In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,36

first time two years ago, it had been more than worth the fear she’d overcome. Lila had rediscovered a long-lost confidence: she’d found solace in music.

Now, she’d equip herself not only with simple pleasures she’d once enjoyed, like the pianoforte she’d allowed herself to again play . . . with Clara’s help.

No, in coming here, in her connection with Hugh Savage, she’d learn the skills to protect those she loved.

That gave her the strength to knock.

The driver pulled the door open and helped her down.

“I’ll return,” she said, her gaze squarely on Hugh Savage’s establishment. “You’ll be paid, and well, for your patience.” Collecting her hem, Lila started the remaining way to her instruction with Hugh.

Yes, only good could come from her being here. And yet, as she reached the back door of Savage’s and knocked hard, why couldn’t she shake the niggling feeling that she’d gone and entered into a deal with the Devil?

His partners were going to have his damned head.

Hugh yanked the panel open.

The woman on the other side was left with her fist hovering in the air. “Enough with the knocking,” he snapped.

“Oh.” Lila drew her fingers back and tucked them inside her cloak pocket. “I thought you may have changed your mind.”

He should, but neither had he ever broken a pledge made. “So you thought to beat my door down and force your way inside?”

“No. I thought I’d press you on your intentions.” Without awaiting an invitation, she swept past him, as bold as if she intended to lay siege to his fight club and name herself the proprietress.

He stared after Lila, not taking his eyes from her as she walked a small circle around his empty fight club. With her gaze, she took in the twenty-foot ring. The gallery three feet above the arena. “Are you always this damned literal?”

Her head whipped back toward him. “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly before resuming her examination of the ring. “Through the windows, it appeared so very much smaller. How many can your establishment hold?”

“It’s not small.” His voice carried in the high-ceilinged arena. “And it can fit two hundred spectators.”

She paled. “That many?”

“Aye.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “Do men train here and fight?”

Hugh rolled his cramped neck muscles as he entered the center of the arena. “We’ve a staging area for fighters before matches. There, they can prepare and practice before entering the ring.”

That managed to pull her attention from the wood dais over to Hugh. “How exactly does one go about preparing for a fight?”

She’d already asked more questions than any of the boys or men he’d sparred with in his life. And . . . odd as it was, he didn’t mind it. Rather, he found himself warming to a topic he’d always had a peculiar fascination with.

“The preparation is as important to a bare-knuckle match as the actual fight itself. The Spartans saw it as a way to prepare for the blows they’d receive to the head in battle.”

The color left her cheeks. “That’s a terrible i-idea,” she said, her voice catching so faintly he would have missed it had he not been paying close attention to her every word and movement.

She’d come here, however, to speak and learn about bare-knuckle boxing; he didn’t intend to sweeten his words in a bid to ease her discomfort. “Aye, a blow to the head has killed many men. But the ancient peoples were clever enough to evolve the sport. The Assyrians, Babylonians, Egyptians, Persians—they were the earliest fighters. They believed in strengthening and stretching.” The last time he’d mentioned that fact, he’d met the scorn of the other boys in Dooley’s Fight Society, who’d mocked him for handing out useless information that wouldn’t win them any battles. Now, he searched for a hint of Lila’s boredom. Only curiosity reflected back.

“And what of the English fighters?”

It was an interesting question. “What of them?” he countered with a rhetorical question. He swung his arms, alternating long, slow arcs, stretching his muscles. “By the empire’s account, the greatest, most capable men on the planet?” He curved his lips in a derisive smile. “They don’t want to think of fighting beyond the fists they’ll throw. Those people of cultures deemed inferior to our own know a good deal more about anything pertaining to fighting than even the best English fighter.” He hardened his mouth. “Men have been boxing since Kleitomachos. A good fighter knows to use the lessons from long ago. A better fighter puts them into