She drew away, bending her head so he could not read the sadness that must surely show in her eyes. "You must think me dreadfully forward."

"No, I think you are delightful," he said, winded as if he could not quite catch his breath.

Had their kiss done that to him?

She realized then that she ought not to have kissed him, since plainly he had liked it so much more than she. She forced herself to look up at him and smile.

From behind a conveniently placed evergreen hedge, Kit watched Brevard kiss Eliza. He held back the shout of outrage that sprang to his lips, his hands curled so tight his knuckles ached from the strain.

He'd come outside to indulge in a few quiet moments to himself, to enjoy a refreshing breath of night air. He had also wanted to put some much-needed distance between himself and Marvella Belquirt, the widowed Marchioness of Pynchon.

He should never have begun a flirtation with her, nor kissed her three nights ago in the library at the Nightons' ball. She had a reputation for taking lovers, young virile lovers who were the antithesis of everything her nearly eighty-year-old, now thankfully deceased, husband had been.

Tangled in her embrace on the library sofa, he knew she would have let him enjoy a great deal more than a few kisses and a quick grope. How easy it would have been to toss up her skirts and sheath himself inside her feminine heat, to ease all his recent frustrations and confusions over another woman, for whom he knew he ought not have any feelings at all.

But just the whisper of Eliza's name inside his mind had been enough to deflate his lust and put a halt to the passionate tryst.

So when Marvella had started flirting with him tonight, he should have put an immediate halt to her amorous overtures. But just as he had opened his mouth to send the widow away, Eliza had swung by on Brevard's arm, laughing in obvious delight at whatever the other man was saying.

And now Eliza was in Brevard's arms and they were kissing!

Testing out her newfound skills just as she had promised. Was Brevard the first or had she let others of her coterie lead her outside to partake of a small sample of her sweet lips? Had she let Maplewood kiss her? Or Vickery?

In his heart he knew she had not, would not. For all her bold talk that day in Violet's study, he knew Eliza was no tart, no tease, but a lady through to her bones. If she was kissing Brevard, it was because she must have feelings for the man.

His supposition seemed to prove true when Brevard and Eliza drew apart. As Brevard held her, she bent her head and rested it against his shirtfront as though she was trying to steady herself. Was she so affected, then, so overcome by the passion of their kiss that she needed a moment to recover?

Then she looked up at Brevard and smiled, brilliant and dazzling as if his touch had lighted up her entire world.

Kit glanced away, unable to witness another moment.

He wanted to leave but couldn't, for fear they would hear him and realize they had been observed. So he waited until they returned to the ballroom.

Only then did he emerge to make his way slowly inside.

Kit patted sweat from his face, then flipped the towel back to the waiting servant boy, who caught it with a deft hand. He accepted a glass of cooled lemon water and drank it down in a few deep-throated gulps.

Kit glanced over at his sparing partner. The big man was leaning against one wall of the boxing salon, quite literally attempting to catch his breath. He and Jackson's man had enjoyed a good, long practice this morning, warming up by going through the various kinds of footwork before transitioning on to handwork-jabs and punches and feints and counterpunches.

In what anyone would have confirmed was a surly mood had they been foolish enough to mention it, Kit had gone hard and straight into the practice. Refusing to pause between rounds, he had pressed even harder, moving from one skill to the next as if he were a man possessed.

And perhaps he was at that, Kit had mused, hoping he could use a pair of boxing gloves and a healthy opponent to beat out the demons that lurked inside him. But all he had succeeded in doing was making his body sweat and tiring out his opponent. At length, he had realized what he was doing, realized that the other man needed to stop but couldn't, not until ordered to do so by Kit or the Gentleman himself.

So Kit had stopped.

"Good round, Jones," Kit told the other man. "Go on and get cleaned up."

"Thank you, my lord." Jones gave a weary nod then made his way from the practice room.

Kit dropped down onto a smooth wooden bench and put his elbows to his knees. Despite the morning's exertions, he was barely winded, pent-up energy still buzzing like an arc of electricity through his muscles and inside his veins. He supposed he could ask Jackson to provide him with a new sparing partner to work off the rest of his excess reserves, but the salon was busy and he didn't want to make a bother of himself.

Huffing out a breath, he decided he might as well give up for the day. Perhaps he would take Mars out to one of the less crowded parks, Green Park or even Richmond Park if he was in the mood to roam farther afield, and let the horse have his head. A good gallop might be exactly what he needed to clear his mind.

