But she couldn’t.
This was their life. Their dance. Their battle.
Blessedly, the seconds completed their inspections, leaving Temple to run a line in the sawdust at the center of the ring with his boot. Even that movement, which should have been harsh and unmeasured, was graceful.
“The scratch line,” her new companion explained. “The men face off on either side of the line. As many rounds as necessary until one falls and does not rise.”
“Bets are closed, ladies,” the dark-skinned man who had escorted her to this room spoke for the first time, reminding Mara that they were in a gaming hell—that even this moment was worth money to The Fallen Angel.
Temple waited, unmoving, for Drake to approach.
The narration continued. “Temple always allows the opponent to take the first hold.”
“Why?” she asked, hating the breathlessness in the word. She’d been dragged here, against her will, to watch this expression of utter brutality.
So why did she suddenly care so much for the answer?
“He is undefeated,” the woman said, simply. “He likes to give his opponents a fair chance.”
Fairness. Something he’d never had. He was a good man. Even if no one saw it. Even if she didn’t wish to believe it.
She looked to his bare feet, the wide black bands on his massive arms, the myriad of scars on his chest and cheek and the new fresh one on his arm, still bearing the stitches from her hand.
She couldn’t find his dark gaze, couldn’t bring herself to see him as a whole and face the things that she’d done to him, to put him here, in this ring, watched by half of London. Wagered on. Marveled at, like a bottled creature in a cabinet of curiosities.
She looked away, turning to Drake, who was easier to watch. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for battle.
The fight began, brutal and unforgiving.
Drake came at Temple with undeniable force, and Temple deflected it, bending backward and using the momentum of the smaller man’s blow to bring him off balance and land a powerful punch to Drake’s side.
The hit was hard and precise, and Drake stumbled away, catching himself on the ropes of the ring before coming around to face Temple again.
The massive duke stood at the scratch line, barely breathing heavily. He waited.
“Aww, ’twon’t be a good fight tonight, girls,” one of the ladies said. “Drake’s going to drop like a stone.”
“They always do,” another said.
“If only there were an opponent who would keep him in the ring,” sighed a third, and Mara wished all these women would simply stop talking.
Drake came at him again, arms outstretched, like a small child angling for an embrace. He never had a chance. Temple moved like lightning, swatting away the long arms and delivering a wicked blow to Drake’s jaw and another to his torso immediately after.
Drake fell to his knees, and Temple immediately stepped back.
Mara’s gaze flew to his face, registering none of the triumph or pride that one might have expected. There was no emotion there—nothing that revealed his feelings about the bout.
He waited, patient as Job as Drake pressed his hands to the sawdust-covered floor, and the room around her went quiet.
“Is he going to get up again?”
She watched the fallen man breathe deeply, his chest heaving once, twice, before he raised his hand in the universal sign for enough .
“Awww,” one of the ladies sighed in disappointment. “A forfeit.”
“Come on, Drake! Fight like a man!”
The women around her whined and whinged, as though they’d lost a favorite toy. She turned to the woman who had become her tacit guide for the evening. “What now?”
Temple stepped forward as the woman spoke, reaching toward his opponent. “A forfeit is an immediate loss.”
Drake accepted Temple’s help, coming to his feet unsteadily. The aged oddsmaker at one side of the ring pointed a finger to a red flag at one corner of the space, and the crowd on both sides of the window erupted into shouts and jeers.
“And Temple wins,” the woman explained to Mara, “but not the way they like.”
“A win is a win, is it not?”
One brown brow rose in amusement. “Tell that to the men who just lost hours of entertainment in thirty seconds.” She returned her attention to the ring, as men throughout the room protested, waving scraps of paper in the air. “Those men have placed enormous bets on the fights—never against Temple, but on the number of rounds and the punches thrown . . . even the way Drake fell.” The lady paused. “They don’t care for short bouts.”
“Anna,” the man in the corner called out, and the lady turned to him.
He nodded once, and she returned her attention to Mara. “I am sorry. I’m afraid I have work to do.” Mara’s brow furrowed, and the lady tilted her head. “Unhappy patrons require . . . appeasing.”
And Mara understood. The woman was a prostitute. A highly paid one if Mara had to make a guess. “Of course.”
The woman tipped her head. “My lady.”
“Oh, I’m not . . .”
Anna smiled. “Those of us who are not must stick together.”
And then she was gone, leaving Mara with the aftermath of the fight and the keen knowledge that she deserved no kind of honorific considering the consequences of her long-ago actions.
Temple seemed not to care about the way the men screamed and fought around him, desperate for a way to regain their bets. Instead, he turned to face the mirror, black eyes scanning its breadth.
“Here it is!” a lady called from nearby.
He nodded once, sending titters and sighs through the room, leaving Mara breathless with the knowledge that with the bout now over, he was coming for her.
And with that knowledge came the memory of their last conversation. Of the words he’d used. Of the blow she’d dealt.
Of the bed she had made for them, where they were enemies. Where she did all she could to regain her funds, and he did all he could to exact his revenge.
Her anger returned.
“Poor Temple!” someone called. “He didn’t get his fight!”
“I should like to give him a fight,” another lady retorted, and the innuendo set the rest of the room tittering.
I don’t fight women.
How many times had he said it that first night?
But what if one were to challenge him anyway? In the open? What if a women were to offer to fight him for the money that was rightfully hers?
What if she were to back him into that corner where his red flag flew with cocksure arrogance?
Would he forfeit?
Could she win?
Her heart pounded in her chest. She could . This moment, this place was her answer. The Marquess of Bourne had climbed into the ring with him, and the two were in discussion.
Mara’s thoughts raced.
It could be that easy.
A reed-thin bespectacled man materialized at her side. “Temple requests that you meet him in his rooms. I am to take you there.”
Excellent. “I have every intention of meeting the duke.”
She intended to set him down. To prove him wrong. To prove herself stronger and smarter and more powerful than he thought her. To make him regret his words. To make him rescind them.
His kisses had distracted her too well. His strange, unexpected kindness had upended her keen awareness of this war they waged. But then he’d called her a whore. And she was reminded of his purpose. Of hers.