Page 1 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

Ladies remained in their carriages when traveling.

Ladies sat sedately within, pretending not to be shaken about to their very bones, with only a book in their lap and the view out their window to preoccupy them when they were about to expire from boredom.

In essence, ladies lived a horribly tedious experience.

It was lucky, then, that Lydia Faraday was no lady.

After at least three long minutes in the now-stationary carriage, faced with only the dimming light of dusk filtering through the curtains to entertain her, Lydia gave in.

She pushed the door of her guardian’s traveling carriage wide open, stepped out into the waning light of day, and pursed her lips at the view before her.

“I ’pologize, Miss Faraday. Seems we’ve broken a hub,” the coachman said from his spot bent over the wheel.

His graying hair stuck out from beneath his hat, evidence of the windy ride they’d had thus far, and the crevice between his brows was deeper than usual.

“I sent Tommy ahead to Lord Tarrington’s.

They’ll have you straightened out in a jiff. ”

Muffled shouts and cheers came from within the building beside them.

Lydia glanced in that direction then stepped fully onto the street, rolling back her shoulders. “If you point me in the right direction, I could simply walk.” It would be a welcome bit of freedom after all those hours in the carriage.

The coachman looked up in alarm. “’Pologies, miss, but Lord Tarrington would not like that.” He came to his feet, brushing his hands on his trousers.

Of course her guardian would dislike it. If she were endangered or, worse, seen walking around London’s streets unchaperoned, it might hurt his scheme to marry her off. Even more reason to go about it.

But the coachman, though deferential to her status, looked resolute. His hands had even spread a bit to the sides as if to physically block her from fleeing.

The sight brought a smile to her face. She was not so bad as all that.

“Well then, at least show me what you are doing. A hub you say?” She stepped closer, and the coachman’s hands lifted even more.

“You’ve no need to be out here, miss.”

“Come now, Hayes. Just last week you allowed me to help you hitch the carriage.” Lydia crossed her arms and cocked her head. If moving to London meant being bowed to and called “miss” at every turn, she was even more unhappy to be here.

The man looked a little panicked. “Yes, but... but, Miss Faraday, it isn’t the same anymore. Ye’re a lady now. This part of town is no place for ladies.”

As if to punctuate his point, the door to the building behind them suddenly burst open. Shouting grew louder, and the tangled shapes of two men became apparent, one burly and one apparently very drunk.

Lydia’s back met her carriage’s door as she stepped back—in surprise but not fear. Finally, some entertainment.

The drunk man threw a somewhat unsteady punch, catching the other in the stomach and sending him to the ground. But he landed with a roll backward then jumped to his feet. It was enthralling.

A small crowd was forming in the street now, the noise growing and the smell of sweat quickly mingling with the scent of burning coal and dirt.

The group surged as the burly fighter advanced on the drunk one, shouts in favor and disagreement of the display echoing in the mostly silent evening.

The burly man grabbed the other about the neck with a hook of his arm and threw a shockingly swift fist into the man’s gut. Lydia gasped with the group.

The cold of the carriage at her back was seeping through her traveling dress and sending a light chill up her neck, but her focus remained riveted on the crowd.

She’d never seen a fight before. Nothing beyond a minor tussle between boys, at least. And that had not been so.

.. lively. Nor so evidently high risk. Despite the diversion, a hint of concern for the outcome crept over her.

A tall, broad-shouldered man appeared at the door, easily pushing the crowd aside with a furrowed brow gracing the only part of his face not in shadow.

He grabbed the burly one’s shirt, pulling it taut.

The man struggled, twisting back, but after a quick knee to the side, he complied.

He was no match for the height and brawn of the new arrival.

The drunk fighter remained unrestrained however. He barreled toward the tall intruder, but the man sidestepped him fluidly, sending him careening past.

Lydia jumped to the side as the drunkard caught a loose stone in the road and tumbled to the ground at her feet. The stench of body odor and alcohol assailed her.

“Hey now!” Hayes cried, launching himself in front of Lydia.

Lydia stuck her head around Hayes’s shoulder, holding on to him to steady herself.

The drunkard struggled to his feet and spat at Hayes.

The spittle landed beside Lydia’s slippers, and she danced her feet out of the way as the tall man who’d broken up the fight threw his captive to the side and strode to the drunkard, grasping him by the collar and pulling him away from her and Hayes.

The drunk man yelled a handful of obscenities, but a jab to his back silenced him.

As quickly as it had started, the fight fizzled out, both fighters breathing heavily and glaring at each other.

The clouds above shifted as the tall man caught Lydia’s gaze.

Moonlight illuminated his soot-stained face, and something in his look—full of intense, raw energy—held her fascinated.

Perhaps London was to be more entertaining than she’d anticipated.

An orange-haired man pushed his way through the crowd, pointing at the drunkard. “Ye’re nay welcome here no more, Sprackett. Tha’s the second unsanctioned fight this week. Go on, git.”

The tall man pushed the drunkard away while nodding at the orange-haired one.

The newcomer returned the nod. “Thank ye, Luc,” he said. Then he swung to look at the burly fighter. “And ye’ve about reached the end of yer chances, Thorn. One more and ye’re gone too. Ye ken?”

The burly one nodded tensely. “Real sorry, Colin,” he said, still breathing heavily.

Colin nodded, sending orange hair into his eyes, then turned on the gathered crowd. “Back inside, you lot,” he said with a strong, authoritative voice. “This is a pugilist club, not a menagerie.”

As the crowd filed back into the building and the drunkard staggered away muttering, the tall man walked toward Lydia. Something in his step was hesitant, contrasting the power and strength he’d shown moments before. “You are well?” he asked, his gaze running down her person.

Lydia nodded. She could not clearly make out his features in the darkening street, but he had a strong jaw and, she thought, light-colored hair.

His elevated way of delivering only those few words seemed at odds with his rough clothing and the soot smudging his face.

Luc , the orange-haired man had called him.

Hayes cleared his throat from his protective spot in front of her. “Miss?”

Lydia met his eye.

He looked back at the still-open door of the carriage. “Please, would you...”

Lydia huffed in frustration, but she was well aware that were she to ignore the coachman, he would be in a great deal of trouble when Lord Tarrington showed up to collect her. The servants of her guardian had been her dearest friends growing up. She’d not put any one of them in harm’s way now.

“Yes, yes, I am coming.” She glanced over her shoulder at the mysterious man only to find that he’d left.

Her gaze swept the area, but there was no evidence of him or the fight that had taken place less than a minute ago.

Before stepping into the equipage, she took in the facade of the buildings, committing them to memory.

If Lord Tarrington’s townhome proved as dismal as his country estate, at least she might find some excitement here.

Hayes’s grandfatherly face watched her until she nodded, then he closed the door. She thought she heard him sigh with relief when at last she was tucked away.

The inside of the carriage was dark and still.

Her heart thumped out an uneven rhythm that clouded her ears before it slowed to a steadier pace.

She savored the feeling of excitement, unsure if it would be her last. Was there excitement to be had in finding a husband?

Perhaps. But likely there was not much excitement to be had in being passed off to whichever husband her guardian chose for her.

Her chest constricted. It had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the unknown ahead of her. Any amount of control she’d scraped together in the country would be gone the moment she entered Lord Tarrington’s London home, and that knowledge was stifling.

Somehow, like the man who’d so easily subdued the men attacking each other, she needed to wrest some control over her situation.