Page 8 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 8

T he scent of sweat, cigar smoke, and blood clung to the air like a lover too bold to be banished. The crowd pressed in around the makeshift ring in the heart of the Soho Square club, their eager voices rising in a crescendo of anticipation. Somewhere overhead, a candle-lit chandelier cast fractured light over the faces of masked women draped over gentlemen's laps, their feathered fans fluttering as if to cool flushed cheeks. Fine crystal glasses clinked as the men drank and laughed with their friends.

Alexander stood at the center of it all.

Not as a lord.

But as the damned entertainment. His chest rose and fell slowly, the roll of his shoulders loose, relaxed, his expression deliberately cold and composed. He adjusted the thin vinegar-soaked wraps around his wrists and cracked his neck to the left, then right. The old bruises across his ribs ached dully, a welcome reminder that pain was real. Grounding.

If he won tonight's fight, the purse was ten thousand pounds.

And every bloody coin of it would go to restoring the rotted east wing of his principal estate and paying his staff wages for the next two years. The servants' quarters leaked. The farmlands needed new ploughs. The estate's future was being rebuilt with his fists.

Across from him, the next contender stepped into the ring.

A bull of a man. Thick-necked, heavily muscled, and with a crooked smile that promised broken bones. He was a full head taller than Alexander and nearly twice his breadth.

The crowd gasped.

Alexander didn't blink.

He turned his head toward Milton, the club's thin, twitchy organizer, who stood just beyond the edge of the ring. The man gave an apologetic shrug and gestured toward the gathered spectators.

Of course. Alexander's mouth curved into a grim, amused smile. The elite of the ton had turned out in numbers tonight—scented, masked, and ravenous for something raw and unspeakably forbidden. That was part of the allure, wasn't it? That one of their own —an earl, a gentleman born and bred—was willing to bleed for their amusement.

The polished brute they gawked at in ballrooms was the same man now bracing to be pummeled into the dirt.

The knowledge didn't bother him.

It suited him.

He had no pride left to protect. His gaze swept the crowd again—bored viscounts, giggling courtesans, and veiled ladies in silk who pretended they didn't know his name.

But they all knew. That was the point.

His jaw flexed.

And then he saw her.

Not Penny. Not his Penny. No. This woman in the third row, partially hidden behind a lace fan, wasn't her—but something about the curve of her neck, the tilt of her head, slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

A ghost of her.

Sweet Christ . He had thought he'd buried that ache. Had promised himself he'd broken it beneath bruised knuckles and the sharp sting of old, coppery blood. But the memory of her—standing on the terrace earlier, the moonlight dusting her shoulders, the sheen of longing gone from her gaze—refused to be exorcised. She had smiled for the Duke of Merrick. Had lifted her hand to him and allowed herself to be led into a waltz.

Alexander had watched it all. Every practiced curtsy. Every false smile. He had buried that longing beneath cold indifference, for both pride and heart refused to yearn for a woman who would not fight for him. And when she'd looked his way, when their gazes had clashed across the garden, his heart had kicked painfully in his chest, only for her to look away. Dismiss him as if he were nothing.

"Stop thinking about her," he hissed under his breath. "She is not worthy of it." He would never be so foolish again—to let Penny, or any woman, sink so deep that her absence could haunt him for months.

"Time," Milton called.

The crowd hushed.

Alexander refocused, turned back to the ring, to the man waiting to break his bones. And he welcomed it. With a slow exhale, he curled his fingers into fists. His skin hummed. His breath steadied.

Let the brute come. Let him swing. Let him take and take until there was nothing left.

The man surged forward, and Alexander moved. The crowd roared, bloodlust and thrill erupting from masked ladies and their rakish escorts. The brute before him was nearly a head taller and wide as a coach door, his body gleaming with sweat under the gaslight chandeliers. He swung first, a low arc meant to send Alexander to the floor. But Alexander ducked and countered with a hard jab to the ribs, relishing the satisfying grunt that escaped the other man.

They danced. Circling. Striking.

Fists collided with flesh in thunderous cracks; each blow met with either cheers or gasps from the crowd. The man's fist grazed Alexander's jaw, then came back harder, landing a brutal hit to his ribs. Pain exploded in his side, sharp and searing, and his vision swam. He staggered but did not fall.

Not tonight .

He surged forward, feinted left, and slammed his fist into the man's stomach. Another to the jaw. And another. Blood spattered. The brute reeled.

One more .

Alexander's knuckles split open as he drove his fist home, catching the man across the face with a sickening crunch. The larger fighter toppled backward like a felled oak, crashing to the floorboards. For one breathless moment, silence hung in the air. Then the crowd erupted.

Cheers and shrieks, champagne sloshing from glasses, the ladies clapping with gloved hands, their jewels glittering behind feathered masks. He didn't hear any of it. He stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, his body throbbing with pain.

