Geek Girls Don't Date Dukes (21 page)

consciousness. She’d really enjoyed Avery’s kiss, she

knew that. But was it because she was so desperate for

this to work? Was it because she was scared and lonely,

and she’d mistaken his kindness to her for something

else? Or was it because she was afraid to put herself out

there and be rejected again?

Her grandfather would never let her relax if she settled

for less than the absolute best. Only one way to know.

Her mind made up, Leah gave a tight nod.

“Let’s do this.”

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Sixteen

The carriage rolled into the outskirts of Holborn,

bearing Avery nearer to the mill. Avery rode up top with

the driver, with His Grace comfortable on the inside of

the conveyance. Breathing deeply, Avery looked down

as the ground rolled along beneath the horses’ feet. He

must clear his mind, make himself ready to face his

opponent. He must win this match. There was no choice

for him.

A playful breeze tossed his hair, at odds with the

churning in his guts. Prachett would be at the tourney

today. He’d be expecting Avery to spin the match to his

specifications. Though Prachett had never paid Avery

for his participation in the underhanded dealings, he had

forgiven a portion of Avery’s debt.

But now that Avery owed Prachett nothing? He’d

fight honestly. And, if all went well, he’d win.

The apothecary had sent a messenger around just

before they’d left for Holborn. The medicine for his

aunt’s ailment would cost more the next time around,

as the ingredients were becoming scarce. It was more

critical than ever that he win today’s purse.

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They arrived by the ring much before Avery was

ready. He disembarked from the carriage with thinly

disguised trepidation. Prachett would be here soon.

Avery’s needs didn’t matter to Prachett. He wasn’t after

the purse; he was after the hundreds, if not thousands, of

pounds to be gained from betting on the right man.

“Hoy, Russell,” Jenks, Avery’s bottle man, called

from the corner of the roped- off square that would serve

as their stage.

“Jenks.” Avery nodded a greeting as he stripped to the

waist. The crowds were drawing closer to the ring, each

man attempting to get the best vantage for the upcoming

brawl. The shouts and raucous laughter did nothing to

calm his nerves or fray them. He’d stopped thinking of

them as humans. They were cattle, mindless animals that

brayed and milled about while he did his duty.

He moved lightly back and forth on his feet, relishing

the feel of blood pumping harder through his veins. As

he moved, Jenks spoke.

“You’re to face Martin Peters, a young scrapper just

come up from Brighton. He lasted near two hours in his

last fight, and would have won had Lockston not tripped

him so underhanded- like. He’ll be spoiling for a tough

’un, s’truth.”

Avery nodded. “Then we shall give him what he asks

for.”

Jenks laughed, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “That’s

it, m’lad. His Grace will be glad of that, and the rest of

the Fancy too, I’ll wager. Becoming quite their darling,

you are.”

Jenks walked away from him then, leaving Avery to

his exercises.

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157

The earth was damp beneath his feet. Fortunately the

rains had stopped early the day prior, or his bout would

have been a much colder, more inhospitable affair. As it

was, his breath fogged from his mouth and nose as he

stretched his limbs.

Closing his eyes, he bent forward to stretch his spine.

As it always did, the image of his mother leapt unbidden

to his mind. He did not try to stop the horrendous

memory from playing out, as he used to. Experience had

taught him that was a useless endeavor.

They’d been delivering a meal to an elderly woman in the

parish. On their return, his mother had looked at him and smiled.

“Do you know why I love you so, Avery?”

He’d grinned, looking up into his mother’s face. “No, why?”

She’d laid a comforting hand on his back, rubbing softly.

“Because you are kind and good. You help me to remember

to smile.”

She’d hugged him close to her side, and he breathed her in
deeply. He’d been so young then.

The
brigand
had
come
upon
them
only
moments
later. The
wild- eyed man had grabbed mother’s basket, spilling the food
over the roadway. His mother screamed, grabbing for her young
son. But Avery had ripped free of his mother’s grasp to leap
upon the man and defend her.

She’d fallen so quickly. The sharp crack of her skull on the
rock haunted him even now.

And here he was again, ready to fight another man. It

seemed that he killed her anew every time he stepped

into the square to fight.

But this time, his violence ensured his aunt’s survival. It

was his atonement for her death. He could never bring her

back, but he could keep his aunt, her only sister, alive for her.

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A prickle of warning spread across his shoulders, and

he turned. Of course. Prachett approached, flanked by

two of his men. The menacing smile on Prachett’s face

boded ill. Avery stood silent, filling his broad chest with

air. Calm. He must remain calm.

“Russell.” Prachett’s voice slid over Avery like grease.

“’Tis good to see you here.”

Avery said nothing.

“It has been much too long since you’ve been among

us. Peters is a newcomer and lost his first. You know

where the bets will fall today, don’t you, lad?”

Avery shook out his fists, wishing he could use

them to pummel Prachett into the dirt instead of

young Peters.

“The right people are betting against you. And you

must make sure that they win.”

Avery stilled, spearing Prachett with a look. “I cannot

throw the match. The purse is too— ”

Prachett’s laugh cut him off. “Oy, Russell, you lost

your purse when you refused to fight today. I had to pay

my men to convince you. You’ll fight, and you’ll lose,

and your life is the only prize you’ll claim.” Prachett

stepped close, his men shadowing him. “If you wish to

live, you’ll make sure to allow Peters the victory. If you

do not…” The glint of a knife flashed, and a sharp prick

lanced his side. Avery froze, impotent anger crushing

over him. “Peters will win. And make it look good, lad.

