Part 21 (1/2)

Kesseley couldn't wait for the fight to start. He stood bare-chested, the cold wind whipping around him. Gilling threw punches into his freckled friend's palm. He had a good twenty years on Kesseley, but still had the muscles of a younger man and the brash att.i.tude to match.

Bucky hung about nervously in Kesseley's corner. ”Does your heir, the one in Winchester, have a rich sister? Because that freckled chap is a prizefighter from Scotland,” he informed Kesseley. ”He ain't lost a fight.”

Several lovely ladies standing around Kesseley cried with alarm.

He gave them a wink, feeling c.o.c.ky and liking it. ”His luck's about to change,” he said, heading for Gilling, his bare fists raised.

Kesseley circled his opponent, antic.i.p.ating, bouncing on his feet, letting Gilling throw the first punch. Gilling connected a decent jab to Kesseley's ribs. Kesseley smiled. He dodged the fist intended for his face and answered with two stone blows to Gilling's face. First the left, ramming his cheekbone, then a right under the chin, slamming Gilling's jaw together with a sickening crunch. Blood shot up in the air like a waterspout and sprayed down on Kesseley. The lecher tumbled backward into people along the wall, then straightened himself and staggered back into the center.

He spat blood. ”You G.o.dd.a.m.ned country b.u.mpkin. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman even if she were sitting on your b.l.o.o.d.y c.o.c.k,” he hissed.

The crowd, including Kesseley, laughed.

Then he drew back his right and jammed it deep into Gilling's gut, lifting him from the ground. The man's body collapsed around his fist. Kesseley threw him off, but the fool didn't have the sense to fall, so Kesseley let off two powerful blows, slamming Gilling's face and chest. The crowd let out guttural moans, as if hit themselves.

Gilling righted himself, breathing like an overheated b.i.t.c.h. He drew his fist back and delivered a weak punch that Kesseley caught with his hand. He pulled Gilling forward and smashed his forehead down on Gilling's nose. The crunch of breaking bone and cartilage was audible. Gilling's body went limp and dangled from Kesseley's grip. He let go and the scoundrel puddled on the ground.

The crowd was silent except for Bucky, who danced about telling everyone how Kesseley and he had gone to Trinity together and what close mates they were.

Kesseley flicked Gilling's blood off with his fingers and returned to his corner. His circle of female admirers had swelled. Their fingers ma.s.saged his warm, wet muscles. He threw his head back and let out a groan, feeling weeks and weeks of tension easing from his muscles.

The Scottish prizefighter stepped forward. Unlike Kesseley, whose muscles rippled all the way down his abdomen, the fighter was a hard, shapeless rock of brawn. He stood perfectly still on his large feet while Kesseley danced around, trying to figure him out. Finally Kesseley threw a right, just to have him answer. He did, with a scorcher to the jaw that sent Kesseley sprawling back into his corner and into the arms of his feminine admirers.

He rubbed his jaw. ”d.a.m.n, you're good.”

The Scotsman gave him a smug smile. Kesseley rose and went running at his opponent, taking lightning swipes at his ribs. The bruiser crunched sideways but still managed to nearly punch Kesseley's guts out. Kesseley held steady, resisting the urge to throw up, and sent a fast fist to the Scot's jaw. He didn't see it coming, used as he was to opponents who needed more recovery time from his powerful punches.

Kesseley danced like a light-footed debutante around the alley, ducking and blocking the Scot's slow, but deadly punches. The prizefighter was wearing down. Spit trickled down his chin and his eyes took on a dumb, blank look. Twice he swiped at the air. The third time, he caught Kesseley's brow, sending him to the ground.

Kesseley touched his bleeding forehead, seeing the blood drip down his finger, and something broke in him.

He couldn't recall the next few seconds, except in the end, he had the prizefighter trapped against the wall, punis.h.i.+ng him with a flurry of lefts and rights, until the Scotsman slumped and slipped down. Several hands grabbed Kesseley and pulled him away. He ripped himself free to stand alone, cradling his bruised fists. His chest heaved with each breath. He swallowed the blood and sweat pooling in his mouth. ”Where the h.e.l.l's the other one?”

It seemed Sir Gilling's other friend preferred to keep his face in its proper order-he was nowhere to be found.

Kesseley returned to his corner and picked up his s.h.i.+rt. His knuckles had begun to swell and ache. He tossed his coat over his shoulders and replaced his shoes, then turned to his silent audience and bowed. ”Let me apologize for Sir Gilling's unbecoming comments at the ball and this disgraceful debauchery in the alley. Good evening.”

The crowd broke out in applause, refusing to let him pa.s.s.

The sweet auburn temptress ran up and flung her arms about him. ”But we haven't finished our dance.”

”And you didn't dance with me!” a pretty blonde said.

”Or me!” a brunette charmer cried.

Kesseley didn't dance, or at least not vertically. His fair Cyprians led him to a mirrored room. They took turns wiping his cut brow, their eyes full of concern, their heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s lying invitingly against his arm. It was decided he was too injured to sit and must lie down, so they led him to the bed where their whispery fingers made short work of his s.h.i.+rt and shoes. He leaned his head against the headboard and cradled his swelling hands while watching the ladies perform a little dance for him.

Wine arrived, deep red, not the sugary misery from the b.a.l.l.s of the other evenings. They held the gla.s.s to his lips, letting it run over, then kissed his face clean, his neck, his chest, his belly.

He felt soft fingers unclasp his pantaloons...

Silence.

”Oh my,” admired a sweet, feminine voice.

Henrietta waited in the parlor all night, curled up on the sofa, still in her evening gown. She listened for every pa.s.sing carriage, yet none drew to a stop before the house. As the early morning sun rose into the coal-ridden sky, she heard loud male laughter from outside in the street. She went to the window. A group of bucks, including Kesseley, weaved drunkenly about the sidewalk. He waved them off and ambled up the front steps.

She ran into the hall as the door opened.

”Kesseley,” she said. ”I-I waited for you.”

His eyes, burning under the shadow of his hat, raked over her. He c.o.c.ked his head. The light from the torch mounted beside the door illuminated his b.l.o.o.d.y brow and bruised lip.

”Dear G.o.d! What happened?” she said, reaching for his face.

He grabbed her wrist. ”Don't.”

The scent of perspiration and sweet perfume hung about him. The loose knot on his cravat wasn't the neat elegant one from the ball. Henrietta let out a whimper and tried to wrest her arm from his, the filthy black truth all about her.

Kesseley and another lady.

He held Henrietta tight, forcing her to see the truth. Then he released her and stepped past.

”Wait!” she cried.

He stopped but kept his back to her. ”Yes?”

She had stayed up all night to tell him, and even in this wreckage, she ached to release the truth. ”I didn't mean for it to happen this way, but it did and everything has changed.”

”What are you trying to say?” he interrupted, as if she were wasting his time.

She felt like she was moving boulders with her heart. Her voice was a rush of breath.

”I-I wanted to t-tell you. Th-that-” She swallowed and drove the knife in. ”I love you.”

He spun to face her, kicking up his coattails. ”What?” he said harshly.

”I love you.”

He gently lifted her chin with the knuckle of his index finger and lowered his head, but stopped his mouth just shy of hers. She could almost feel the fresh memory of another lady on his lips.

”You're a little late, Miss Watson,” he said.