Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

After the end

J ohnson’s boxing academy was alive with the sounds of men grunting, the dull thud of fists against flesh, and the occasional shout of encouragement or derision. Art danced lightly on his feet, circling Lucien, a smile on his face.

He’d missed this. There were no sparring partners at Wakefield Estates, and being a new marquess wasn’t exactly easy. But beating the stuffing out of people always lifted his mood.

“Your reflexes have improved,” he remarked, darting forward with another attempt to punch his friend in the face.

“Or perhaps,” Luke said, panting, “marriage made you soft.”

Art let out a snort. It wasn’t marriage, but lack of practice. Lydia was the one who always kept him sharp. Art’s mouth curved into a smile… just as Luke landed a direct blow to his nose.

Art staggered back. Perhaps marriage had made him soft. He couldn’t complain about that, though.

“Speaking of which,” Lucien continued, pausing to wipe perspiration from his brow, “since you married someone else, can I assume that the heiress is free for the taking? Miss Prescott, wasn’t it?”

Art blocked another blow aimed at his face. “Yes, she remains unmarried,” he said, watching Lucien carefully. “Why?”

They exchanged a flurry of punches, both men breathing heavily as they separated again.

“Maurice has finally cut me off,” Lucien admitted with a grimace that had nothing to do with physical discomfort.

“About time,” Art muttered under his breath.

“I need another source of funds,” Luke continued. “Something more permanent to secure my independence.”

Understanding dawned on Art’s face. “You’re considering courting Miss Prescott?”

“Why not?” Lucien shrugged, narrowly avoiding Art’s right hook. “She’s pretty enough, comes with a substantial fortune, and is looking for a member of the ton to wed.” He spread his arms. “Surely a viscount’s brother would do?”

Art’s expression hardened. He felt oddly protective of his almost-bride. “Miss Prescott doesn’t want the usual marriage of convenience. She seeks love—or at the very least, genuine friendship. Real courtship.”

Lucien hummed thoughtfully, circling Art with measured steps. “I can give her real courtship.” A sardonic smile crossed his features. “The love won’t be real, but she doesn’t need to know that.”

Something cold settled in Art’s chest. He had known Lucien for years, had witnessed his friend’s charm deployed to devastating effect on countless women. Miss Prescott, with her earnest heart and romantic sensibilities, would be particularly vulnerable.

“I warn you, do not play with her feelings, Luke,” Art said, his voice low and serious. “She is a real human being, not a means to an end. She is an innocent young lady.”

“Right, innocent,” Lucien drawled, his smirk widening. “That would make it easier to—”

He never finished the sentence. Art’s fist connected with his jaw in a perfectly executed right cross. Lucien’s eyes widened in surprise before they rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor.

Art wiped the sweat off his forehead as his friend groaned on the floor. “I warned you, Luke. Do. Not. Break. Her. Heart.”

Then he turned and walked out of the ring to the thunderous applause of his peers.