I have use for you later, so I should hate to leave your

body for the dogs tonight.”

The knife disappeared, and Prachett and his lackeys

walked away.

With a roar, Avery plunged his fist into the earth.

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The crowd cheered at such an expression of violence

and rage. He ignored it, focused only on his impossible

predicament.

He must win, for his aunt to survive. He must lose

to keep his own life. Avery slammed his eyes shut and

shoved himself upright. What a damnable mess. There

was no answer, no way out of this conundrum.

“Russell?” The duke’s voice pierced his confusion.

“Is all well?”

Avery dragged a heavy breath through his lungs. “Yes,

Your Grace. My apologies.”

The elderly duke nodded. “Many of the Fancy

are counting on you today, my lad. Give us a good

showing.” He gave a smile, then strolled toward his

private viewing box. The rest of the Fancy, tonnish ladies

and gentlemen who supported and enjoyed the fights,

were spread around him, all too eager to enjoy the bout

with the Duke of Granville.

His employer wanted him to win. He needed to win.

But Prachett would kill him for it. A dark grin spread

across Avery’s face. He knew what he had to do.

All too soon, it was time for his match. Jenks and

Tarley, Avery’s knee- man, huddled in the corner for a

quick word.

“He’s favoring ’is right side as he moves. Mayhap an

old injury. Pound him there and you’ll be home for an

early supper.”

Thanking Jenks for his advice, Avery turned to his

adversary.

The boy was young, a half- score years his junior. Tall

and muscled, he was fairer than a day in June. Must have

been of Scandinavian descent.

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His young opponent spat in the dirt before offering

Avery a respectful nod.

Avery returned the gesture, and both raised their bare

knuckles into the traditional fighter’s stance.

The fight master called them to order, and then they

were off.

Avery circled his opponent calmly, looking for an

opening in the young man’s defenses. It was easy to

discern from Peters’s movements that he’d been trained

by Jackson, who was highly regarded as the master of

fighting. A dark smile crossed Avery’s lips.

This boy may have been trained by Jackson, but

Avery had been nursing hellfire in his soul. Letting his

baser nature take control, he grunted at the impact of the

boy’s fist. First blow was done.

Avery’s own knuckles connected.

Peters staggered backward as the throng roared.

Regaining his feet, Peters rushed toward Avery again.

The valet was ready for him and used his opponent’s

forward momentum to deliver a blow to his midsection.

Peters coughed but returned a punch of his own to

the side of Avery’s head, leaving his ears ringing like

cathedral bells.

Avery shook his head as Peters staggered off him,

gathering his senses. This would not be a simple fight, so

he must collect his thoughts and plan.

The fight wound on, the combatants trading blow for

blow, the crowd jeering and celebrating by turns, and

Avery growing more and more weary.

He dodged a blow that Peters aimed at his face and

laid one across the chin. Peters grunted in pain, spitting

blood. His right arm sagged as he coughed.

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Sensing his opening, Avery pounced. Right, left, one

after the other, blows rained down on Peters’s right side.

Across the ribs, the hip, the belly, the shoulder, Avery

peppered his opponent with vicious jabs. Jenks had been

right. Peters went down only seconds later.

Sides heaving with exertion, Avery stood over the

man. The cheers surrounded him, yells and whistles of

approval coming from all angles.

Except for one.

In one corner of the ring, Prachett stood silent,

murder in his gaze.

i

Leah smiled so hard she thought her face would break.

She had never felt so pretty in her whole damned life.

“Oh, miss,” Muriel breathed, face glowing with

approval, “you look lovely!”

The creamy- white gown flowed down Leah’s hips,

cascading in soft falls of muslin to the floor. Leah looked

down, past the demurely square neckline with just a hint

of cleavage, past the empire waist to the lace- trimmed

hem. Taking a deep breath, which was hard because of

the whalebone and lace corset that Lady Chesterfield had

insisted she wear instead of the modern Lycra and plastic

one she’d brought with her, she smiled at the maid.

“Thank you so much, Muriel. Jamie told me so much

about you, and it’s so good to finally meet you.” Leah

hugged the girl, who stiffened in shock, but then relaxed

into an awkward pat on Leah’s back.

It was just so great to be out of the hell of servants’

quarters that Leah kept hugging Muriel anyway.

“It’s my duty, miss.” Muriel pulled away with a

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self- conscious smoothing of her apron. “Now, Lady

Chesterfield wishes for you to present yourself down-

stairs. Her sister, Miss Stapleton, will be joining you

for tea.”

“Great,” Leah said. It’d be nice to meet Lady

Chesterfield’s family if they were as great as she was. From

the moment, Leah had stepped into the house, she’d felt

like an honored guest. It was a wonderful change from

scrubbing fireplaces and emptying chamber pots.

Muriel led Leah down the hallway toward the stairs.

As she passed family portraits, smaller than those in the

duke’s home but no less impressive, she wondered about

Avery. She’d overheard Mrs. Harper talking about the

duke’s journey. Had Avery gone with him? It would be