Chapter Nine
“Goodness, look at him go!” Julia exclaimed, clapping with genuine astonishment at the way the two men before them were fighting. “I never saw the like!”
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Lawrence knew it, felt it in his blood. Knew his noble heritage should be balking at the very idea of allowing himself to spend time in this manner.
With this companion.
Yet they had fallen into the habit almost accidentally. It was not his fault, Lawrence told himself firmly. He tried not to permit his knee, thankfully encased in breeches, from touching the knee, regrettably covered by at least two layers of petticoats and a gown, of Julia.
He caught her eye and smiled weakly at her knowing look.
How did she do that? Immediately know precisely what he was thinking—worse, what he was fantasizing about?
Wishing that as they sat here on a bench supposedly watching a boxing match—not that he had paid any attention to the two poor blighters dashing each other to pieces—they were instead…
Well. Anywhere, but preferably alone. Alone, and with far fewer clothes than they were currently encumbered with.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Julia said quietly, so none of the rabble could hear her. “Or is that a little rich for your blood?”
Lawrence swallowed. It had been five days since he had lost all sense of self-control and permitted himself to touch Julia in a way he certainly should not have done.
Holding her in his arms. Allowing the pace of their punches to crowd out all sense, and instead focus on her warmth, the way her breath hitched as his hands came alongside hers…
And since then, almost every single day, they had been here. Together.
Never so close; oh no, that would never do. Lawrence was a gentleman—at least, he was technically undercover, but he knew himself to be a gentleman, even if these louts had no idea.
And a gentleman would not permit himself to lose all modesty in the face of a pretty woman. Probably.
“A little rich for my blood, yes,” Lawrence said hoarsely. Julia grinned.
But she was not just a pretty woman, was she? Damn, he had met plenty of pretty women. Elegance and symmetry were all that was required for the title to be bestowed.
But real beauty—beauty of mind, of character, of something that could not be defined…
In short, he was lost. And he knew it.
“Do you not think them simply marvelous?” Julia breathed, her eyes agog as she watched the two men fight a closely matched battle.
“Yes,” Lawrence said quietly. “Simply marvelous.”
She flushed, as though she understood he was not merely speaking of the spectacle before them, but about the lady seated to his left.
In the days that had followed that rather scandalous moment when he had taught her how to fight—not that Lawrence ever wanted that woman near the end of a fist—their conversation had settled into something rather comfortable.
Comfortable! Lawrence could almost laugh, watching her silently as she gently accepted his attention while saying nothing.
Nothing about Julia was comfortable. Everything about her put him on edge, made him realize just how desperately he looked forward to these moments together, these snatched minutes, sometimes near an hour, when she could escape her commitments to Society and he could avoid Alan.
It was disgraceful. It was outrageous. It should be unthinkable.
Lawrence almost smiled. Whether as Lawrence Madgwick or Lawrence, Duke of Penshaw, he should not be having anything to do with a young lady who allowed herself to be kissed in Hyde Park or sneaked into boxing hells to watch working class men fight.
But Julia Dryden was not like other ladies.
A cheer, a shout, movement. Lawrence looked up at the ring. One of the men was holding his side, a hand up in the hope of respite. It was over.
Julia applauded loudly with the rest of the crowd. Lawrence managed to remember to bring his hands together as guilt seared through his chest.
He shouldn’t be here.
At least, he should be here. Here, looking for a traitor, a murderer. So why did he find himself so easily distracted by this woman who appeared, most strangely, to consider him a man worthy of her time?
She knew hardly anything about him…
“Now, tell me,” said Julia, leaning toward him and making Lawrence’s stomach twist. “Why was it that the smaller man was able to get the better of him? I would have thought the greater the size, the greater the strength?”
Lawrence swallowed. If only that were true. He was half a head taller than Julia, and yet he was clay in her hands.
She saw him as a no one, a man with no fortune, no title, no skills or trade…and yet she did not judge him by that, and even if she did, it was a cover.
As her bright eyes fixed on his, a light smile dancing across her face, he knew Julia saw him as just a man. A man she evidently liked.
Lawrence tried to speak, found his voice a croak, and coughed to clear it. “Strength and size are not necessarily congruous.”
Any other lady would have nodded politely, only have asked the question in an attempt to be polite.