He had just climbed to his feet when Brevard strode into the room. Brevard's attire, an open-necked white linen shirt and loose-fitting tan breeches, was not much different from the clothing Kit was wearing, though Kit had long since stripped off the shirt. He despised the sensation of sweat-dampened material clinging to his flesh.

Noticing him, Brevard crossed the room. "Winter, good morrow." He offered a hand.

Kit accepted and returned the handshake, quick and extra firm.

"Already went a few rounds this morning, I see," Brevard remarked, eyeing the few drops of perspiration Kit knew still clung to his skin.

Kit nodded. "Just practice, though, didn't actually get into the ring."

"I've yet to warm up, but I am looking forward to a good session."

A good session. Isn't that exactly what he'd been sitting here craving? Someone new he could pummel? A worthy opponent upon whom he could direct the force of all his excess energy? Not even the Gentleman himself would be a better adversary-especially since Kit didn't have an urge to pound the Gentleman into the floor of the boxing ring.

An image of Brevard kissing Eliza flashed through his mind. Old friend or not, Kit thought, I am going to enjoy this.

"Why don't we have that match," Kit suggested, "when you're ready, of course. You did promise me a bout, as I recall."

Brevard cast him a look of surprise. "Do you mean today?"

"Yes, today. Both of us are here. Why wait?"

"Don't know if I'd feel right challenging you today. Doesn't seem sporting somehow."

"Oh, how so?" Kit crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, you've been here for some time already, working and practicing, while I have only just arrived. Seems that would give me an unfair advantage, coming at it fresh as I am."

"Not at all. I was on the verge of asking Jackson for a new sparing partner anyway. I wore my first one out and had to send him off to recover his breath."

Brevard considered for a long moment. "If you are sure-"

"Of course I am sure. I'm ready whenever you are."

Kit did a few limbering stretches to keep his muscles warm while Brevard went through his own routine on the other side of the room. Anticipation hummed through Kit. He was barely able to keep himself still as he allowed one of the servant boys to lace him back into his gloves. Gloves on, he smacked one hard, padded fist into the other, enjoying the sense of power as the impact reverberated up his arms.

Oh, yes, I am going to enjoy this.

Then Brevard strode across, stepped up and into the ring. Kit followed, swinging inside the boxing area with easy familiarity. This was his territory, and he knew exactly how to put it to use.

Various practice matches ceased around the room, gentlemen and commoners alike gathering to watch the bout. Towel boys hunkered low, slipping through the crowd to the front like lithe little monkeys, so they would be able to see the action. Even the retired champion himself, Gentleman Jackson, strolled over to witness the competition.

Inside the ring, Kit and Brevard touched gloves in a sportsmanlike salute, then the fight was on.

Kit danced backward, gloves instantly raised and ready. He circled slowly, studying his opponent, judging and measuring as he tried to anticipate what Brevard's opening move might be.

That move came an instant later in the form of a jab toward his ribs. Kit was prepared, tucking his arms tight to his chest to deflect the blow. He countered with a jab of his own, a sharp uppercut that connected with Brevard's jaw. He heard the smack as leather met skin, Brevard's head snapping sharply to one side.

The viscount shook his head, the blow plainly harder than he had been expecting. "I heard you had a solid punch, Winter. Now I know what they mean."

"What? That little tap?" Kit jogged a few steps in place, shook out his arms. "Ready to go again?"

Brevard pinned him with a faintly wary look. "This is a friendly match we're having, right?"

"What else would it be? Are we not both gentlemen?"

The viscount's gaze cleared. "Quite right. Let us proceed."

They moved around each other, gloves poised for action. Kit let Brevard come at him in his own time and at his own pace. When he did, Kit met his jabs, glancing blows he countered without strain. He waited, repelling two more series of jabs and counterjabs, giving the other man enough space to lure him where he wanted him.

Then suddenly the moment was right. One, two, and straight into Brevard's ribs. The viscount winced, instinctively tucking in his elbows after it was already too late. The blows must have hurt, Kit knew, but they hadn't been hard enough to break anything.

Smiling, Kit dropped back a few steps. "You need to keep up your right, my friend. You were wide open."

Brevard's eyes narrowed as he sent Kit another penetrating look. "I'll remember that." He paused. "You know, Winter, I have no wish to hurt you."

"How very decent." Kit displayed his teeth. "Guess that will make the match all that much easier for me to win."

