Page 6 of On the Ropes of Scandal (With Love in Their Corner #3)

A tall man stood in the middle of the boxing square and held up a hand.

“We’re about to begin.” When the noise from the crowd died down somewhat, he continued, “Today’s match is between a favorite boxer from London, Lord Frampton, but you know him as Duncan Stapleton, youngest son of the famous boxer, George Stapleton.

” A roar erupted from the spectators. “And his opponent for this bout, the man who makes some of the most impressive axes and fireplace tools on his anvil, Mr. Darius Sanders. He’s relatively new to the bare-knuckle circuit, but he’s quite the contender.

” Another cheer, less intense than before, rose from the crowd.

Clearly, some of them recognized the other man’s name.

As the tall man gave a bit of a speech to thank sponsors as well as the boxers, Duncan moved his gaze over the crowd. “Best get to it, hmm?” After exchanging a glance with his makeshift knee man, Duncan moved toward the judge in the center of the roped off ring.

Sanders came toward the judge from his side of the ring—a tall man with curly black hair that sat close against his head, and a sprinkling of hair on his chest that did nothing to hide how well defined his form was. Or how powerful his strikes would be.

“I wonder if you’ll last even two rounds, Lord Frampton,” Sanders said, with a fair amount of cockiness. “You’re on the puny side, aren’t you?”

What a prick. “I do well enough, and you know what they say about the intelligence of big men.” Duncan flexed his hands, then lifted his arms above his head and stretched again. “And how good can you be if I’ve never heard of you?”

The other man sneered. “That might be true, but after today, you will remember my name.”

“We shall see.” Confidence flowed through Duncan’s veins.

Seconds later, he assumed his first position, fists at the ready, body taut and balanced, feet a shoulder’s width apart, just as his father had taught him.

“I’ll try not to wreck your face and form too badly. Still need to wield that hammer, eh?”

A whistle blast split the air. The squat and round judge shouted, “Rounds will continue until one man is put on the ground and unable to stand after three seconds. Go!”

Duncan and his opponent circled each other, prowled through the meadow grass and flowers of the eight-foot by eight-foot, roped-off area.

The judge waited in one of the unoccupied corners.

How best to bring Sanders down? Anticipation rode his spine while worry pulled knots in his stomach.

He threw the first punch. It connected solidly with the other man’s cheek and threw his head back, but not that much.

“You will need to do better than that.” Sanders grinned as he struck out with a fist. “Naught but an annoying insect.”

“Until I sting.” Duncan minced away, much to the crowd’s roar of approval. “I’ve much more to show you.” He swung a fist, but the other man dodged the punch while continuing to circle him.

“I thought you Stapleton brothers were more formidable.” Sanders darted with a fast uppercut to Duncan’s chin that jarred his teeth together. “You must be the runt.” Another quick right hook to the jaw had his vision wavering.

“Prick.” Pain exploded through his face and the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, but he held his ground and returned punches. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Then they were into the meat of the first round as blows rained and fists pummeled, landing on solid flesh in rhythmic intervals.

One of his jabs sent Sanders staggering backward, but the man recovered and came at him with fists flying and unfortunately finding purchase in various places on Duncan’s body.

He didn’t give quarter, and his defense wasn’t one to sneeze at.

As the sound of fists thudding into bodies echoed in his ears, he marked the time with fast footwork and more than a few curses. His opponent, though muscled, slightly favored his left side, and there was a bit of a burn mark on the ribs there. Interesting.

Finally, the round was called, which was just in time, since his chest hurt and his lungs slightly burned.

Grateful for the brief reprieve, Duncan retreated to his corner, as did his opponent. “Sanders is damned good and has one hell of a right hook.” He perched upon Young Thomas’ knee as various portions of his body throbbed in pain. “However, he’s not a Stapleton.”

“Just stay a step ahead.” The youth handed him a ladle of cool water from an oaken bucket. “Sanders is slow with his feet once he’s winded.”

Surprise went through Duncan’s chest. “Good observation.” He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. After taking a deep sip from the ladle, he gave it back to the youth. “He’s also favoring his left side.”

“Then that’s when you punch.” Young Thomas rubbed the muscles in Duncan’s shoulders. “At least, that’s what I assume.”

He snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

Another whistle blast announced the start of round two.

