Rebecca needed the time to compose herself as much as the fighters did. She had never seen such violence up close. While she knew she had been rather shielded, she could hardly believe that Valentine actually enjoyed such a sport.
The next two rounds were fairly uneventful, though Brown did not look quite as strong as he once had — Val’s last punch had proven to knock some of the bluster from him.
After a couple of rounds, however, Brown regained some of his enthusiasm, and the men began to trade full, powerful blows. The more their faces bled and their knuckles cracked, the sicker Rebecca became. Until suddenly, despite the fact one of his eyes was only half open, Val’s gaze seemed to catch hers. Rebecca could only stare as he looked at her in astonishment, and then suddenly their connection broke with a crack — Brown’s fist connected so solidly with Valentine’s nose that he went down like a sack of potatoes.
Tears began to fill Rebecca’s eyes as she sank back into the crowd of people, who were happy to push around her so they would have a better view themselves. She heard another crack but didn’t see what had happened, for she had averted her eyes, unable to watch anymore. She knew she was being ridiculous, but the thought that Val — beautiful, passionate Val — was subjecting himself to such a terrible sport for the entertainment of the blood-hungry crowd and a few coins nearly tore her apart.
Until finally she was out of the crowd and into the open air, where she took deep breaths to calm herself.
So this was what he had to do. She wondered if she would prefer his visit to Hungerford was for the purpose of finding a woman. Would that have been better? For then at least he would be doing something beautiful, even if it were not with her.
This did explain so much. Why his father had been disappointed in him, why he so hated his new role of duke. If this was what fueled him, then his new life would have no room for it, would not coincide. For as much as the nobility, particularly the Fancy, treated men such as fighters as though they were to be celebrated, prizefighters themselves were not of the noble class. It just wasn’t done.
Rebecca couldn’t stay and watch. Yet she couldn’t leave either. Not until she knew what had happened, how Val was. So she crouched on her heels in a miserable ball at the outskirts of the crowd for what felt like hours.
Until finally the people seemed to turn as one and she had to scurry out of the way to avoid being trampled. She waited, not altogether patiently, for Val to appear, but he didn’t come. Once she was sure the middle field had to be empty, that most had departed, she hesitantly walked toward it.
And brought her hand to her throat at the sight before her.
14
Val had no idea how he had gotten home. The last thing he had remembered was seeing Rebecca’s face in the crowd. Then Brown’s fist had intervened and everything had gone black. How many rounds had he gone?
He tried to pry open an eye, but only a crack of light filtered in for a moment. Then something very wet and cold was dropped upon it and he could no longer see at all.
“Archie, take the bloody cloth off my eye,” he ordered, though what he had meant to come out in a commanding tone sounded more like a weak groan.
“Archie is not here at the moment,” came a silky, feminine voice.
“Rebecca?” He really wished she wasn’t here right now — this was not exactly how he would wish a woman to see him.
“You are covered in blood, gashes, and bruises,” she said, though her tone was far from sympathetic but rather accusatory. “What were you thinking?”
“Just another day making a living,” he mumbled as he sat up. He refused to lie there like an invalid.
He reached up, pulling the cold cloth off his eye, and he was able to open it slightly wider. He looked around him, recognizing the gold motifs on the wall as those from his sitting room. Old family portraits of years past, featuring people who were so distant relatives they hardly mattered stared back at him as though they were judging him. He was reclined on the worn red chesterfield, while Rebecca sat on her knees on the floor next to him.
“I’m back at Stonehall?”
“You are,” she said, wringing out a piece of linen in a bowl of water — very red, bloody water. His blood, obviously. “Thanks to your valet. Or should I call him your second?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Yes, well, he had to walk all the way home to fetch a horse. Were you honestly so sure of yourself that you thought you would be able to walk home?”
Yes, he had been, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to tell her that at the moment.
“I suppose I lost, then?”
One corner of her lip twitched, and he sensed that she would have liked to have laughed at him, but was still angry. Though, he thought with a twinge of ire himself, what he chose to do with his time shouldn’t matter to her. He was a fighter — always had been — and if she didn’t like that, well, she should leave him be.
“Yes, you most certainly lost.”
“I never lose.”
“You did today.”
“It was your fault.”
“What?” her hazel-green eyes flew up to meet his. “How in the world could this possibly be my fault?”
“I saw you.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, and her eyes narrowed in response, though she said nothing. “You were there, in the crowd. I saw you and I was distracted. Brown would never have bested me otherwise.”
“You think highly of yourself.”
“I know that I am a skilled fighter. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
He was about to answer that yes, of course he enjoyed it. But then he paused for a moment. Did he enjoy it?
He enjoyed the thrill that rushed through him. He liked using his body, the physical exertion of it. He loved being good at something, knowing there was something he was proficient at, could excel at.
Except he hadn’t. Not tonight. And it crushed him.
“It’s part of me,” he answered her, lifting the cloth from her hand and wiping the scrape on his cheek, though he rubbed it too hard and winced at the sting of it.
“Don’t be so stubborn,” she said, taking the cloth back and wiping his brow once more. He had to admit that it was nice to be cared for, though he wasn’t about to tell her that.
“Why were you there?” he asked, propping himself up on an elbow to better see her, but she dipped her gaze sideways to the bowl on the long table in the middle of the room.
“I told you I wasn’t.”
“Rebecca.”
She sniffed, not entirely pleased about answering him.
“I was curious.”
“Of the match? How did you know about it?”
She was silent, and he could tell that she was holding something back from him, not interested in sharing.
Finally, she sighed and flung the linen down in exasperation as she looked up at him.
“I was following you, all right? I wanted to know what would be so pressing that you had to go into the village. I thought… I thought…”
“You thought what?” he asked, more gently now in the hopes that his tone would encourage her to speak.