Page 52 of To Catch a Viscount

She turned her head slightly, angling her head back to meet his gaze more squarely. His piercing gaze went through her. “N-never.” The breathy quaver to her voice laid to waste all her attempts at being a determined woman who knew her mind.

He inclined his head and then held his arm out. “Shall we, then?”

Marcia linked her elbow with Andrew’s, and they started forward.

The closer they drew, the louder the noise emanating from a building that was more of a warehouse than a residence.

The moment they reached the front doors, Andrew knocked in a rhythmic, almost singsong tap, hard and loud enough to be heard over the din within.

Reflexively, she stepped closer, expecting him to make some jest at her unease.

Instead, he waited, his focus on the door.

A moment later, it opened.

A giant bear of a man greeted them.

At three inches past six feet, Andrew was a tall man. This stranger had six inches on even him.

He looked Andrew over and briefly glanced at Marcia before wordlessly nodding and stepping aside.

A haze of smoke hung over the room, stinging her eyes, and she blinked several times, both in a bid to ward off the tears and also to see where precisely Andrew had brought her.

Leaning close, Andrew shouted loud enough to be heard over the raucous noise. “Come!”

He looped an arm about her waist, bringing her body flush against his side in a protective gesture, and his touch wrought havoc upon her senses. Together, they wound their way through the building, weaving in and out between guests, mostly men and only a handful of women sprinkled amongst their numbers.

If Andrew had worried about people remarking upon her presence, he needn’t have worried. Some several hundred guests’ attention was trained intently on the front of the room. The patrons lifted their arms and shook their fists, their shouts all rolling together.

Curious, Marcia stretched up on tiptoe as she walked in a bid to see what commanded their focus.

Andrew continued guiding her closer to the front of the room, and then he held an arm out, gesturing for her to enter the row before them first.

A pair of seated men looked over.

“Waters!” they shouted in unison, loud enough to make themselves heard over the din.

The Duke of Rothesby and the Marquess of Landon. She recognized them easily. Both were notorious rakes and also close friends of Andrew.

“You’ve brought company,” Rothesby remarked over the top of Marcia’s head as she settled onto the hard bench beside him.

“Indeed,” Andrew said, stuffing his gloves inside the front of his cloak and adding nothing more.

Rothesby gave Marcia another quick glance. “Never tell methisis the good fun you saved me from last evening?”

“It appears he took it all for himself,” Landon drawled, his voice loud enough to penetrate the shouts filling the arena.

Marcia blushed.

Scooting closer to Andrew so that her thigh brushed his, she looked up.

Two men in a roped-off ring upon an elevated wooden dais circled each other. Arms up, fists close to their faces, they danced about the space.

And then, one of the fighters darted out a quick punch, his blow connecting with his opponent’s nose.

Blood sprayed everywhere upon the two fighters, and with a gasp, Marcia reflexively turned her head, burying it against Andrew’s shoulder.

It was… horrific.

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