by Eva Devon
A squeal went up from a lady as it sprayed across her gown.
They pounded each other, each looking for the best way in, the hardest hit. The blow that would drive the other to the ground.
Blow after blow landed until he tasted blood in his mouth and the entirety of the room vanished.
This was living.
This was the art of being totally alive in the moment.
And it was then that he landed an uppercut to Tom Boyd’s chin.
His head snapped back and he staggered. Boyd swayed and then he fell to his knees with a hard thud. Blinking, Boyd sprawled forward, face down.
Edward stood, waiting for him to get back up, ready in case he came for more. But his opponent did not. He let out a groan and tapped the floor.
Edward’s chest pumped up and down as the room slowly came back into focus. He bent, offering Boyd his hand and pulled the other man to his feet.
The ref came forward and grabbed Edward’s arm, shoving it into the air.
He sucked in smoky air, blinking as the room burst with the excitement of his victory.
And then he saw her.
Emmaline Trent stood in the corner of the room, a crimson hood covering her pale blond hair. Her blue eyes shone like rare diamonds as she stared at him.
It was impossible to assess what she thought.
Her lips, tinged rose red, parted, baring pearl white teeth.
The room stilled, the cheering vanished again, the jostling bodies diminished. All he could see was her. Standing there. A pillar of perfect, cold beauty as she took him in.
The peace that the fight brought him disappeared in an instant as every fiber of his being demanded he stride to her. He took a step forward as if he could embrace this primal moment and seize her in his arms. As if he could cut across a sea of resentment, anger, guilt and blame. . .
And then, she whipped away, her cloak fluttering behind her.
Leaving him victorious and utterly defeated.
Chapter 5
Emmaline could not draw breath as she stood in the dark shadows of the club.
The sight before her. . . Could it be true? She struggled to make sense of it. The person she’d known had been a gentleman without a stain of impropriety about him. He’d behaved perfectly, following the edicts of society.
This was a beast of a man.
Edward Hart, youngest brother of the Duke of Huntsdown, the man who’d stolen her heart then destroyed it beyond recognition, stood over six feet and three inches. His dark hair, far too long for fashion, danced about his hard face made of angles. There wasn’t a hint of excess flesh about his frame. Every bit of him seemed carved from stone. He moved with liquid grace about the ring, completely unbothered by the roaring crowd surrounding him.
In fact, he seemed completely at home as if he were an animal that thrived best when fighting to the death.
Blood was trickling from his lip. His eyes, once brown and full of hope, now shone with the promise of pain. He cocked his head down, his massive fists curled into twin weapons.
He whirled and his fist shot out. It met the other man’s face.
In that moment, everyone knew instinctively the fight was done. The loud crack of the sound of flesh and bone shuddered through them all. And Edward’s opponent all but tumbled to the floor.
She gasped, overwhelmed by the frenzy of the room and the sight of him victorious.
Edward stood, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths, his body still and powerful as sweat shone upon his hard flesh.
She could scarce believe the sight of him in naught but his boots and breeches which clung to his legs like a second skin.
Where was the boy who had come home from war still determined to lead a good life? Gone. He was gone. Replaced by a devil in black. A Hercules of a man who looked more at home in Hades than Olympus.
And she was awestruck. She could scarce think beyond the wonder that Edward truly was an entirely different man than before. His muscles fairly bulged from his shoulders. The cheers surrounding him made it clear that he was a champion of the night, a beloved fighter who pounded men into the ground with routine ease.
Just as the referee seized his hand, lifting it high to declare victory, Edward turned in her direction.
She longed to run, but her feet were frozen to the floor.
His gaze caught hers and his brown eyes widened with recognition. His entire being changed in that moment. The beast inside him, though it did not drop away, faded for an instant and his face softened. . . Not with love. . . But with horror.
He took a step forward but before he could break free from the referee’s hold, she whipped around and ran out of the room. She did not wish to see him like this. Not in his club, with him half-clothed, the victor of a fight. With both their emotions running high.
No. She could not bear it. For what would they say to each other? What wounds would they open, never to heal again?
Oh, why had she come? What a fool she’d been to let curiosity get the best of her!
Without daring to look back, she darted through the crowded hall of drunken men and women, dressed in silks and satins, throwing their money into Edward’s purse.
Emmaline’s hands shook as she raced across the street, narrowly avoiding carts, curricles, and coaches as they rushed through the choked road.
Truly! What had she been thinking?
She was mad!
The performance was to begin in less than two hours and here she was, across the street in his club.
But all day long, Harriet’s words had echoed through her and she’d struggled to believe them. Edward could not be so very changed. Surely, he was still the boy she knew. He wasn’t a hard club owner as her cousin claimed.
She sucked in the sooty air and darted into the grand foyer of her theater.
How mistaken she’d been to doubt Harriet.
The image she’d carried of Edward was, indeed, gone. The young man who had been a solider yet still so genteel had disappeared.
