Thirty seconds had passed, and Zachary returned to the center mark for the next round. It annoyed him that Ravenhill saw through him so easily. He had indeed been
planning to prolong the fight, taunting and humiliating Warrington with his superior prowess. He had intended to give the spoiled aristocrat a lengthy, painful thrashing that turned every inch of him black and blue. Instead, Ravenhill wanted him to end the fight soon and allow Warrington to walk away with a bit of pride left. Zachary knew that the recommendation was indeed the gentlemanly thing to do. But it aggravated him sorely. He didn't want to be a gentleman; he wanted to be merciless and strip away every modicum of Warrington's vanity.
Warrington came at him with renewed vigor, planting his feet and delivering three right-hand uppercuts that caught Zachary on the chin and snapped his head back. Zachary followed with two hard rib shots and a whiplike left hook to the head. The blasting blow rocked Warrington back on his heels, and he did a quick two-step to stay on his feet. Retreating, circling, Zachary waited until the other man approached once more, and they traded blows until Zachary landed a powerful straight left to the jaw. Dazed, Warrington fell to the floor and cursed as he tried to lurch to his feet.
Enfield called for the end of the round, and both opponents retreated to their corners.
Zachary swabbed at his face with the damp wine towel. He was going to be sore on the morrow—Warrington had blackened his left eye and bruised the right side of his chin. Warrington was not a bad fighter, actually. One had to give him credit for being busy in the ring, not to mention determined. However, Zachary not only outmatched him in power but was far more experienced, delivering fewer but infinitely more effective blows.
“Good work,” Ravenhill said quietly. Zachary wanted to snarl that he didn't need or want his damned approval. Nor did he need the bastard's instructions on how to fight like a gentleman. However, he kept his fury in check, suppressing the emotion until it simmered coldly in his belly.
Returning for the third round, Zachary tolerated a rapid flurry of shots from Warrington, who was already tiring. Dodging at least half the blows, Zachary experienced the familiar sensation of settling in for the fight, reaching the plateau on which he could last for hours. He could box like this all day without requiring rest. It would be easy to keep Warrington occupied until the other man simply dropped in exhaustion. However, Zachary went in for the kill and landed a five-shot combination that sent Warrington to the ground.
Clearly bewildered, shaking his head in a useless effort to clear it, Warrington remained down. Turner and Enfield screamed at him to rise again, but he spat some bloody saliva and held up his hands in refusal. “Can't do it,” he muttered. “Can't.” Even when Enfield came forward to lift him up and lead him to the center again, Warrington refused.
Although Zachary would have liked to have inflicted further damage, he was mildly placated by the sight of Warrington's bruised and battered face, and the way he held his ribs in obvious discomfort.
“Match is finished,” Warrington said out of one side of his swollen mouth. “I cede to Bronson.”
After taking a minute or two to regain his strength, Warrington came forward and faced Zachary. “My apologies to Lady Holland,” he said, while his companions complained and grumbled loudly. “I retract every word I said about her.” He turned to Enfield. “Cut off the top button of my coat and give it to him.”
“But what's he going to do with it?” Enfield complained, glaring at Zachary.
“I don't give a damn,” Warrington replied curtly. “Remove the blasted thing.” Turning back to Zachary, he extended his hand. “Bronson, you've got a head like an anvil. I suppose that makes you fit company for the rest of us.”
Zachary was surprised by the gleam of friendly amusement in the other man's eyes. Slowly he reached out and shook Warrington's hand, the grip ginger in regard for both sets of sore knuckles. The gesture meant that Warrington recognized Zachary as an equal, or at least as someone whom he considered an acceptable member of the club.
“You've got a good right cross,” Zachary replied gruffly. “As good as any I took in my prizefighting days.”
Despite his swollen mouth, Warrington smiled, apparently pleased by the compliment.
Returning to Ravenhill, Zachary toweled off and donned his clothes, buttoning his shirt with difficulty and leaving his waistcoat unfastened. “Allow me,” Ravenhill offered, but Zachary shook his head irritably. He hated to be touched by other men, even to the extent of refusing the services of a valet.
Ravenhill shook his head and smiled slightly. “As mild-tempered as a wild boar,” he commented in a cool, dry tone. “How in God's name did you get Lady Holland to agree to it?”
“Agree to what?” Zachary asked, although he knew exactly what Ravenhill meant.
“The shy, gentle lady I knew three years ago would never have agreed to work for you. She would have been terrified of you.”
“Maybe she's changed,” Zachary muttered coldly. “Or maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought you did.” He saw the dislike in the other man's remote gray eyes, and he experienced a strange comingling of emotions. Triumph, because Holly was indeed living with him and her life was entwined with his in a way it had never been with this superior aristocrat's. And jealousy, bitter stinging jealousy, because this man had known her before Zachary had, and for a much longer time. And Holly and Ravenhill were obviously cut of the same cloth, both of them cultured and pedigreed.
Giving his battered face one last swipe with the towel, Zachary smiled slightly at the handsome aristocrat. “My thanks, Ravenhill. I would take you as my second anytime.” They exchanged a measuring glance, not hostile, but not precisely friendly. Ravenhill was not pleased with what had become of Holly, Zachary realized. His lordship was offended by the idea that his departed friend's wife was now employed by a lowbrow commoner. Too bad for you, Zachary thought nastily, every proprietary, primitive instinct in his body rising to the fore. She's mine now, and there's nothing in hell that you or anyone else can do about it.
Almost twenty-four hours to the minute since her megrims had begun, Holly felt well enough to rise from her bed. She felt weak and a bit dazed, as she always did after such an episode. It was early evening, the time when the Bronsons usually gathered in the family parlor to wait for supper to be announced. “Where is Rose?” was Holly's first question, as Maude helped her to sit up in bed.
“Downstairs with the master and his mother and sister,” Maude answered, tucking supportive pillows behind her back. “They've all been doting on her while ye've been sleeping, playing games with the child and giving her extra sweets. Mr. Bronson canceled his ride to town today and spent all morning guiding her ‘round the paddock on a little brown pony.”
“Oh, he shouldn't have,” Holly said in instant concern. “He shouldn't have neglected his business concerns—it isn't his place to take care of my child.”
“He insisted, milady. I thought it a bit unseemly, and I tried to tell him there was no need. But ye know how the master is when he is set on something.”
“Yes, I know.” Holly sighed and clasped her hand over her sore forehead. “Oh, the extra trouble I've caused for you and everyone—”
“Now, milady, don't go fretting yerself into another megrim,” Maude soothed. “The Bronsons are all quite happy, it seems, and Rose has enjoyed all the petting and spoiling. No harm done. Shall I have some victuals sent up, milady?”
“Thank you, but I would like to go downstairs and take supper with the family. I've been in bed for far too long. And I must see Rose.”
With the maid's help, Holly bathed and dressed in a soft, simple gown of brown corded silk trimmed with a small collar of tea-dyed lace, and more lace edging at the sleeves. Since her scalp was still sensitive after the attack of megrims, they coiled her long, loose locks and secured them to her nape with only two pins. After checking her appearance in the dressing-table mirror to ascertain that she was tidy, Holly carefully made her way to the family parlor.