Page 80 of Bite at First Sight

“I was the bare-knuckle champion during my school days at St. Thomas and Guy’s.” Wakley declared proudly. “How is your left arm feeling?”

“Quite well, actually.” Rafe was surprised to notice that there was no pain or tingling. “I think the exercise was beneficial. However, it still remains inept.”

“Yes, I’d noticed. You do have a remarkable style. And I wondered at your blocking with the shoulder rather than the glove.”

“Habit. It was the only way I could block until recently.”

“Remarkable,” the surgeon replied. “I would enjoy another match. I believe with practice we can get your left hand trained as well as your right.”

“I would like that as well.” Though between the upcoming battle and his inevitable confrontation with the Elders, he doubted he’d have another opportunity. Still, it had felt so good to box again—and to use both fists, even if one remained clumsy. He removed his gloves and extended his hand. “I will call on you at the earliest opportunity.”

Wakley removed his own gloves and shook Rafe’s hand before donning his shirt. “And now I must be going. I promised my wife I would not tarry too long.”

He bowed to Cassandra and Lydia and shook Vincent’s hand on his way out.

“That was incredible!” Lydia exclaimed. “Like a primal dance!”

“Yes, he is indeed magnificent,” Cassandra said, eyes raking over Rafe’s bare chest in a way that made him straighten his shoulders with pride.

“Speaking of dancing,” Vincent said, “the Siddons sisters have arrived to prepare us for the ball.”

“Cristo,” Rafe grumbled. Immediately his good mood dissipated.

* * *

2 November 1823

Rafe felt like a game bird being prepared for a banquet. For two nights straight he’d been measured, poked, and dressed. Trifling details about dancing, title addresses, and seating arrangements had been drilled into his head ad nauseam.

Preparing for war suddenly held far more appeal than readying for this goddamned ball.

At least he’d received a note from the Lord of Blackpool that he would also be in attendance. The vampire was a bit of a knave, but at least his alliance was firm and his oath to ally with Rafe in London was solemn and fervent.

The Lord of Rochester still had yet to arrive in London. Who knew if he even would? Perhaps his offer of aid had been a jest.

Rafe glared as Vincent shook his head, reached forward, and removed Rafe’s poorly tied neckcloth. “No, that will not do. Try it again.” The Lord of Cornwall tossed him another length of snowy linen.

“What sort of madman devised this ridiculous contraption?” Rafe growled. “I have half a mind to take all these cravats, fashion a noose, and string up the hijo de puta.”

Vincent laughed. “I completely share your sentiment. Alas, that does not change the fact that you shall require a cravat. After all, you do not want to shame your countess.”

“No, I suppose not.” Reluctantly Rafe took the fabric and once more attempted the intricate knot that Deveril had demonstrated. “What?” he demanded as Vincent stared oddly.

Vincent blinked and shook his head as if waking from a dream. “I apologize. I am still unaccustomed to the sight of you using both hands. I’ve never seen such a miracle.”

Again that new, poignant warmth curled through Rafe’s heart at the thought of all Cassandra had done for him. “She has my undying gratitude,” he said awkwardly.

“I should assume so,” Vincent agreed fervently. As if sensing Rafe’s embarrassment, he changed the subject. “Shall we move on to selecting your waistcoat?” He held out a collection of garments with a sardonic grin.

Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“After all the curmudgeonly treatment you favored me with during Lydia’s debut? Yes, I suppose I am,” Vincent replied proudly as he clapped Rafe on the shoulder. “Buck up, man. You only have to contend with this silliness for a short time, while I had to suffer through it most of the official Season.”

“I suppose I deserve that.”

Vincent nodded. “Indeed.”

“And I am certain Cassandra is suffering worse than I am.” The women were downstairs with the Siddons sisters, being fitted for ball gowns. “The mad sisters have more pins and needles in their hands than she has in her laboratory. I hope she isn’t being pricked to death.”

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