She pressed a hand to her mouth as years of emotion barreled forward.
When he whipped off his shirt and stepped into the ring. . .
She had seen nothing like it in all her life.
He had looked like he could kill a man if he so chose without the rules of war.
How could that be her Edward?
She blinked. But he wasn’t her Edward anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time.
It had been utterly clear that he had loved the fighting. He hungered for it. He’d looked like a tiger, pacing its cage waiting to strike. And strike he had.
It had been both beautiful and terrifying.
He was beautiful and terrifying.
Anything boyish about him had entirely vanished.
His chest had rippled with sculpted sinew. His jaw had been as strong as granite and as chiseled. His eyes had shone with determination and the entire room had responded to his presence.
Especially the ladies.
Ladies.
The married women of the ton who were bored with their lives and came in disguise for a bit of temptation.
Did Edward give it to them?
The idea sent a shocking wave of anger through her. She shouldn’t care!
She didn’t care.
Edward could do as he pleased.
Quickly, she strode into a side hall, yanking at the strings of her cloak. Her fingers caught in the knot and she cursed as she struggled to free herself from the tangle.
Soon, the foyer would be full with people in their finest clothes and jewels. They were all coming to see her. To see if she would make a fool of herself or if she would live up to her reputation as notorious siren and now actress.
And what had she done? She’d slunk away to spy upon the man who had ruined her.
Something had compelled her to abandon her dressing room and see just what it was he did with his life now.
Perhaps, it had been seeing the hordes of lords and ladies entering his
establishment. Of seeing the rough men and women, too. It was a strange mix of people, his club. A place she could hardly fathom even given her new experience of the world.
She had assumed he would be sitting in an office somewhere, poring over accounts or giving orders to his servants. But as soon as she’d entered, she’d spotted him and his bastard brother slipping through the crowd, heading to a different part of the club.
Edward had always been the perfect gentleman, beautifully dressed, well mannered, elegant of speech. The man she’d just witnessed beating another man to a pulp? It couldn’t be him.
It barely looked like Edward.
But it was. It had been impossible to mistake him or the way her soul had leapt at the sight of him.
She slipped through a side door to the far less glamorous part of the theater. As she headed down narrower stairs, she swished between set pieces and walked beneath ropes and fly systems.
The curtain was down as she headed across the stage and, for one moment, she stopped and drew in a long breath.
She’d come to feel at home upon the stage. For her, she could pretend to be anyone she wished. She could leave everything behind. She could glory in the magic of it all and escape the pain of the past.
The painted set behind her was elaborate and beautiful to behold what with its layers and moving parts.
Who needed the reality of life when one could come inside and see the wonder of the imagination?
She bit down on her lower lip. Yes, she had found a far better place than Edward.
Her demons had been chased largely away with champagne, beautiful clothes, and the pageantry of plays.
Edward had thrown himself into the darkness of life.
She could hardly fathom it.
Shaking herself, she headed across the stage, into the dark but busy wing as the stagehands prepared for the rise of the curtain.
Her dressing room was down the far hall and she was happy to share it with Roderick Belgrave, one of the most famous actors London had ever known.
She placed a hand on the brass door knob, girding herself. For Roderick was great fun but a terrible gossip.
Opening the door, she pasted a cheerful smile upon her lips.
Roderick did not even turn as he drew in his already dark eyebrows with charcoal. “Cutting it a bit thin, aren’t we, darling?”
“Last minute business to attend to, Roddy,” she said lightly. “Owning a theater is devilishly difficult. . . And good fun.”
“Ah.” Roderick pursed his lips as he leaned forward, eyeing himself in the candlelit mirror. “I could have sworn I saw you trotting over to that club.”
“What?” she asked, blinking. “No.”
Roddy waggled his now dark brows. “Wasn’t that fellow, Edward Hart, the owner, your intended?”
He already knew the answer to that question. Of course he did. All London did.
So, she sat, picked up a cloth and tossed it at him.
He caught it easily then wiggled with delight. He was naked from the waist up, his strong, young body beautiful to behold. “Now. Now. He’s quite a bit of elegant rough, your Hart.”
“He’s not my Hart,” she huffed, pulling her hair back so that she might begin the application of her own makeup.
“Of course not,” Roddy replied as he reached out and patted her hand. “Couldn’t resist going to see your old amour, though, could you?”
She sighed. “I admit to curiosity. I have heard the strangest things.”
“Hmmmm.” Roddy leaned forward and whispered dramatically, “You mean you’ve heard he is the most delicious monk that all London knows and that both lads and lasses do pine away for the loss of him?”
“Monk?” she echoed.
Roddy nodded, smoothing the rouge he pressed lightly to his lips. “Surely you knew?”
She sat up straighter. Was anything she now knew about Edward to be believed? She never would have imagined he would choose the path of celibacy. Surely, such a rumor was false.
“I have deliberately avoided all mention of him, Roddy.”
“Tut!” he tsked. “I never took you for a fool. Information is power, darling girl.”
