she’d come, most of the room in shadows, but the ring in the center had several lanterns surrounding it. The deeper she went into the room, the more she could make out masked ladies and gentlemen seated before the tables, smoking cigars, and drinking liquor.
James took her to a tab
le so perilously close to the ring she could reach out and touch the rope. Verity glanced around noting they were the only table so close.
“James?” she asked, hating that a quiver existed in her voice.
“All will be well, Verity, I will be back shortly. No one will disturb you here.” His voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality.
What shook her the most was how silent the room was. The last time there had been background chatter and a ripple of excitement. Now the stillness unnerved her.
A ripple went through the crowd, and she scanned the room then realized they all looked at a point behind her. She twisted in the chair and almost expired in shock. James was entering the ring bare-chested with his wrists wrapped, and on the opposite side another man, similarly clad, entered to face him, and it was Lord Durham. Verity experienced a gamut of perplexing emotions—alarm, relief, fear, and happiness. She stared at her shaking hands before breathing in roughly.
She mattered to James, for he stood, proud and powerful to defend her honor. Tears pooled in her eyes, and her heart ached as if it would shatter. Verity stood, and it felt surreal as she moved closer toward the ring.
The marquess danced lightly on his feet, keen anticipation in his eyes as he stared at James. But James stood there, his hands hung loosely at his side, his head canted left as he stared at the man. “I want everyone to understand this is not a match,” James said, his voice traveling through the room. How cold and dispassionate he sounded.
“Of course it is,” Durham said with a taunting laugh. “The prize is twenty thousand pounds, and I’ve long wanted to fight you.”