Prologue #2
Huffing out his exasperation, Edward turned and marched toward the exit.
“Son,” Coach called to his back.
Although reluctant to stay in the gymnasium a second more, Edward faced him.
“You have no idea why I am turning you down, do you?”
“Because I won’t punch your daughter?” Edward stared into Franny Valentine’s eyes. “Who, I dare say, is exceedingly beautiful.” Perhaps he was a lecherous rat, but she should know he had been interested.
She glared at him.
So be it. He was a man who dealt in truths.
“No,” Coach Valentine said. “Because you did not trust me to know what I was doing when I asked you to get in the ring with her. I can’t train an athlete who doesn’t trust me.
I also doubt you have enough patience and self-control to be a champion.
You haven’t exhibited a lick of either since you barged in here like a cocksure fool. ”
“Ye are an arrogant horse’s arse, ye are,” Josephine said.
Edward’s cheeks heated. He’d been tested and failed.
“Are you going to get in the ring with me or not, Edward Robinson?” Franny asked.
It seemed they were giving him a second chance.
Since the three of them glared at him expectantly, he nodded.
Franny was not wearing mufflers, so he dropped his onto the floor.
He removed his tailcoat and waistcoat, untied his cravat, unbuttoned his shirt, and tossed his clothing on top of his mufflers.
After a quick stretch, he climbed between the ropes.
He held up the ropes for Franny to join him. As she climbed through them, she accidentally brushed his shoulder. She had the nerve to scowl at him as if he were an uncoordinated clod.
They centered themselves in the ring and stared into each other’s eyes.
He drowned in the depths of her bright emerald irises. Meanwhile, she seemed to judge him to his very soul. Unfortunately, her face contorted as if she did not like what she saw. Strange indeed, because most women found him charming.
He moved with her as she weaved around the ring. Although he was aware of the freckles bespeckling her nose, her every breath, and her intoxicating female scent, he did an admirable job of ignoring his libido, which wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch.
Many of the men stopped what they were doing to watch him bob and weave around Franny.
“Good,” Coach Valentine called. “Don’t let her jam your reach.”
The tables turned, and instead of chasing her, he took the defensive as she crowded him.
“No contact yet,” Coach Valentine instructed. “But add combinations as if you are sparring with your shadow.”
Franny’s fist shot out in a flurry of quick jabs that came remarkably close to Edward’s face but did not hit him. Heat radiated from her compact little body as she landed a right-left-right hook combination that brushed his bare obliques.
“Fran-ny! Fran-ny!” the spectators chanted.
“Son, let me see your combinations,” Coach Valentine called. “But no contact.”
Unfortunately, Edward was beset with numerous problems. Firstly, she hadn’t even looked at his bare chest. Other women who’d witnessed his muscles had been rendered speechless.
Secondly, Franny’s endurance was commendable, and her footwork was fast, so he needed a moment to catch his breath.
However, his hubris would never allow him to admit this aloud.
Thirdly, he had no idea how to throw a punch that didn’t make contact with his intended target without looking weak.
And finally, he was fascinated by the binding that peeked out from the top of her chemise.
How large were her breasts? Would they bounce if they were unbound? Were her nipples pink like her lips or red like her hair? And speaking of red hair… did scarlet curls cover her quim?
He still hadn’t thrown a single punch when Franny backed him up against the ropes, stepped close, and pulled her power from her uppercut.
Her fist lay passively on his gut as she hissed in his ear, “Are you staring at my breasts?”
Of course he was. Any sane man would engage in fantasies while watching her chest as she inhaled and exhaled.
Franny stepped back and glared at him. “You bloody arrogant arse!” Unfortunately, this time when she jabbed, she made contact with his nose. Twice. Make that three times because she nailed him with a powerful cross.
Blinding pain shot from his nose to his brain, and blood spattered as he shielded his face with his forearms.
Her breath heaving from both anger and exertion, Franny turned her back to him and stomped to the opposite side of the ring.
“Boo,” their audience chorused.
It took him a moment to realize he was the object of the audience’s ire. Being booed was akin to having monkey shite thrown on him. Neither fate had ever happened to him before, though he was fairly sure he’d prefer the monkey shite to the public disdain.
Edward wiped his forearm across his face and stared at the red smears streaking his arm. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. His damn cock was always getting him in trouble. He should have treated her as if she was a male opponent.
Easier said than done. Men didn’t have pretty eyes, dainty wrists, and heaving bosoms. They certainly didn’t smell like bed sport and roses when they perspired.
No one said a word to him, and he was too ashamed to make eye contact with anyone as he left the ring, got dressed, and exited the gymnasium.
Ill luck continued to plague him as his blasted hecklers from earlier approached.
“Well, I’ll be. Jasper, ye won. The pretty boy made it almost twenty minutes,” one of the men said.
“But his nose ain’t straight no more,” another of the blokes said. “And he’s gonna have double shiners. One eye is already turnin’.”
“I wager he got beat up by one of them girl fighters.” The butterball of a troll burst into chortles.
Edward halted and stared at the bulbous target in the middle of the guffawing face—protruding, bright red, and only inches away. He dumped his mufflers onto the ground, pulled back his hand, and threw out his fist.
Pow!
The man screeched as blood flew from his hairy nostrils.
Ignoring the throbbing in his knuckles, Edward stalked toward the wide-eyed men who had nothing better to do than badger him. “Anybody else want to mention that a chit hit me in the face?” he asked with a snarl.
The pathetic excuse of a street gang held up their hands and backed away.
“That’s what I thought.” Edward retrieved his mufflers from the mud and tossed them over his shoulder. No use leaving them since he might be able to trade them for a few pasties and a mug of cheap ale. For now, he had best get hoofing if he meant to reach Bow Street before it grew dark.