She rolled her eyes. “Out with it.”
Roddy turned to her, his eyes all but glowing with excitement. “Well, legend has it, and he is the stuff of legend now, that he is entirely celibate. That he will not indulge in the flesh. For the longest time, some thought it was because he liked the lay of the land on the other side, don’t you know, and couldn’t bring himself to admit it. . . But no.”
Roddy clasped his hand to his chest. “It is because his heart is broken.”
She snorted. “A broken heart never stopped a man from rogering, to my knowledge. And who the devil broke his heart?”
She found herself suddenly aghast that he had fallen in love whilst she’d been in Paris and had his heart broken.
Roddy gaped at her. “You, you silly nit.”
She stared back then laughed. “Do not be ludicrous.”
“I could never be such a thing,” Roddy scoffed indignantly. “Now, get out of your kit, my dear. Or you shan’t be ready for your night of glory.”
She nodded. There really was little time to ensure her makeup was perfection, her costumes right, and her prop pieces tucked away in the correct places. “What would I do without you, dear Roddy?”
“You’d be an utterly lost lamb. Which is why you are family now. There is no better family than the theater, my dear. And well you know it.”
She did. The theater accepted one exactly as they were. Come thick or thin, her little family of actors and players that she had known in Paris and now London had always been merry, kind, and willing to help her.
Her young dresser slipped into the room, carrying Emmaline’s first costume carefully.
It was a scrumptious scrap of fabric that gave the air of modesty but was scandalous in the extreme. The cream-colored fabric was all but translucent and clung to her frame when she moved about.
Yes, it was the perfect gown for her.
She was going to take London by storm. And she could not wait.
Beatrice was the perfect part for her. It had been tempting to do a more dramatic work. But she longed to laugh and not cry any longer. She’d done enough of that in private without having to do it on the stage as well. So, she had taken to playing the greatest comedies ever written, reveling in their absurdities.
Once, she would have played Hero, the young innocent ingénue who took whatever pain was given to her without complaint.
But that was not who she was anymore. No. And she never would be such a lady again, thank goodness.
Her mind fluttered back to Edward and the dark look that she had witnessed.
She shivered. He would be no easy fellow to handle now. A smile and a flick of a fan would not manage him. Perhaps, she should just give him the cut direct. That would settle things quickly.
But she was no fool. His club was across the street from her theater. His brother was the Duke of Huntsdown. There would be no war between their two houses. For she was going to make England her home now. It was the place of her home and she’d felt its call in her bones.
Oh, no. She would make peace. . . Even if she had to lie through her teeth now to get it. But that did not mean she could not enjoy herself along the way. Oh, yes, she would find a way to make Edward dance to her tune and she’d avenge her wounded heart. . . Even if she had to smile the entire time she was doing it.
Chapter 6
Edward stood across from the theater under the arched columns of his club. Groomed and now dressed in his evening kit, he lifted a cheroot to his lips and took in a long draw of smoke.
Humanity bustled about him. He allowed the pace of it to soothe him in a way a salon never could now. People going about, living their lives in the moment. . . It fortified him. There was no falsity here. Not in the people going by his door.
On the other side of the teeming road, a long line of coa
ches filled the street as they set down some of the most powerful people in all of England to see the woman they had all so eagerly condemned but a few years ago.
He’d been one of them.
It was disgusting. Vultures who had been happy to devour her now came to laud her.
As for him? It mattered not that he’d agonized over what he’d done. Every day, he’d lamented it. Most nights, he’d drunk himself mad. Despair had dragged him down so entirely he’d been barely been able to speak. . . But he’d condemned her as easily as the next man, believing his bastard brother, John, who’d had a very good reason for lying.
And he’d thrown her to the wolves without truly listening to her or her protestations of innocence. He’d believed men when he should have believed her. Oh, the readiness that he and his brother, James, had to believe ill still choked him.
There was no going back now.
So, instead, he stood still, a rock in the flowing waves of people, forcing himself to quell the violent emotions shaking him.
When she’d run from him, he nearly given chase tonight. Every fiber of him had demanded that he charge after her, that he seize her, press her back to a wall, and let their bodies do the speaking.
Such a thing would only have solidified his position as a monster to her.
But he’d been slammed by so many opposing emotions when he’d seen her that he could scarcely make heads or tails of them.
Desire. There was no questioning that. He’d been seized by unrelenting desire for the beautiful and mysterious woman who had come to witness him at his worst. And there had been something else. A call so deep inside of his heart that he’d felt a stab of pain so exquisite he was stunned he’d been able to go on inside his club with seemingly no effect from the encounter.
John had no clue she’d been there.
Edward winced. Why had she come then? When he had been indulging himself in his favorite darkness? Violence. He loved the feel of that edge of pain, that edge which obliterated all other unbearable feelings.
She’d witnessed that and he’d seen the shock on her beautiful face. Time had played with both of them, but she still bore the glow of a goddess from a great master’s painting.