They fell silent and circled again, trading punches and jabs at random. Brevard connected a couple times, light, glancing blows that felt more like bee stings than real hits. Then the viscount caught his rhythm and came in, landing a pair of solid punches to Kit's stomach that drove the air out of his lungs. Kit pulled back to recover, thrusting up his hands to shield his midriff before another blow could fall.

Time was called, each man given a small period to rest and take fluids. Kit toweled his face dry and eased the dryness from his mouth with a couple swallows of lemon water. His breath and strength restored, he stepped again to the center of the ring, ready for another round.

He didn't wait more than a few seconds before he came at Brevard again, striking hard and fast in a series of rapid, hammering punches. Brevard reacted, attempting to protect himself and get in a punch of his own. But it was Kit who landed the successful blow, a knock that landed on the other man's cheek and nose.

A trickle of blood leaked out of Brevard's nostril. He wiped it onto his shirtsleeve.

"Sorry. Guess I got too rough," Kit said, his tone clearly unrepentant.

"This whole bout seems rough. Is there something the matter?" the viscount demanded in a low tone meant only for Kit's ears. "If I didn't know better, I would think you really are out for blood. Which coincidentally enough, you just drew."

Kit shrugged. "Don't know what you mean. Come on, Brevard. Let's fight."

The viscount shook his head. "Not until you tell me what it is we're really fighting about. This is more than just a practice match."

"What gave you the idea I was practicing?"

Kit came at him again, the viscount getting his gloves up a fraction of an instant before Kit would have knocked him another hard one-two in the ribs. Kit pressed on, using alternating rhythms-three punches then two then three again-thrown in unexpected groupings and at varying speeds to keep the other man off balance and squarely on the defensive.

Kit's lungs were laboring for air, his skin running slick with sweat by the time another round was called. Brevard, he saw, was no better off, skin flushed, chest heaving to catch his breath. Arm and leg muscles quivering, Kit could feel a mild weariness creeping up on him, but nothing serious, nothing he couldn't overcome, still invigorated by the competition.

Rest period over, he and Brevard converged once more in the center of the ring, calls and shouts coming from the crowd to urge the pair of them on, wagers having obviously been made.

Kit threw a combination of punches, then the viscount returned the same, neither of them doing any particular damage. When Kit drew close enough to strike, the viscount reached out and yanked him into a rib-crushing hug.

"Out with it," Brevard said into Kit's ear as they wrestled. "What's behind this ire of yours?"

"A lady," Kit spat.

"What lady?"

With a growl, Kit threw off Brevard's hold, then laid in with another couple swings.

"Ouf." The viscount bent forward and curled his arms around his bruised belly.

Not wanting to risk being overheard, Kit came in close. "The lady you lured out to the garden last night."

"Oh." Brevard's blue eyes widened a second before Kit socked him with another double pummel to the gut. The viscount stumbled back but caught himself before he fell.

Shaking off the blow, Brevard came forward. "She's a friend, almost a sister to you, I know, but you've nothing about which to worry."

Kit renewed his attack.

"My intentions are strictly honorable," the viscount said, fending off Kit's punches without making much effort to counter.

"They didn't look honorable to me." Kit landed another punch.

"Well, they are. She needs time yet, but I am seriously contemplating asking her to be my wife."

"What?" Kit's mouth fell open, his arms sagging downward.

In some vague part of his brain, Kit saw the punch Brevard had already started to throw coming toward him, but he could do nothing to get his gloves up in time. Wide open, he took the blow straight to his face.

His head swam, pain exploding in his cheek, little spitting sparks of light floating before his eyes. He blinked and swayed, then he was falling for what seemed a very, very long time. Wooden planks shuddered under him when he finally hit the ground. He groaned, his body turning into one instantaneous ache.

"Winter, are you all right?"

He squinted upward, Brevard's concerned face spinning above him.

Deuced odd, he thought. Why is Brevard spinning?

Another male hand appeared in his fractured line of sight, giving him a light smack across the undamaged side of his face.

"Hey, what in the bloody blue blazes?" Kit complained, trying to roll away from the abuse. It was Gentleman Jackson, Kit realized in spite of his groggy confusion.

Jackson glanced up to address the crowd. "He's fine."

A wave of murmured grumblings and exclamations floated on the air.

"Had two quid on him."

"Blast it all, first time Winter's ever gone down."

Brevard, his gloves now off, extended a hand to help Kit to his feet. Only then did Kit remember what the viscount had confessed just before he had knocked Kit flat.

Brevard is considering marrying Eliza?