The Wedding Trap (24 page)

Smiling, Kit dropped back a few steps. “You need to keep up your right, my friend. You were wide open.”

Brevard’s eyes narrowed as he sent Kit another penetrating look. “I’ll remember that.” He paused. “You know, Winter, I have no wish to hurt you.”

“How very decent.” Kit displayed his teeth. “Guess that will make the match all that much easier for me to win.”

They fell silent and circled again, trading punches and jabs at random. Brevard connected a couple times, light, glancing blows that felt more like bee stings than real hits. Then the viscount caught his rhythm and came in, landing a pair of solid punches to Kit’s stomach that drove the air out of his lungs. Kit pulled back to recover, thrusting up his hands to shield his midriff before another blow could fall.

Time was called, each man given a small period to rest and take fluids. Kit toweled his face dry and eased the dryness from his mouth with a couple swallows of lemon water. His breath and strength restored, he stepped again to the center of the ring, ready for another round.

He didn’t wait more than a few seconds before he came at Brevard again, striking hard and fast in a series of rapid, hammering punches. Brevard reacted, attempting to protect himself and get in a punch of his own. But it was Kit who landed the successful blow, a knock that landed on the other man’s cheek and nose.

A trickle of blood leaked out of Brevard’s nostril. He wiped it onto his shirtsleeve.

“Sorry. Guess I got too rough,” Kit said, his tone clearly unrepentant.

“This whole bout seems rough. Is there something the matter?” the viscount demanded in a low tone meant only for Kit’s ears. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you really are out for blood. Which coincidentally enough, you just drew.”

Kit shrugged. “Don’t know what you mean. Come on, Brevard. Let’s fight.”

The viscount shook his head. “Not until you tell me what it is we’re
really
fighting about. This is more than just a practice match.”

“What gave you the idea I was practicing?”

Kit came at him again, the viscount getting his gloves up a fraction of an instant before Kit would have knocked him another hard one-two in the ribs. Kit pressed on, using alternating rhythms—three punches then two then three again—thrown in unexpected groupings and at varying speeds to keep the other man off balance and squarely on the defensive.

Kit’s lungs were laboring for air, his skin running slick with sweat by the time another round was called. Brevard, he saw, was no better off, skin flushed, chest heaving to catch his breath. Arm and leg muscles quivering, Kit could feel a mild weariness creeping up on him, but nothing serious, nothing he couldn’t overcome, still invigorated by the competition.

Rest period over, he and Brevard converged once more in the center of the ring, calls and shouts coming from the crowd to urge the pair of them on, wagers having obviously been made.

Kit threw a combination of punches, then the viscount returned the same, neither of them doing any particular damage. When Kit drew close enough to strike, the viscount reached out and yanked him into a rib-crushing hug.

“Out with it,” Brevard said into Kit’s ear as they wrestled. “What’s behind this ire of yours?”

“A lady,” Kit spat.

“What lady?”

With a growl, Kit threw off Brevard’s hold, then laid in with another couple swings.

“Ouf.”
The viscount bent forward and curled his arms around his bruised belly.

Not wanting to risk being overheard, Kit came in close. “The lady you lured out to the garden last night.”

“Oh.” Brevard’s blue eyes widened a second before Kit socked him with another double pummel to the gut. The viscount stumbled back but caught himself before he fell.

Shaking off the blow, Brevard came forward. “She’s a friend, almost a sister to you, I know, but you’ve nothing about which to worry.”

Kit renewed his attack.

“My intentions are strictly honorable,” the viscount said, fending off Kit’s punches without making much effort to counter.

“They didn’t look honorable to me.” Kit landed another punch.

“Well, they are. She needs time yet, but I am seriously contemplating asking her to be my wife.”

“What?”
Kit’s mouth fell open, his arms sagging downward.

In some vague part of his brain, Kit saw the punch Brevard had already started to throw coming toward him, but he could do nothing to get his gloves up in time. Wide open, he took the blow straight to his face.

His head swam, pain exploding in his cheek, little spitting sparks of light floating before his eyes. He blinked and swayed, then he was falling for what seemed a very, very long time. Wooden planks shuddered under him when he finally hit the ground. He groaned, his body turning into one instantaneous ache.

“Winter, are you all right?”

He squinted upward, Brevard’s concerned face spinning above him.

Deuced odd,
he thought.
Why is Brevard spinning?

Another male hand appeared in his fractured line of sight, giving him a light smack across the undamaged side of his face.

“
Hey,
what in the bloody blue blazes?” Kit complained, trying to roll away from the abuse. It was Gentleman Jackson, Kit realized in spite of his groggy confusion.

Jackson glanced up to address the crowd. “He’s fine.”

A wave of murmured grumblings and exclamations floated on the air.

“Had two quid on him.”

“Blast it all, first time Winter’s ever gone down.”

Brevard, his gloves now off, extended a hand to help Kit to his feet. Only then did Kit remember what the viscount had confessed just before he had knocked Kit flat.

Brevard is considering marrying Eliza?

Kit blanched and suddenly felt like retching. He shook off the feeling—a result of the blow to the head, he told himself. He swayed and gazed bleary-eyed at the viscount.

“Well, Brevard,” he muttered. “Looks like you won this round.”

Chapter Fourteen

For once Eliza did not have any fixed afternoon engagements. Tonight she would be attending the Fitzmarions’ musicale, where assembled guests would listen to the soaring soprano voice of opera’s currently reigning queen. Until then Eliza was free to do as she chose, and what she chose to do was read a book.

After sharing a late-morning visit with Violet and the children, she detoured to her bedchamber to retrieve the novel she was reading from the nightstand. About to step inside, she turned at the muffled sound of footfalls, to find Kit making his way up the hall.

