Page 59 of To Catch a Viscount

After the young beauty had gone, Marcia turned back to Rothesby.

“We shall be partners,” she vowed.

Partners.

Andrew tensed.

“I shall like that very much, Dorothy,” Rothesby murmured in the husky tones he reserved for seducing widows and wicked women and not Marcia.

Andrew flattened his mouth into a hard line to keep in the flow of words he really didn’t wish to heap upon his friend’s head.

Partners. Andrew let that word, spoken in Marcia’s innocent, bell-like voice, play over and over in his mind.

She’d been intending to approach the other man and enlist his favor, and hell, she would have wound up at this very place.

Or mayhap not.

Rothesby would have likely not balked at taking her to a bloody orgy and watching with her as people made love with more than one partner.

He growled at an image he couldn’t shake and desperately wished he could. Because, blast and damn, this was Marcia.

Little Marcia.

Little Marcia, who wasn’t so little anymore, but who was still the same girl to him that she’d always been and would always be. And it was why he was so damned bloody protective of her. It was why, against all better judgment, he was here even now.

Shouts erupted, signifying the start of the match.

Maynard’s opponent, a taller, broader, more muscular fighter, came out charging swiftly, landing several rapid blows to Maynard’s gut in quick succession.

The other man recoiled slightly, but otherwise gave no indication that those jabs had had any effect either way. Instead, he came at Telliers with slower, more methodical, more deliberate blows. He delivered one, two, three, four jabs to the belly and connected the last of the rapid spurt of punches with Telliers’ chin, whipping his head back.

With an excited squeal, Marcia exploded to her feet with a rapidity that sent her hood tumbling back, revealing her face in the glow of the heavy candlelight illuminating the arena.

Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she let her own little fists fly as though in so doing she was conferring her strength to the fighter on whom she’d wagered.

In her excitement, she was a sight to behold.

Andrew’s gaze snagged on Rothesby.

Rothesby, who made no attempt to conceal his all-out study of Marcia.

Catching Andrew’s stare, the duke grinned. “What?” he mouthed, lifting his shoulders in a little shrug.

Andrew touched a finger to the corner of his eye and pointed at the other man. “Watch. The. Bloody. Match,” he mouthed.

That silently issued order only brought the other man’s head back as he howled with amusement.

Cursing to himself, Andrew returned his attention to Marcia.

At some point, the match had taken a bloodier, more vicious turn as Maynard caught Telliers to him and held him in place as he jabbed away at the other man’s kidneys.

Then, in one fluid motion, Maynard spun the dazed fighter away and dealt a quick uppercut to his opponent, catching him under the chin. Even over the din of the crowd, the crack of his jaw shattering reached ringside.

Telliers’ eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he staggered back several steps. The fighter fell to his knees and then collapsed, facedown.

The arena roared with the crowd’s approval. People stomped their feet almost in perfect unison, their cheers rolling around the room like thunder.

Splendid. He’d lost.

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