Nick drummed his fists in a series of hard one-two punches, slipping beneath his opponent’s defenses to land several punishing blows to the man’s midriff. The man sagged and groaned, blood spattering on the floor as he fell to one knee and held up a hand to signal his defeat.
Nick huffed out a breath and stepped back, dropping his own gloved hands to his sides. He shook out his arm muscles, sweat dripping down his bare chest as he watched the man stagger toward a corner with aid of a third.
He ought to be exhausted by now, but he wasn’t. Thumping his fists together, he jogged a few steps in place, ready for the next sparring partner to be brought forward. “Let’s go again, Jackson,” he called to an older, robust man who stood watching the match from his place against a nearby wall. “I’m not done by half.”
“Oh, I think you are more than done for today, my lord,” Gentleman Jackson called, stepping forward. “You’ve injured half my men, and the others are too sensible to get near you in your current humor.”
Nick shot him a derisive look. “My humor is not at issue. I’m here to fight and you are here to provide me with a satisfactory opponent. Given your formidable reputation in the ring, I would think you could offer a better challenge than I’ve been given so far.”
Jackson met his gaze, apparently not the least bit intimidated. “All my men are talented, experienced fighters and they have faced you bravely. What they aren’t is determined to grind their opponent into a bloody mess. If it’s a death match you’re seeking, I know some alleyways with men who’ll be only too happy to do their best to turn you into a puddle.”
“If I don’t turn them into one first,” Nick shot back with a pugnacious tilt of his chin.
“Today I might put money on you to win, my lord, even against the meanest ones,” Jackson said with grudging admiration. “But I’d advise a less dangerous way to exorcise your demons, whatever they may be.”
“My so-called demons, if I have any, are none of your business,” Nick said coldly.
Jackson gave him an uncompromising stare. “They are when you bring them into my club. Take off the gloves and go home.”
“You’re tossing me out?” Nick demanded, his eyes narrowed.
“For today, I am. Come back when you’re not in the mood to maim my employees and patrons.”
Nick swallowed the profanity that burned like acid on his tongue. Using his teeth on the strings of one of his gloves instead, he yanked the ties free and pulled off the padded covering. He tossed it to the floor, then did the same with the other before stalking out of the practice ring, oblivious to the stares that followed him.
His muscles quivered, the pent-up frustration that continually simmered just beneath the surface these days rising inside him like water ready to boil over. Despite the physical exertion and punishment he’d received from the few blows his sparring partners had managed to land, he felt no more relaxed or relieved than he had when he’d arrived. He’d hoped the boxing would wipe his thoughts clean, and for a brief while it had. Yet the memories were back now. Without even trying, even against his will, all he could think about was Emma.
Haunting him.
Mocking him.
Reminding him with every breath and beat of his heart what an idiot he’d been. And what a fool he was to want her even now.
Her Royal Highness, Princess Emmaline of Rosewald.
His fingers clenched into fists and he wished he had something else to punch.
Instead, he stalked inside the changing area and accepted the towel offered by one of Jackson’s braver employees. Crossing to a basin, he splashed cold water over his sweat-dampened skin—face, neck, chest, and underarms—then dried himself with a few cursory wipes before flinging the towel aside. The attendant had also laid out his clothes and he strode across to dress.
Ten minutes later, his body had begun to cool but not his temper as he yanked on his heavy greatcoat and strode from the premises. His tiger, who waited idling next to his curricle, sprang immediately to attention. Nick stopped in the middle of the pavement and regarded the servant and the vehicle.
He could drive home, he supposed, but he wasn’t ready to return to the town house. There was his club, where he was certain to find a drink and a card game, but he was in no mood for either. As Jackson had so bluntly pointed out, he wasn’t fit company for anyone at the moment. There were a couple old navy friends he could look up, officers who had found themselves in London by one means or another, but he had no interest in chewing over old times. And if anyone dared to ask about the reason for his foul humor… well, Emma was the last person he would be discussing. For in spite of her betrayal, he would not do the same to her. He would never reveal that she had lived in his home, or tell anyone that once they had been lovers.