“Good day,” she said.

His step slowed, and he raised a hand in greeting. “Eliza.”

He winced, at least she thought he winced, failing to directly meet her gaze. In fact, he seemed to be holding his head at a rather strange angle, as if there was something he did not wish her to see. When he drew close enough to pass, she got a better look at him.

“Kit!”
she gasped. “Oh, good Lord, what has happened to you?”

Despite his obvious reluctance, he stopped and exhaled a deep gust of breath. Wincing anew, he straightened and met her gaze. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

Reaching out, she caught his chin in her hand and angled his face so she could inspect the wound. Purple as a blackberry pie and clearly painful, a livid bruise rode his right cheekbone, a small, blood-encrusted cut curled at its outer tip.

“It certainly
is
something!” she declared in anxious tones. “What on earth has befallen you?”

“Just sport, nothing serious. I dropped my guard when I ought to have kept it up.”

“Fisticuffs, do you mean?”

She knew Kit enjoyed athletic pursuits, frequenting Angelo’s Fencing Academy and the boxing establishment next door, the one owned by the famous Mr. Jackson.

“Exactly so,” he confirmed.

Her eyebrows crinkled. “Well, it must not have been a fair fight, if this is the result.”

“It was fair. Don’t worry yourself over it.”

“How can I not, when you are so obviously injured? You need medical attention. I’ll send for the physician.”

He shook his head, grimacing at the movement. “You’ll do nothing of the kind. I appreciate your concern, but I won’t have some quack poking and prodding me. He’ll only make things worse.”

She wanted to argue further, but she knew Kit well enough to realize her entreaties would prove useless. “If you won’t see the doctor, then at least let me do what I can. A fomentation should help to relieve the bruise before the worst of it sets. I have a book of herbal remedies here in my room. Come in and sit down while I find the recipe.”

Too concerned to worry over the proprieties of inviting Kit into her bedchamber, she caught his wide palm inside hers and drew him into her room.

“You needn’t fuss,” he said. “I’ve suffered much worse than this over the years.”

She responded with a delicate snort. “If you have, then I am glad I did not have occasion to see the results. Now, sit.” She pointed him toward an armchair not far from her bed.

With an obedient shrug, Kit crossed and sank onto the seat.

Hard as he might pretend his wound didn’t trouble him, his face throbbed like the very devil. Restraining the urge to groan, he watched Eliza as she bustled across the serenely feminine room, which was painted in soothing shades of eggshell and blue, her destination a bookshelf that stood in one corner.

Count on Eliza Hammond, he mused, to have what amounted to a small, private library at her disposal. He smiled and instantly regretted the movement.

Silently, he observed her as she pulled out one book after another, muttering under her breath as she flipped through the pages, searching for the promised herbal potion. After a pair of minutes, she turned. “I’ve found a couple decoctions I believe will help but not the one I really wanted. I don’t know why, but I cannot find the right book.” She tapped a fingernail against a shelf and sighed.

“Maybe you left the volume out,” he suggested.

Her brows furrowed in consternation. “I do have a few titles scattered around, as you can see.”

And so she did, he realized, noticing a foot-high tower of books stacked on a chair near the window, and another set of volumes arranged between the legs of her nightstand.

“Mayhap it’s one of these.” He motioned toward the titles on the floor.

She shook her head. “Those are mostly for pleasure reading. It wouldn’t be one of those.”

“What about in here? Sometimes I stash notes and such in my night-table drawers, thinking I’ll remember precisely where I’ve put them, only to have to cudgel my brain later in search. Maybe you’re like me and have only forgotten.” He slid open the drawer.

Inside he found a slender volume bound in scuffed green leather. “Here’s something,” he said, lifting out the book. “Is this the one?”

A horrified gasp rent the air. “
No!
Put that back.”

He cast a quizzical glance her way, surprised by the alarmed expression on her face, her eyes as big and round as shooting marbles. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing.” She raced forward, hands outstretched. “That’s not the right book.”

“You’re sure?” He thumbed open the title page. “
Albanino’s Postures.
Could be a medical work.”

“It’s not, it’s…please give it to me.” Her words quavered, sounding oddly desperate.

“Why? What is it?”

Instinctively deciding to play keep-away, he lifted the volume up and out of her reach, then flipped to the center of the book. Seconds later, his mouth dropped open, his eyes widening as he stared in utter stupefaction at the illustration before him.

“Bloody Christ!”

He stared for another long minute before turning the page, only to discover another picture so lasciviously remarkable that he had to spin the book around to take in the tableau from a different angle.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, shooting Eliza an incredulous glance.

Lobster red all the way to her hairline, Eliza parted her lips to speak, but no sound emerged. Squeezing her eyes closed, she swallowed and shook her head.

He turned another pair of pages, pausing to read one of the poems. His lips twitched. “I guess one could say this is an educational text, just not the sort I was expecting to find in your possession.”

Her eyes popped open.

“So, how does a gently bred girl like you come to have bawdy books in her nightstand?”

“Book. There’s only the one,” she croaked.

“And where did you get
the one
?” He closed the book, then waggled it in her direction.

Her cheeks flashed hotter. “I…um…”

“Yes?” he drawled encouragingly.

“I’d rather not say.”

“I suspect you wouldn’t, but being as I’m the curious type, I won’t be able to rest until I have a full confession from you. So confess.”

Just where had Eliza come across the prurient collection?
he mused. Had some friend given the book to her? And if so, what sorts of friends did she have these days? This was the kind of book men generally passed around—he’d seen its like in his days at Oxford—handed secretly from one lustfully inquisitive fellow to the next. Surely one of her suitors hadn’t loaned the volume to her?