“Shit.” With a groan, Duncan stood. He returned to the middle of the ring to face off with his opponent once more.

“You are a mere ant, Frampton.” A cut on his left pectoral glittered with blood. His fingers glanced over the burn wound on his ribcage. “I need that prize purse.”

“So do I,” he tossed back, and because he might be a wee bit desperate for that coin, he lit out with a jab to the man’s left ribcage.

Though Sanders retreated a few steps, he recovered nicely with a hard uppercut to Duncan’s jaw that had him staggering backward.

The crowd roared, and as one entity they surged forward.

Wavering support was damned annoying, yet, people loved blood, and they enjoyed making coin on a wager to see more of it.

Pain exploded through his head, but he kept his feet.

Reminding himself this wasn’t a drawing room and there was no need for charming grins or empty platitudes, Duncan darted toward his opponent with a growl.

He landed two quick jabs to Sanders’ cheeks and left ribcage, where his fist hit the burn mark.

The blacksmith gasped and winced. He retreated before gathering himself and charging at Duncan to once more exchange blows. “You’re a fool, Frampton.”

“That’s the most complimentary thing I’ve been called recently.

” Again and again, Duncan drilled his fists into the other man’s body, making certain to land them into the left side of his ribcage and face, but the boxer wouldn’t fall, even after pain lined his face. Blood lay smeared over his chest.

Sanders got off a few good punches of his own, but Duncan kept his feet through sheer stubborn determination, regardless of the damn pain cycling through his body.

“I’m the better fighter.” It was something he would always believe. Then he delivered a swift right hook to the taller man’s cheek that had him spinning about. “Go down, damn it.”

“Not tonight, you damned nob.” The man wiped at his brow with a hand that had bloodied knuckles, the same as Duncan’s despite the wrapping.

Before he could respond, the round was once again called without a clear victor.

As he looked out over the crowds, his gaze landed on a young woman standing at the edge of the gathering.

She wore a black cloak with the hood up and the folds of the garment wrapped around her, but she watched the proceedings with bright eyes.

When their gazes connected, a queer sort of tingle twisted down his spine.

As she gave him a nod of encouragement, he frowned before stumbling back to his corner.

Then he dropped onto Young Thomas’ bent knee, panting.

“The blacksmith is trying my patience,” he admitted in a whisper.

“But he’s tiring and winded.” The youth plied him with water, and Duncan gratefully drank from the ladle. “Just hold on.”

“I’ll try.” And damn, he didn’t want to think about the bout right now.

In fact, all that went through his mind in this current moment was a pair of cornflower blue eyes framed by black lashes with black curly hair beneath the cloak’s hood.

“You from this area?” he asked, as he poured a ladle of water over his chest.

“Yes.” Young Thomas nodded. “My father’s a bricklayer; my mother’s a seamstress.”

“Ah.” Duncan stood, glancing once more that the woman. When their gazes connected, she again offered a faint smile before she looked away, but heated sensation went through him from the brief exchange. “Who’s that woman on the far side of the crowd?”

The youth glanced over. “Oh, that’s Miss Bidwell.”

Duncan frowned. “The woman you work for at the bakery?”

“No, she’s the niece of that woman. One of the village’s spinsters. Lost both her fiancés in the war, so the gossips say.”

“Damn. Pretty thing.” What the hell is wrong with me? He didn’t need a distraction from some country bumpkin’s set of intriguing eyes.

“Yes, but keeps men away, so you need to concentrate,” Young Thomas whispered, and gave his shoulder a push, which refocused his wandering thoughts.

“Right. Thank you.”

The judge blew his whistle again. The next round was imminent.

Duncan heaved off the young man’s knee. He checked his wrapped hands as he strode to the center of the roped-off area.

“I’ve grown tired of this, Frampton!” Sanders came out in full-blown anger. When he engaged him into a mix of blows, jabs, and punches that left him reeling and breathless, Duncan defended as best he could.

“As have I.”

When one of the blacksmith’s fists drilled into Duncan’s abdomen, pain swamped him, but another blow caught him in the jaw, causing him to bite the inside of his cheek. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth again. With a hideous grin, Sanders then cuffed him on the side of the head.

“Shit.” With a few blinks, Duncan roared back into motion using a quick double uppercut. Each fist found purchase in Sander’s chin and left ribcage, where he ground his knuckles into the burn wound. When his opponent howled in pain, he landed a punch to the man’s temple.