But Julia was not like any other lady. Lawrence still felt he was only starting to scratch the surface of how Julia Dryden was different from all others, and he would rather like to remove the layers of clothing, too.
“Lawrence?”
“Right,” he said hastily. Now was not a time to lose all concentration. Perhaps he could skim the crowd looking for Mortimer while still talking to Julia… “Strength. Size.”
He was not so distracted that he did not catch the flush tinging her cheeks and found, to his great surprise, the color was undoubtedly reflected in his own.
Well, blast it. He hadn’t meant it like that!
“What you have to know is that boxing is not purely about strength,” Lawrence said, trying to keep his voice level.
True, Julia seemed completely aware of what she did to him, but that didn’t mean he had to broadcast it.
“Strength is important, yes, but so is speed. Accuracy. Agility. Intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” repeated Julia, surprise in her voice. “In boxing?”
Lawrence smiled as he watched her look back at the boxing ring. Yes, it was hard to believe there was any wit in a boxing match. From this distance, all one could see was cut and thrust, punches and groans, the spurt of blood if one received a particularly awkward uppercut.
“Intelligence,” Lawrence affirmed. “Remember, you are making decisions at the rate of several a second, every second, for minutes at a time—and your health, your safety, your very body may depend on you making the correct decision.”
Somehow, and he was not entirely sure how, Julia’s hand had slipped into his. It was a habit, amongst many, they really should be thinking of breaking, Lawrence thought happily as he curled his fingers around hers. Her pulse throbbed against his thumb. After all, it was outrageous.
Outrageously wonderful.
“And each of those decisions you make impacts the next,” he said quietly as the crowd roared, the ring forgotten as Lawrence looked into Julia’s eyes.
Could she understand what he was attempting to tell her?
“And the further into it you go, the fewer decisions you have. Everything leads up to one moment…one moment when you must decide whether to go left or right, to dodge or to weave, to duck or to lunge.”
Julia’s eyes were fixed on him as she leaned closer.
Lawrence tried to manage his breath. Tried to calm his fluttering heart. Tried not to think of—
Julia made it difficult to think straight. Much like a punch to the head or a bottle of his finest brandy from the Penshaw cellars…she was intoxicating.
“And then?” she said quietly. “When you have made your decision?”
Lawrence breathed out slowly, trying to smile. “Then you discover whether you were right.”
The moment between them lasted far longer than was appropriate, but Lawrence knew they had left appropriate long ago.
Oh, if only they had met in a different way.
If only they had met across a table, Lawrence thought wretchedly, or at Almack’s.
But then, would he have noticed her? It seemed impossible now, but as Duke of Penshaw, his family, his heritage already had a set.
Families with titles as old and as dull as his own.
Distant cousins, friends of his fathers, those he had attended university with.
Would he have even considered extending his circle, even for a pretty face? Would he have ever known the complexity and beauty of Julia Dryden?
Julia sighed, then leaned her head against Lawrence’s shoulder in a way that made his heart contract and his manhood strain against his breeches. “Well, whatever you decide, I am sure it will be the right decision.”
Lawrence tried to swallow, throat dry. “Decision?”
He had not expected this, not so soon. Why, he was still attempting to decipher his feelings—his true feelings, beyond the desire—for Julia. He was still undercover. He was still trying to catch a traitor. Still trying to avenge his brother.
How could he make a decision about what he wanted for her, for them, now?
Julia nodded, her soft hair brushing against his cheek. “In your next boxing match.”
Lawrence tried to nod as though he had known what she had meant all along.
Was it possible, he wondered, that others had experienced this? That there were other gentlemen of his birth who found themselves enraptured with a lady who simply did not know of their status?
His gaze drifted briefly over the fine eyelashes, bright pupils, delicate bow lips. Her cheeks high in color, her collarbone delicately visible even through the ties of her pelisse.
Lawrence’s chest tightened. She saw him as nothing but a man with his fists and his wits…and yet she was here. With him. At the Almonry Den.
“Jules,” he said quietly.
She smiled at the sound of her name on his lips. “Mmm?”
He hesitated. There was a delicate way to do this, the way a duke would, but he was free from those constraints now, wasn’t he?
Besides, would she not be astonished to hear polite patter from his mouth when he was supposed to be undercover as a ruffian?