He stumbled to the edge of the ring, every muscle screaming. Milton was there, reaching for his hand, clasping it in a firm shake. There was something like respect in the man's eyes.

"Bloody hell, Bainbridge. You earned every coin of it."

Alexander nodded once. "Send the draft to my townhouse. First thing in the morning."

Milton grinned. "As agreed. When will I see you again? They'll be clamoring for more soon enough."

"A week," Alexander said tersely. "Give me a week."

"You're a beast," the man muttered, striding off with a pleased jaunt.

Alexander turned to leave, sweat cooling on his skin and blood trickling from a split brow. The lights blurred, and the floor tilted.

Damn it.

He gritted his teeth and kept walking, determined to get out of that room on his own. Then, a hand caught his elbow.

Alexander blinked and looked up.

Thomas. His friend's expression was tight with alarm. "Bloody hell, Alexander, you look like a man on the verge of collapse. What you did in that ring was spectacular... but is it worth it?"

A cold snort escaped Alexander. "Spoken like a man who's never had to work for a damn thing in his life."

Thomas sighed. "Let me help you to your carriage."

Before Alexander could answer, the pain finally crashed through the adrenaline.

Darkness surged, and then the world vanished.

It was well past midnight, yet sleep continued to elude her. Penny sat curled on the worn velvet sofa beside the hearth in the library, a blanket draped around her shoulders and Persuasion open in her lap. The fire crackled softly, casting flickers of gold and shadow across the walls. Her finger traced the edge of the page she'd been rereading for nearly ten minutes, though the words blurred before her eyes.

She quite understood Anne Elliot. She understood her longing, her quiet ache, and the way her heart had remained tethered to someone long after sense and time had tried to cut it free.

Captain Wentworth had left, and Anne had waited even though she rejected his suit, bearing her pain in silence. How unbearably familiar it all felt. The door creaked open. She looked up, frowning as her brother stepped inside. His stride was stiff, and the moment he came into the glow of the firelight, her stomach clenched.

"Thomas!" she cried, lurching upright. Her book fell with a dull thud to the rug. She hurried to him, eyes fixed on the dark stain marring the front of his waistcoat. "You're bleeding—are you hurt?"

He held up a hand and rubbed the back of his neck with the other. "No, no. It's not mine."

Her breath caught. "Then... whose is it?"

Thomas hesitated.

She stilled. "Were you in an accident? Oh God . Who was hurt?"

"You're far too delicate for this sort of conversation, Pen," he muttered, looking away guiltily.

"Too delicate?" she gasped. "Blood is on your clothes in several places, and you are telling me I'm too delicate? Do not worry about my sensibilities that I assure you do not exist!"

When he didn't answer, she narrowed her eyes—and pinched his arm.

He cursed softly and grimaced. "It's Bainbridge's blood."

Penny went still. A strange, cold hollowness opened inside her chest, but she forced her features into impassivity.

"Lord Bainbridge?" Her voice was level, but her fingers clenched in the folds of her dressing gown. "What happened to him?"

"I'm not telling you," Thomas said quickly, edging toward the decanter on the mantel. "It's not fit for a lady's ears."

"I am not asking to inspect the wound, Thomas," she said tartly, crossing her arms. "But I think I've a right to know what happened to your friend if you walked into our house at this hour covered in his blood."

He looked away and poured himself a drink, his jaw tight.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, though I suspect not by much."

Her breath left her in a slow rush. Penny's chest squeezed so tightly it physically hurt. "Has a physician seen him?"

Thomas downed the drink in one long swallow, then set the glass down with a soft clink .

"The damn fool refused one. And then had the audacity to boot me from his house. Said he wanted to be alone."

Penny stared at her brother in disbelief. "He refused help?"

Thomas shrugged. "Said he'd had worse."

"Had worse?" she echoed, her voice rising. "That's not reassuring, Thomas! Worse of what?"

"No," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck again. "It's not."

Without another word, he turned and left, his shoulders heavy with fatigue.

Penny stood there a moment longer, watching the fire dance. Then she slowly returned to the sofa, sank into its cushions, and retrieved her book from the floor.

But she did not open it. She couldn't stop imagining Alexander lying somewhere alone, bleeding and too proud to accept help. Her hand tightened around the edge of the blanket, her throat thick with worry she could not voice. She wanted to go to him—wanted to see with her own eyes that he was well, that he still had breath in his body.

Do not be foolish , she silently reminded herself.

She had chosen this distance. She had let him go.

Penny curled on her side and hugged the pillow to her chest, blinking up at the ceiling. She would not cry or worry. Yet even as her eyes drifted closed, the image of storm-gray eyes haunted her—sharp and unreadable.