A 19th century London courtesan agrees to a phony courtship with a navy captain and finds herself negotiating uncharted territory outside the boudoir.
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The year is eighteen-t...
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~ Saturday Jan 2, 1813 ~
An extravagant coach arrived for me the next evening, and I was pleased to find Philip...that is, the duke, waiting for me inside. Contrary to the captain's crude comment about the duke lacking prowess in the bedroom, I found him satisfactory as a lover, although a touch unconventional at times. Despite his noble status, he had spent his forty plus years in pursuit of knowledge and world travel. While his hair boasted equal amounts salt and pepper, and his midsection held an unfortunate paunch from too many teacakes, his wit and charisma more than made up for any appearances he lacked.
"Pleasant evening to you, Mistress Hayes," he crooned as he offered my hand a polite peck.
"Pleasant evening, your grace. I do hope I haven't inconvenienced you with my request."
"On the contrary. You saved me from having to endure the wearisome nonsense of my second cousin, who fancies himself a dandy. Can you imagine the stares?" He rolled his eyes before he let them land on my plunging neckline. "What interests me more is why you have chosen tonight to join me at the boxing arena, when you have refused all my previous invitations."
I had expected the duke's inquiry and prepared my response. "I thought it was time I improve my knowledge of the sport. My glaring ignorance could put me in an embarrassing situation should the topic come up in conversation."
The duke roared with laughter, giving little regard to my sensibilities, which he knew and paid no mind to. "I know you too well, Rose. You have no interest in anything that involves pounding a fellow human into a bloody pulp. But I will not press for your ulterior motive and simply count myself fortunate to enjoy your company, whether or not you know who Jem Belcher is."
While I knew Jem Belcher was a champion fighter who had lost sight in one eye due to a fight, I preferred to stay silent on the matter so as not to encourage the duke. If he pried any further, he might learn the real reason I was joining him. The carriage took us to the outskirts of town, where such sports were less likely to offend sensible Londoners. While those who enjoyed the sport were, contrariwise, less likely to be seen.
The arena stood inside a barn-like structure with the actual fight ring cordoned off by thick rope. This forced the spectators to gather around the perimeter, and a halo of pipe vapor hung suspended like factory smoke above their heads. I fully expected to be the only female in the audience, but I counted two other women among the faces. Both were dressed in formal attire as if they were attending a royal gala. In fact, most of the crowd wore fine clothes, although I felt as if I had stepped into a pub.
Being the duke, Philip and I were given access to a ringside spot, where I was able to see both competitors and their coaches. Captain Thompson wore a determined grimace, looking rather eager to get on with things as he paced in a tight circle wearing nothing but a pair of breeches. Toned and textured with youthful musculature, his chest bore the marks of a man who had faced numerous battles, which I guessed were not all from boxing matches, and his back held an angry burn that appeared to be in a state of healing.
