My Lady, My Lord by Katharine Ashe

Leonardo DaVinci’s
Last Supper
in situ. At the present moment, however, she was, for the first time in her life, speechless. Never had she imagined this could be said about Ian Chance. Every encounter she had ever had with him proved the exact opposite.
    The carriage jolted to a halt. A footman opened the door and let down the steps. She climbed out after the marquess onto a grassy field carpeted with vehicles—from elegant carriages to carts—and thronged with men.
    “Are we not going to Gentleman Jackson’s?” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her throat.
    “Too much advance publicity. Jackson moved the fight here to avoid crowds in Bond Street,” Marquess Drake explained and moved toward the throng. Men of all sorts—gentlemen of apparent means, artisans wearing shop aprons, farmers in rough clothing, street laborers, and any number of less reputable looking fellows—shouted and talked while jostling toward the makeshift arena raised upon a wooden dais.
    “Still have your bet on Left-Hand Luke?” the marquess called over his shoulder.
    She nodded. Why hadn’t the scoundrel warned her about this? Would she be required to produce money? Did she even have any with her? A man with a weasel’s face and a filthy cap gave her a sly perusal. This certainly wasn’t the place to search the Earl of Chance’s clothing for bills.
    She followed close, trepidation slowly fading as curiosity got the better of her. Boxing was a filthy, violent sport that made animals of men. But studying the situation proved irresistible.
    It was thoroughly fascinating. Before the fight even began men strained at the ropes around the arena, faces contorted with the lust for violence. Two brawny fellows, nude to their waists and features misshapen from injuries, took center stage. The roar of shouts and jeers increased.
    When the first blow connected, Corinna considered the angle of the aggressor’s strike. Basic laws of physics dictated that the larger man should prevail over the smaller. But the shorter, slighter man moved about more swiftly, circling the other with quick steps and jabbing more rapidly. The other used his enormously muscled, ape-like arms to loop swinging slugs toward his opponent.
    The smaller fellow threw several left-handed punches. Each time he did so, a large portion of the crowd cheered ecstatically while the rest of the spectators hissed. Corinna was busily debating herself as to whether the shorter man intended this apparently unusual tactic to impact with his opponent’s face or merely as a distraction when the bigger man’s fist pummeled into the smaller man’s nose.
    Blood spouted over the barrier and across the face of the man standing beside her. Gobs of crimson stuck to his brow and nose. Corinna’s throat tightened. Her stomach churned. Her neighbor smeared his sleeve across the stain and cheered even louder. The large boxer’s arm swung again and Left-Hand Luke’s nose erupted in showers once more. He staggered back, spitting a mist of red over his opponent. Corinna choked down a swell of bile.
    After that it all became something of a blur. A brow split open just above an eye, and her head grew light. A boxer cannonaded against the rope in front of her, his body thick with sweat. Rank odor pressed around her, words she had never heard spoken before crowded the fetid air, and for the first time in her adventuresome life, Corinna thought she might die.
    Instead, she swooned.

Chapter Six
    S HE HAD NEVER BEFORE SWOONED , and now, in the body of the Earl of Chance, her head went cloudy, her knees buckled, and she lost her balance. Fortunately, the people jammed up around her broke the fall.
    Marquess Drake grabbed her shoulder.
    “Chance?” he shouted above the roar.
    Another hand gripped her arm. “Let’s go,” the voice attached to it commanded.
    She barely knew how they made it out of the throng and back to the carriage. Within minutes of breathing the clear air, though, her head and stomach