A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,42
one of the servants?”
“A servant? Oh, no. I can’t say that I’m in the least comfortable issuing orders, your lordship. Perhaps my associate will agree to assist me.” Thomas looked about the room, quickly locating Dooley. “Paddy!” he called out cheerfully, so that Lord Mappleton clapped his hands over his ears. “Don’t just stand there with your fingers in your mouth. Come help me out of this coat.”
Thomas could see Dooley’s lips moving as he strode across the room to rejoin him, and he grinned, knowing he had just become the object of a few healthy Irish curses. Thomas went to meet him halfway, then turned his back to the Irishman and held out his arms, wordlessly signaling for Dooley to tug him free of the tight sleeves of his new frock coat.
“Well, would you look at you—cock of the walk, ordering me about. Keep this up, boyo, and I’ll soon give you a leveler myself,” Dooley whispered, taking hold of Thomas’s left sleeve and giving it a mighty tug. “That the one you’re going in the ring with?” he asked, jabbing his head in the direction of the earl. “Looks sound enough to give you a fair tussle. Why not Harewood? Why this fella?”
“Because that fella very much wants me to, Paddy. Because that’s why we were invited here today in the first place,” Thomas answered quietly, raising his chin so that Dooley could remove his neck cloth and unbutton his shirt. “He’s considered to be exceptionally good, and I am about to be punished for my upstart American ways.”
“He wants to? That’s no reason. You never do a thing I ask you to do, and you’re supposed to be my friend.” Dooley peeked around Thomas to look at the earl once more. “Taking a big bite, aren’t you? He’s got a good long reach, and strong pins under him. And don’t let those silver wings fool you, boyo. He looks like the spawn of Satan. You know what they say—the devil’s children have the devil’s luck.”
By the time Thomas had stripped to the waist and removed his shoes a small crowd had gathered around the outside of the ring, word of the earl’s upcoming bout having sped through the large room with remarkable speed. Thomas lifted his long arms high up and over his head, stretching his muscles as he rejoined Sir Ralph and the others, secretly pleased to see Lord Mappleton surveying his bared chest and well-muscled shoulders with what looked to be mingled awe and even some trepidation. And why shouldn’t he be impressed, Thomas decided. The Earl of Laleham wasn’t the only man in the world who stripped to advantage.
“Mr. Donovan?” the earl intoned expectantly, then bowed his head to enter the ring beneath the rope Sir Ralph had lifted to facilitate his entry. Once his lordship was through, Sir Ralph allowed the rope to snap back to its original position, leaving Thomas still outside it.
“Whenever you’re ready, your lordship,” Thomas said, bowing to the earl, who now stood in the center of the ring, his hands already drawn up into fists. “I may be an American, and not conversant with your rules, but I do consider myself a gentleman. Considering the disparity in our ages, I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”
“Oh, that’s good, boyo. Insult the man while you’re about it, why not,” Dooley commented as he stepped forward and lifted the rope, allowing Thomas to duck under it. “There’s an old saying I’ve done my best to remember since one otherwise forgettable night in Kilkenny. ‘A soft word never broke a tooth.’ Mayhap you should have learned it, for that fella looks like the sort who would take an eye out of his own head to take two of yours.”
Thomas arched one eyebrow as he looked at his friend and said quietly, “And mayhap I should be buying you a rocker once we’re home, so you can set with your mother-in-law beside the fire. You’re turning fearful, Paddy, like an old woman, if you think the day has come when any Englisher can best one of us in a fair fight.”
“Who said it was going to be fair?” Paddy fairly hissed. “I’ve been watching, boyo, and they don’t fight like anything I’ve seen above once before—dancing and prancing around like a hen on a hot skillet, their fists up at their eyes, bobbing and weaving their heads like pigeons strutting in the square. You can’t hit something that don’t stand still