He didn’t fall, but he jammed a fist into Duncan’s midsection. “Give up, Frampton. This is embarrassing. For you.”

Duncan wheezed as he stumbled backward, sucking in breaths. “Why won’t you go down?”

“Because I’m the superior fighter this night.” And he swung out with a powerful fist.

At the last second, Duncan ducked. Though his strength was flagging, he employed the footwork his father was famous for, to the roar of the crowd.

A few moments were spent evading the other boxer and dodging blows, but he continued to bedevil the blacksmith with jabs and punches.

Every movement he made brought copious amounts of pain throughout his body.

“You’re done, Frampton.” The other man flew at him with fast fists and rippling muscles.

Duncan defended himself as he’d been taught, but it was as if he were fighting in a snowstorm and being hit from all sides by giant shards of ice. Though he rallied a few times, punch after punch was exchanged, and Sanders didn’t let up or give in.

Blood dripped down his chin from a busted lower lip.

Every muscle in his body screamed out exhaustion and warning.

He couldn’t remember how many wounds he’d sustained, but he did some damage to his opponent.

Sweat streaked into his eyes, stinging, and blurring his vision.

It wet his hair, leaving it in straggly ropes, and still he fought on.

With a sound that resembled a cry of war, Sanders delivered a powerful blow to the right side of Duncan’s head.

One of the knuckles dug into the temple, and sent darkness flirting with the edges of his vision.

“Say goodnight, Frampton.” His opponent slammed a fist again into his head in the same spot, and when Duncan fell to the ground, the crowd roared.

“Go back to your salon. You can use another course of training,” the man said, as he peered down at him.

Pain became Duncan’s new world. He lay on his back while gasping for air and hurting from countless punches.

Though Young Thomas yelled at him to get to his feet, he just didn’t have the strength, nor could his brain tell his limbs to cooperate.

He collapsed into the sweet meadow grass and closed his eyes, then unceremoniously retched all over the ground and himself from the pain.

Eventually, the judge came near with another man Duncan assumed was a surgeon invited to the event, and he counted down from ten. He didn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to care, for he was rapidly losing his grip on consciousness.

“Mr. Sanders is the winner of today’s bout!”

The crowd roared; it had probably been quite an entertaining evening.

Blinking, he saw that the blacksmith had walked to the center of the ring with the judge, who held up one of his arms as the victor.

The crowd formed tight circles around the other man as Duncan’s vision wavered and darkened at the edges.

As the autumn night fell around him, he was left lying in the shadows on the cool grass.

Is this where I’ll die then?

“Lord Frampton.” A gentle tapping on his cheeks brought him around. When he opened his eyes, it was to see Young Thomas kneeling by his side. “You must get up, my lord.”

“I don’t think I can.” He simply hurt too much. Where were his brothers, to haul him back to a carriage and give him a bit of dignity back?

“If you don’t, you’re sure enough a dead man.” Then he offered him a ladle of water from the wooden bucket. “Here. Drink.”

Though his throat was parched and his voice sounded raspy, he scoffed. “I’d rather have brandy,” he said, as he accepted the ladle from him. After he’d drunk his fill, Duncan sat up, but the world spun around him, and the urge to retch grew strong. With a groan, he collapsed back onto the grass.

Young Thomas pointed to a clump of clothing he’d dropped on the meadow grass beside Duncan. “You should dress. It’s not wholesome for you to lay here half-naked.”

“In a moment.” The darkness crept into his vision, and it was just confined to the edges any longer.

The youth nodded. “I’m going to hawk Miss Bidwell’s pastries now, but I’ll come back soon enough.”

Duncan lifted a hand and waved him off. Ignoring the noise from the crowd and the men milling about, he eventually shoved to his feet and somehow managed to dress himself…

but only just. He didn’t care about that either.

If he could manage to remain upright long enough to walk into the village and reach the room he’d rented, that would prove enough of a win for him tonight.

Except the pain wouldn’t leave him, and the damned darkness was encroaching far too quickly.

Perhaps having a brandy would fortify him enough to see him to his destination.

Then he could return home tomorrow without a win, without a prize purse, without a woman warming his bed, and certainly without bragging rights.

Buggar everyone.